1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

The afternoon light slanted through the venetian blinds as Ronald pinned the June parolee list to the left of the November roster. The corkboard looked like a war room now, mugshots, case files, and typed reports creating a mosaic of criminal faces and federal bureaucracy. He turned to Theodore, adjusting his narrow tie.

Theodore had been right about the Driver being on the right list. The two robbers who'd pulled the jobs were somewhere on the left. Simple enough in theory.

Mike and Andrew surveyed the dense columns of names, then the mountain of manila folders threatening to avalanche off the conference table.

The same question nagged at both men: Could they really crack a case by camping out in the office, shuffling paper like bookkeepers?

They kept the doubt to themselves. Ronald was running the show, and questioning his methods wouldn't win them any points with the brass upstairs.

The work itself was methodical rather than inspired. They processed the June parolees first, sorting solo operators from those who'd worked in teams.

Then came the cross-referencing, Federal Bureau of Prisons files for cellmate relationships, Veterans Affairs records for military service connections.

The VA files turned up almost nothing. Prison records, however, painted a clearer picture of who'd shared cells and formed alliances behind bars.

Within two hours, they'd distilled over a hundred ex-cons into several dozen small clusters. These groups were then matched against the Driver suspects based on three relationship types: military service, shared cells, and blood relatives.

Five possible three-man teams emerged from the analysis.

The speed of it left everyone slightly unnerved. Lock down armed robbers to just five groups with nothing more than paperwork and coffee? It felt like cheating somehow.

They could request search warrants and interrogations now. The supervisor would balk at targeting thirteen primary suspects and twenty-four secondary ones, but fifteen ex-convicts? That was manageable.

Especially when all fifteen had records.

If every case broke this easily, the supervisor would die laughing.

Hell, they all would.

Theodore frowned at the whiteboard, unsatisfied. He wanted to narrow it further by psychological profiling of the Driver candidates.

"Don't overthink this," Ronald said, gesturing at the five clusters of names. "We've got resources a local department could never dream of. We can interrogate and search all of them."

Theodore's skepticism was written across his face. "These aren't definite targets."

Ronald started to argue, but the agent who'd called him to the phone earlier appeared in the doorway, beckoning him for another call.

"Back in five," Ronald said, following him out.

Mike and Andrew took up Ronald's argument, though with less conviction. Theodore's analysis was riddled with qualifiers, "possible," "should," "might." Stack enough uncertainties together and even five suspect groups felt shaky.

Now he wanted to add another layer of speculation on top of an already unstable foundation.

Bernie proposed a compromise: focus on the screened result while still investigating all five groups.

Andrew and Mike exchanged glances. No point beating a dead horse.

"How do you want to narrow it down?" Mike asked.

The five Driver candidates shared key characteristics: ages thirty-five to forty-five, all white, all veterans, all serving time for robbery.

Theodore studied the board, his mind working through behavioral patterns. "The Driver is a manipulator. Look at these robberies, he orchestrates everything while staying safely removed from the action."

He turned to face the others. "His prison record will be spotless. No fights, no disciplinary actions. He's got charisma, knows how to work people. When he went before the parole board, they probably liked him immediately."

American prisoners rarely served full sentences. Ninety percent could apply for parole after serving one-third of their time.

Bernie and the others began sifting through the five files.

Two candidates were eliminated quickly, one had multiple stints in solitary confinement, another had been denied parole four times before finally getting approved.

Theodore erased both groups without hesitation and continued his analysis.

"He's cautious. Meticulous. Look how well he's disguised these two robbers, not a single usable clue left behind." Theodore tapped the board with his finger. "After release, he'd find legitimate employment. Report to his parole officer on time, play the reformed ex-con perfectly."

"Given his need for control and personal magnetism, his parole officer probably found the job for him."

"And the job itself might connect to their ultimate target. Courier, bank security, jewelry store guard, something that gives him intelligence."

The three agents dug deeper into employment records.

Andrew suddenly shot to his feet, papers rustling. "Found him!"

He rushed to Theodore, excitement bright in his eyes. "Henry Thompson! He's a courier driver for Riggs National Bank!"

Mike and Bernie crowded around as Andrew continued. "His job sponsor is Richard Mason, who also happens to be his parole officer!"

Mike spread a street map across the table, quickly locating Riggs National Bank among the thirteen red circles marking potential targets.

"Riggs National Bank, Dupont Circle Branch!" His finger stabbed the location. "Northwest corner of Dupont Circle, directly across from the robbed post office!"

