1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

Havier was cracking.

His calloused hands remained clasped on the scarred metal table, knuckles white with tension. Every few seconds, he shifted in the uncomfortable chair, stealing glances at Theodore and Bernie before his gaze darted away again.

The overhead fluorescent light cast harsh shadows across his weathered face, emphasizing the deep lines that spoke of too many years living rough.

Theodore recognized the signs; Havier's resistance was crumbling, his defiance giving way to the terrible arithmetic of prison time versus cooperation.

But this wasn't the moment to apply pressure. Bernie had delivered the opening gambit with surgical precision; pushing harder now would only make Havier second-guess the value of confession, might even convince him that the Bureau was too desperate for a quick resolution.

Theodore chose to let silence do the work, giving Havier's imagination time to conjure the decades stretching ahead in federal prison.

Before they left the interrogation room, Ronald delivered the final nudge with practiced indifference: "We'll give you time to think, but the window won't stay open forever."

Havier's head snapped up, his chapped lips parting as if words were fighting to escape. But the three agents were already walking out, the door clicking shut behind them with bureaucratic finality.

In the corridor, Ronald caught Bernie's eye and nodded approval. The younger agent's performance had been textbook, better than textbook.

Theodore filed away the observation for Bernie's evaluation file.

Fernando occupied the adjacent interrogation room like a cornered animal. His Mexican heritage was written in the sharp planes of his face, high cheekbones, broad nose, dark skin that had seen too much southwestern sun.

Unlike Havier's nervous energy, Fernando projected stillness, coiled tension held in check by sheer willpower.

He sat hunched forward, thick shoulders squared against whatever was coming, lips compressed into a bloodless line.

His dark eyes tracked between Theodore and Bernie with the wariness of a man who'd learned early that survival meant watching for the first sign of trouble.

The interrogation followed the same script they'd used on Havier, starting with the nickel-and-dime holdups, the convenience stores and gas stations that had been their criminal apprenticeship.

But Fernando's resistance ran deeper than his partner's. Bernie's carefully constructed questions met a wall of silence that felt impenetrable.

Which gave them exactly the opening they needed.

Bernie spread Havier's hand-drawn map across the table with theatrical deliberation, his finger tracing the circled locations like a tour guide marking points of interest.

"These are the stores Havier identified that you hit."

He recounted each robbery with the confident precision of someone reading from official confession transcripts, weaving in deliberate inaccuracies that only Fernando would catch.

Fernando's memory was sharper than Havier's.

Theodore could see him cataloging every detail, cross-referencing Bernie's account against his own recollections.

After yesterday's arrest, Fernando had steeled himself for the worst.

He'd faced it before, in the Army, in state lockup, the special attention reserved for men with brown skin and accented English. He'd prepared himself for everything except betrayal by his oldest friend.

The possibility that Havier had already confessed hit him like a physical blow, shattering the careful mental fortifications he'd constructed over the past eighteen hours.

Fernando studied the map for a long moment, his jaw working as if he were chewing something bitter.

Finally, he shook his head with forced conviction. "You're lying to me."

The words carried more hope than certainty.

"Havier wouldn't say anything. You're just trying to mess with my head."

Bernie let the silence stretch, then rolled up the map with the casual efficiency of a man dealing cards.

"Let's talk about Henry Thompson."

The name hit Fernando like electricity. His entire body went rigid, hands flattening against the table as if bracing for impact. The denial came so fast it sounded rehearsed.

"I don't know any Henry Thompson!"

Bernie paused, exchanging a meaningful look with Theodore and Ronald. Ronald's arms uncrossed, Theodore caught him starting to lean forward, ready to pounce on the obvious lie, then remembering their agreement and settled back with visible effort.

Theodore retrieved the three men's prison files from his briefcase, sliding them across to Bernie like pieces of evidence in a courtroom.

Bernie arranged the documents with deliberate care, pushing each one toward Fernando. "Henry Thompson served time with you at Maryland State Penitentiary. Same cell block."

His finger tapped the relevant pages. "Henry Thompson and Havier were cellmates for eight months."

He looked up, meeting Fernando's eyes with polite curiosity. "You don't know him?"

Fernando's silence stretched taut as a wire.

Bernie leaned back in his chair, studying Fernando with what looked like genuine sadness.

"You should have had a better life, Fernando."

He pulled out Fernando's military service record, spreading it open like a prayer book.

"Your commanding officers had nothing but praise. Decorated twice for valor under fire. If you'd stayed with the Army, you'd probably be wearing sergeant's stripes by now."

The picture Bernie painted was rich with specific details: a modest house in base housing, a reliable Chevrolet in the driveway, weekend barbecues with other military families.

Children playing in a fenced yard while their father taught them how to throw a baseball.

The steady comfort of military routine, the respect that came with the uniform, the pension waiting at the end of twenty years of honest service.

"But you followed Havier into civilian life."

Bernie's tone carried no judgment, just the weight of roads not taken. "You gave up all that security to pull robberies with your old buddy."

He closed the service record. "He led you into Leavenworth once. Now he's setting you up to take the fall for somebody else."

Bernie's voice dropped to a conversational whisper.

"Do you understand the difference between robbing a 7-Eleven and robbing a federal bank, Fernando?"

Fernando's eyes flicked up, the first real engagement they'd gotten from him.

Bernie tapped the table with his pen.

"Minimum twenty-five years. And if you choose not to cooperate, if we have to go to trial and let a jury decide, you're looking at life without parole."

He let that sink in before delivering the killing blow.

"Havier's already given up Henry Thompson. Says Thompson planned the whole thing, recruited you two as his muscle. Havier also claims you bought the weapons, the Winchester pump gun, the Colt pistol."

