1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

The morning air carried the exhaust fumes of downtown Washington as Ronald's team positioned themselves around the Riggs National Bank's Dupont Circle branch.

Theodore adjusted his tie, a narrow black number that marked him as unmistakably Bureau, and checked his watch. They'd arrived an hour early to execute the plan he'd helped formulate, one that hinged entirely on his psychological profile of the robbery crew.

Every bank employee and customer had been replaced with FBI personnel. Agent Bernie Sullivan, despite his protests about his acting abilities, stood behind the teller counter in a pinstripe suit that pulled slightly across his broad shoulders.

The other "customers" browsed deposit slips and waited in line with the practiced casualness that came from months of undercover training at Quantico.

The trap was elegant in its simplicity. Once Havier and Fernando entered, the agents outside would move on the getaway driver, Henry Thompson, if Theodore's analysis proved correct.

Only after "Driver" was secured would the interior team receive their signal to close the net on the other two robbers.

If something went wrong and Thompson escaped, the inside agents would maintain their cover, let the robbery proceed, and track Thompson through his accomplices.

Theodore positioned himself near the wall with Mike and Andrew, playing the role of an unlucky customer.

The irony wasn't lost on him; in his previous life, he'd studied bank robberies from crime scene photographs and witness statements. Now he was about to witness one firsthand, orchestrating its conclusion from the inside.

At 10:47 AM, exactly when Theodore had predicted, two men in dark clothing and stocking masks burst through the glass doors.

"Nobody move! This is a robbery!"

Havier's voice carried the authority of a man who'd done this before. His partner, Fernando, swept his shotgun across the room, herding the "customers" toward the far wall.

Theodore caught sight of the Ithaca 37, a model he'd identified from the shell casings found at the post offices. His analysis had been correct about the weapons, too.

The next few minutes unfolded like a choreographed dance. Bernie fumbled with the money bags behind the counter, his performance of panic deliberately underwhelming for a man who'd survived Anzio.

But in the heat of the moment, with adrenaline spiking their systems, the robbers noticed only that he was alone and working too slowly.

"You, the one by the counter!" Havier jabbed his rifle toward Theodore. "Get back there and help him!"

Theodore made a show of hesitation before pointing to himself with trembling fingers. The gesture felt absurd; he was probably the only person in the room not genuinely nervous, but it sold the performance.

"Move! We don't want to hurt anybody, but we will if we have to."

Walking behind the counter, Theodore caught Bernie's eye. The older agent's expression remained professionally neutral, but Theodore detected the slightest nod of approval.

They worked in silence, stuffing bills into canvas bags while the seconds ticked by with excruciating precision.

Exactly five minutes after entering, Theodore had timed their previous jobs and predicted they'd stick to the same schedule. Fernando signaled the retreat.

"That's enough. Step back."

The robbers grabbed their haul and backed toward the entrance, weapons trained on the room. Theodore held his breath as they reached the door. Everything depended on what happened in the next thirty seconds.

The glass door swung open, and Havier stepped onto the sidewalk first.

"FBI! Drop your weapons!"

"Get on the ground!"

"Now! Now! Now!"

The coordinated shouts erupted from both ends of the block as two teams of agents converged with military precision. Theodore watched through the window as Havier assessed the situation with a quick calculation.

No escape routes, overwhelming force, certain capture. Smart man, he dropped his rifle immediately and pushed Fernando to surrender as well.

Ronald's voice cut through the chaos outside: "Henry Thompson is secure!"

The signal they'd been waiting for. Inside the bank, the remaining agents dropped their civilian personas and moved to secure the scene. Bernie straightened his tie and grinned at Theodore.

"Well, that was easier than Normandy."

An hour later, Theodore stood outside the bank watching the last of the evidence bags being loaded into Bureau vehicles. The stolen money would remain in FBI custody, evidence now, not just cash.

The bank manager's protests fell on deaf ears as Ronald supervised the scene with the methodical thoroughness that had made him one of the Bureau's most respected senior agents.

"Without your analysis," Ronald said, appearing at Theodore's shoulder, "we'd have been chasing shadows for months."

Theodore nodded, though part of him wondered if he'd made it look too easy. In his previous life, he'd studied dozens of similar cases that had taken FBI task forces weeks or months to solve.

Here, with the benefit of psychological profiling techniques that wouldn't be widely adopted for another decade, he'd compressed the investigation into days.