Theodore erased the remaining two groups, leaving only three names on the whiteboard:

Henry Thompson, Havier Morales, and Fernando Castillo.

All three had served time in the same Maryland state prison. Havier and Henry were cellmates. Fernando and Havier were army buddies from Vietnam.

"These are our robbers," Theodore announced, turning to face the room.

Mike and Andrew fell silent. The conclusion felt too clean, too simple. They'd caught bank robbers with typewriters and telephone calls? It was like something out of a dime novel.

Every piece of Theodore's profile fit these three men perfectly. But wasn't police work supposed to be harder than this?

Theodore caught their hesitation and frowned.

Ronald returned, carrying a fresh sheet of paper. He glanced at the board, now showing only one circled group, then down at his list. After checking twice, his expression grew grave.

"How did you confirm them?" he asked.

The paper in his hands contained names of gun buyers circulating on the black market. The weapons tracing operation had finally yielded results. Most guns remained with their original purchasers, a few had been resold but were still traceable.

Only a handful of gun owners had vanished entirely.

Mike recounted their screening process, showing Ronald the map and Henry Thompson's file.

Ronald dropped his list on the table and pointed to the first page. On the last line, a name stood out in stark black type:

Havier Morales.

Ronald had copied every name by hand. He remembered them all.

"I think we should have a serious conversation with Mr. Morales," he said, waving the paper. His look toward Theodore was complex, part admiration, part disbelief.

After all the circular reasoning and theoretical speculation, the big problem suddenly wasn't a problem at all.

Ronald set down the list and began delegating. "Andrew, take Mike and Bernie to see legal about warrants."

"Theodore, you're with me. We're reporting to the supervisor."

Ronald had been cautious all afternoon, but confronted with Theodore's results, he became decisively aggressive. No point in interrogating first, then applying for search warrants, then searching. It was nearly five o'clock, too late for bureaucratic niceties.

He wanted to do this in one coordinated sweep.

The supervisor's office was larger than the conference room, with windows facing west toward the Potomac. Theodore and Ronald arrived armed with maps, files, and typed lists, everything short of wheeling in the whiteboard itself.

The supervisor listened patiently to Theodore's complete analysis, then leaned back in his leather chair.

"So you suspect these three men are our bank robbers?"

Ronald nodded.

Theodore wanted to clarify the provisional nature of the analysis, but finally nodded as well.

The supervisor returned the paperwork. "Then what are you still doing here?" He pointed toward the door. "Waiting for me to come along?"

Theodore looked confused. "Don't we need operational approval?"

The supervisor paused, glancing at Ronald.

Ronald busied himself organizing documents, which suddenly seemed determined to scatter across the desk.

Theodore looked between the two silent men. "This operation might not succeed."

Ronald looked up sharply. The papers became cooperative again.

The supervisor lowered his arms, giving Theodore his full attention.

"Henry Thompson is cautious and controlling," Theodore explained. "The police investigating Havier Morales this quickly exceeds his expectations."

"He won't sit still, pretend nothing happened, and wait for us to arrest him."

"To regain control, he might accelerate their timeline."

The supervisor didn't follow terms like "cautious" or "controlling," but he grasped the essential point. "You think he'll rob a bank this afternoon?"

Theodore nodded. "It fits his psychological profile perfectly."

The supervisor looked to Ronald.

Ronald didn't hesitate. At this point, if Theodore claimed the robbers were the sun and the moon, he'd accept it without blinking.

The supervisor's expression hardened.

Henry Thompson listened patiently to Havier's account of the morning's police visit, then rose and walked toward the bedroom closet.

"Find Fernando," he said, pulling on a bank security guard's uniform. "We're moving up the timeline."

Havier's eyes widened. "What? Now?"

He'd been worried about police attention, but not to this extent.

"Why?" Havier glanced out the window at the late afternoon sun. "We've always planned for morning hours. The banks are about to close."

Henry didn't answer. He limped toward the door, an old war wound that had helped sell his reformed ex-con act to the parole board.

Havier followed, confusion written across his face.

They knocked on Fernando's apartment door.

Fernando was younger than Havier, his Mexican heritage evident in sharp cheekbones and dark eyes. He was surprised by their unscheduled visit.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

Henry pushed past him toward the bedroom. "Is everything ready that I asked you to prepare?"

"Yeah, it's all ready." Fernando looked to Havier for explanation. "What happened?"

Havier explained in low tones while Henry dragged a large duffel bag from under the bed. He dumped the contents onto the floor and began distributing disguise materials.

Havier and Fernando didn't dare question Henry's judgment. Full of silent questions, they began transforming themselves.

First came work clothes, then nylon stockings rolled up like ski masks, topped with baseball caps. After the initial disguise, they shouldered large backpacks and headed downstairs.

Havier retrieved his pistol.

A .38 Special that had changed hands three times since leaving the factory, and stuffed it into his pack. The three men climbed into a Chevrolet sedan, the same model as a certain FBI intern's personal vehicle, and drove toward the Northwest District.

Henry took the wheel while Havier and Fernando continued their transformation in the back seat.

They synchronized watches, pulled on cotton gloves, and carefully covered every inch of exposed skin. Finally, they took black pens and began smearing their faces and necks.

Henry glanced in the rearview mirror and delivered final instructions.

"Off-peak hours mean more customers inside. Don't panic, just like in practice, except with additional hostages to control."

"Secure the guard and tellers first, then manage the civilians."

"Keep two female employees to bag the money. Drive everyone else to the back wall, faces turned away."

"Six minutes total. At the five-minute mark, you retreat immediately."

His voice carried absolute authority. "Don't get greedy. Don't help with the money bags. When time's up, you leave, regardless of what's still in the vault."

He softened slightly. "Look, there's a slight deviation from our plan, but it won't affect the outcome."

"The FBI is probably still chasing shadows around Sears uniforms."

Henry smiled, and his relaxed confidence helped calm Havier and Fernando's rising tension.

"Once you have the money," Henry asked, "how do you plan to spend it?"

Fernando thought for a moment. "Buy my mother a house back in Juárez. Maybe get married."

Henry laughed. "Buddy, we're talking eighty thousand dollars! Maybe more! You couldn't spend it all if you tried."

Fernando smiled bashfully and looked to Havier.

Havier considered the question seriously. Eighty thousand dollars was more money than he'd ever imagined possessing. He and Fernando had knocked over convenience stores and gas stations for three years without stealing ten thousand combined.

Henry didn't interrupt their fantasies. Let them dream, it kept them focused.

The Chevrolet stopped at the entrance to Dupont Circle. Henry helped pull their nylon masks down completely.

"Gentlemen, whether you can spend yourselves to death depends on the next six minutes."

He reached over and patted their shoulders. "Go get rich."

"Remember, five minutes maximum. When time's up, I'll be waiting at the rendezvous point."

Havier and Fernando jumped out, backpacks tucked under their arms, and ran toward Riggs National Bank on the southeast corner.

The branch architecture mirrored the post office they'd robbed weeks earlier. Counter on the right, VIP offices on the left, customer seating area straight ahead.

It was nearly closing time. Only two or three customers remained, sitting on wooden benches.

At the counter, Bernie was processing a loan application for Theodore.

Originally, Theodore had been excluded from the operation. But after a private conversation with the supervisor, he'd somehow gotten approval to participate.

"Their interest rates are competitive," Bernie was saying, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet lobby. "Five and a half percent baseline."

"The manager mentioned FBI agents qualify for another half-point reduction."

"I'm thinking of bringing Hilda and the kids next summer. Where do you think we should settle?"

"Mondrian suggested Bethesda or Arlington."

Theodore had never heard Bernie talk so much. They'd been sitting here fifteen minutes, and Bernie hadn't stopped once.

"Bethesda has superior schools, top educational resources according to Mondrian and the others."

"Arlington offers better community atmosphere. Most married agents settle there."

"Which sounds more suitable to you?"

"Oh, and Mondrian knows a bank manager who might knock off another half to full percentage point. Should I, "

Bernie's casual chatter stopped mid-sentence. "Attention. They're here."

The front door burst open.

"Robbery!" Havier and Fernando shouted in unison, exactly as rehearsed, then separated.

Havier rushed the teller counter.

"You six," he commanded, then paused, counting again. "Stand against the wall, faces forward."

Fernando pointed his pistol at a male employee. "You, put the money in here. Fast!"

He glanced at his partner's empty backpack, then back at Havier with a pleading expression.

Havier was busy managing hostages and missed Fernando's distress signal.

This group was proving difficult. The businessman who looked physically capable was actually moving like an invalid, shuffling his feet and taking forever to reach the wall.

"Move it!" Havier snapped.

He checked his watch, feeling inexplicably anxious. Something was wrong, though he couldn't identify what.

Theodore frowned and looked through the front windows.

Traffic moved normally outside. No chase cars, no agents rushing the building.

Where was the Driver?

[End of Chapter]

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