The drive back to headquarters took them through downtown Washington's afternoon traffic. Streetcars clanged along their tracks while businessmen in narrow-brimmed hats hurried along the sidewalks, briefcases swinging.

Theodore watched the city pass by, still sometimes startled by the absence of things that should have been there: no cell towers, no modern traffic lights, no digital billboards. Just the Washington of 1965, frozen in black and white film grain and cigarette smoke.

The Investigation Division Chief listened to Ronald's report with the careful attention of a man who'd risen through the ranks during the Bureau's transformation under Hoover.

When Ronald finished, the Chief leaned back in his leather chair and asked the question Theodore had been dreading.

"Without Dickson Hoover's analysis, how long would this have taken?"

Ronald considered carefully. "Three to six months, minimum. We'd have had to wait for them to start spending the stolen bills, then track the serial numbers. The leads we had, the gun purchases, the work clothes, had already dead-ended."

"And the third man?"

"Henry Thompson?" Ronald shook his head. "We never would have found him. He didn't participate directly in either post office robbery, and he wasn't planning to show himself during the bank job. Even if we'd caught the other two red-handed, Thompson would have walked away clean."

The Chief studied the case files spread across his desk, Theodore's behavioral analysis, the timeline charts, and the suspect profiles.

The methodology was sound, but it represented a way of thinking about crime that challenged traditional Bureau approaches.

"This psychological analysis business," the Chief said finally. "Is it reliable?"

"The results speak for themselves," Ronald replied diplomatically.

Twenty minutes later, Ronald found himself outside Director Hoover's office, case files in hand.

Ms. Gandhi's desk lamp cast a warm circle of light in the gathering dusk, and she was someone who'd been managing Hoover's schedule since the Roosevelt administration.

"The Director is waiting for you."

Both Hoover and Associate Director Tolson were present, which meant this debriefing carried more weight than Ronald had initially understood. He laid out the case methodically, watching their faces for reactions that never came.

Both men had perfected the art of revealing nothing during briefings.

"Your assessment of Theodore Dickson Hoover?" Hoover asked when Ronald finished.

The question hung in the air like smoke from one of the Director's cigarettes. Ronald chose his words with the care of a man who understood that careers could pivot on moments like this.

"I can't pretend to fully understand his analytical methods, sir. But the results are difficult to argue with."

"Can he lead his own team?" Tolson interjected.

Ronald felt a chill of recognition.

This wasn't just a case review; it was an evaluation. Theodore was being considered for promotion, which in the Bureau's rigid hierarchy meant increased responsibility and increased scrutiny.

"I believe so, yes, sir."

After Ronald left, Hoover and Tolson sat in the quiet of the evening office. The sounds of Washington traffic filtered up from the street five stories below, mixing with the distant clatter of typewriters from the night shift.

"Find him another case," Hoover said finally. "Something he can handle with minimal supervision."

Tolson nodded, already running through the Division's open files. "Just him and Sullivan?"

"Let's see what he can do without training wheels."

The next morning brought a different energy to the squad room. Theodore noticed the looks, respectful nods from agents who'd barely acknowledged him a week ago, curious glances from stenographers, even a few handshakes from supervisors making their rounds.

Word traveled fast in the Bureau, especially when it involved results that made the entire Division look good.

Bernie arrived with coffee and donuts from the shop on Pennsylvania Avenue, settling into his chair with the satisfied air of a man who'd enjoyed his moment in the spotlight.

Mike and Andrew appeared shortly after, their usual morning banter subdued by the reality that their unconventional methods had actually worked.

Ronald entered at precisely eight o'clock, his expression serious enough to cut through the celebratory mood.

"Before anyone gets too comfortable," he announced, "we're not finished."

He pointed to Henry Thompson's name, still circled on the whiteboard in Theodore's handwriting from the previous afternoon.

"Havier and Fernando are locked up tight; we have them dead to rights on the bank robbery. But Thompson is a different story. No evidence in his car, no direct connection to the crime except his presence at the scene. Without something more substantial, he walks."

The reminder sobered the room. Theodore had seen this before in his previous life, cases where the investigation identified the right suspects but couldn't prove it in court. The Bureau's conviction rate depended on iron-clad evidence, not psychological profiles.

"Andrew, take Thompson's house apart. Legal search, but thorough. Mike, find his parole officer, Richard Mason. See what you can learn about Thompson's associates, his habits, anything that connects him to our other two."

The assignments made sense, but Theodore noticed Ronald's hesitation before turning to him and Bernie.

"You two are coming with me to the interrogation rooms. You'll be primarily on the questioning."

It was an unusual assignment for junior agents, but Theodore understood the logic. His analysis had cracked the case; now it was time to see if his insights into criminal psychology could extract a confession.

The basement levels of the Department of Justice Building had been converted into functional space for the Bureau's expansion, but they retained the institutional grimness of government construction.

Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in the pale wash that made even healthy men look corpse-like. The interrogation rooms were arranged along a corridor that seemed to stretch forever, each door marked only with a number.

Room 7 was a ten-by-twelve box with a metal table, three chairs, and a one-way mirror that fooled no one. Havier sat across from them, his hands cuffed to a chain around his waist. Fatigue had settled into his features like sediment, making him look older than his thirty-two years.

The confession came easily, too easily, Theodore thought. Havier admitted to the post office robberies, the bank job, even to purchasing the weapons and planning the timeline. He spoke with the weary resignation of a man who knew exactly what he faced and saw no point in prolonging the inevitable.

But when Bernie spread out the floor plan of the bank and asked him to walk through the robbery step by step, something shifted.

Havier's account was detailed and accurate until they reached the moment of decision, which had chosen the Riggs National Bank, who had identified the vulnerability in their security, who had insisted on the specific timing.

"That was my idea," he said, but his eyes didn't sell it.

Theodore leaned forward. "The post office jobs were practice runs, weren't they? Someone wanted to test your team's coordination before the main event."

"Nobody told us to do those. Fernando and I needed money."

"But the bank was different. The bank was planned."

Silence.

Bernie pulled out a manila folder and extracted Thompson's prison record. "You and Henry Thompson were cellmates at Maryland State. You shared a cell for eighteen months."

"So what? I shared cells with lots of guys."

"According to this," Bernie continued, "Thompson was serving time for armed robbery of a savings and loan in Baltimore. Bank robbery, Havier. Just like this one."

Theodore watched Havier's face carefully. The micro-expressions were subtle but readable, a tightening around the eyes, a slight compression of the lips. Recognition, followed immediately by concealment.

"Thompson had experience you didn't," Theodore said quietly. "He knew how banks operated, how long you had before police response, what kind of money you could expect to find. He was the brains behind this operation, wasn't he?"

Havier's silence stretched longer this time.

Bernie leaned back in his chair. "Let me tell you what's going to happen here. Armed conspiracy to rob a federal institution carries a mandatory minimum of fifteen years. With your record, you're looking at life without parole."

"Fernando too."

The words hit like a physical blow. Theodore saw Havier's composure crack for the first time since they'd brought him in.

"Fernando followed you into this," Bernie continued, his voice taking on a conversational tone that somehow made his words more devastating.

"I've read both your service records. You were a discipline problem from day one: fights, insubordination, black market dealing. Fernando was different. Clean record, commendation for valor under fire, recommended for NCO training."

Theodore could see where Bernie was heading with this, and it was masterful.

"If Fernando had stayed in the Army, he'd probably be a sergeant by now. Maybe stationed at Fort Belvoir, living in base housing with a wife and kids. His children would grow up around military families, go to base schools, have fathers who were colonels and majors instead of convicted felons."

Bernie spread his hands on the table. "Instead, he followed you. Into civilian life, into crime, into prison, and now into a federal case that's going to put him away forever. And you're sitting there protecting the man who orchestrated the whole thing."

The room fell quiet except for the hum of ventilation and the distant sound of typewriters from the floors above.

"You want to know what I think, Havier?" Bernie's voice was gentle now, almost paternal. "I think Fernando is unlucky to have a friend like you."

Theodore watched the words land. In his previous life, he'd studied interrogation psychology, but witnessing Bernie's technique firsthand was like watching a master craftsman at work. The approach was surgical, identifying the suspect's emotional pressure point and applying leverage with just enough force to crack the facade.

Havier's hands, still cuffed to the chain, began to tremble slightly.

"If you really consider Fernando your brother," Bernie said, standing slowly, "tell us who planned this robbery. Tell us about Henry Thompson. Give Fernando a chance to cooperate and maybe see daylight again before he's too old to care."

The silence stretched for nearly a minute. Then, so quietly they almost missed it, Havier spoke.

"Henry said the banks were where the real money was."

[End of Chapter]

__________________

Check out more than 65+ chapters right now! 🔥

👉 patreon.com/cw/Mr_UmU

https://www.patreon.com/Mr_UmU