Bernie's expression was carefully neutral. "His cooperation earned him a deal. He's looking at maybe five years, eligible for parole in three."

"Bullshit!" Fernando's composure finally cracked. "Havier wouldn't rat! He ain't like that!"

Bernie raised his voice to match Fernando's energy. "He already did!"

"Three years from now, he'll be back on the street. Free to pull more jobs, find himself a new partner."

Bernie stood up, planting his hands on the table and leaning into Fernando's space.

"Where will you be then, Fernando? Still counting days in a federal cage?"

His voice took on an almost fatherly concern.

"Years from now, when Henry Thompson and Havier are having beers and talking about old times, how do you think they'll describe you?"

"As a stand-up guy who kept his mouth shut? Or as the fool who took a life sentence so they could walk free?"

Bernie reached out and squeezed Fernando's shoulder.

"You made one bad choice four years ago when you left the Army. Don't compound it by making another one today."

He sat back down, his voice gentle but insistent. "Did Henry Thompson plan and direct the bank robbery? Just tell us the truth, Fernando."

Fernando's internal war played out across his face, hope battling suspicion, loyalty warring with self-preservation.

His lips moved silently, as if practicing different answers. Finally, he raised his head, eyes bright with unshed tears.

"I don't know," he whispered, the words barely audible. Then, louder: "You're lying about Havier! He wouldn't give me up!"

But even as he said it, Fernando's voice carried the hollow ring of a man trying to convince himself.

Ronald felt his stomach drop. Fernando had been their best bet, young, scared, facing his first federal charge. His vehement denial about knowing Thompson had seemed like an obvious tell, practically begging them to press harder.

The interrogation had followed their script perfectly, building toward what should have been inevitable capitulation.

Instead, they'd hit a wall.

Bernie's hands froze on his notebook. He shot a quick look at Ronald, seeking guidance from his Senior's experience in reading desperate men.

Theodore wasn't particularly surprised. From the moment Fernando had walked into the room, something had felt different about his resistance.

Unlike Havier's nervous energy, Fernando's defiance ran bone-deep. He hadn't even admitted to yesterday's bank robbery, a crime they had him dead to rights with multiple witnesses.

Fortunately, Theodore had never planned to hang their case on Fernando's cooperation alone.

He signaled for the guards to escort Fernando back to his cell, then led Bernie and Ronald back to Havier's interrogation room.

An hour of solitude in that windowless concrete box would have given their primary target plenty of time to contemplate his future.

The sound of the door opening made Havier's shoulders twitch. More than an hour alone with his thoughts had not improved his mood.

Bernie resumed his position across the table, consulting the notes Theodore had prepared during Fernando's interrogation. He delivered the fabricated confession with the flat precision of someone reading from an official transcript:

"We just finished with Fernando. He confirmed everything, how Henry Thompson approached you both after his release, sold you on the bank job with promises of easy money. Eighty thousand each, he said."

Bernie turned a page, his tone growing more specific. "Thompson planned those post office robberies as practice runs. You and Fernando did the actual work while he stayed outside timing police response."

He looked up from the notes. "Fernando made the right choice, Havier. His cooperation just earned him a deal with the prosecutor."

Bernie set down the notebook. "Now it's your turn. What's it going to be?"

Havier's face cycled through emotions like a slot machine: disbelief, anger, betrayal. When he finally spoke, his voice shook with rage.

"I knew it! That coward son of a bitch!"

He slammed his fist on the table. "Fernando's nothing but a rat! A goddamn traitor!"

Bernie waited for the outburst to subside, then repeated his question with patient insistence.

This time, Havier's response came in a torrent of bitter words.

"Yeah, Thompson found us. Said one bank job would set us up for life, eighty grand each, more money than we'd ever seen."

The story spilled out in angry, disjointed fragments. How they'd run into Thompson at a gas station in November, three ex-cons sharing war stories and discovering their mutual lack of legitimate prospects.

Thompson's job as a driver for Riggs National Bank had given him inside knowledge, payroll schedules, security procedures, and the rhythm of daily operations.

The bank heist had been Thompson's brainchild from the beginning, a sophisticated operation that made their previous convenience store stickups look like amateur hour.

Thompson had selected the Dupont Circle branch after weeks of surveillance, timing their move to coincide with the federal payday when the vaults would be flush with cash.

Originally scheduled for the fifteenth, the robbery had been moved up at the last minute when Thompson got spooked by police inquiries about the shotgun purchase.

From the moment Detective Morrison left Havier's apartment to the bank alarm sounding, they'd had less than three hours to execute a plan that should have taken weeks to implement properly.

When Havier finished his confession, his voice was hoarse from talking. "So what happens now? Do I get a deal like Fernando?"

Ronald answered before Bernie could respond.

"We'll make sure the prosecutor knows about your cooperation."

It wasn't quite a promise, but it was enough to keep Havier talking if they needed more details later.

With Havier's confession in hand, the team still faced a critical weakness: they had only one man's word linking Henry Thompson to the robbery.

Fernando's refusal to cooperate left them vulnerable to Thompson's inevitable claim that Havier was simply trying to blame someone else for his crimes.

The first update came from Mike just after noon. Henry Thompson's parole officer, Richard Mason, had been genuinely shocked by the allegations.

In Mason's experience, Thompson represented a parole success story, punctual, respectful, and grateful for his second chance.

Mason frequently cited Thompson as an example to other parolees struggling with the transition back to civilian life.

Mike was now interviewing other men under Mason's supervision, hoping someone might have noticed Thompson's mask slipping.

He planned to visit Maryland State Penitentiary next, tracking down inmates who'd been close to Thompson during his incarceration.

Andrew's report arrived shortly after, and it was equally disappointing.

Thompson's apartment had yielded nothing useful, no weapons, no stolen money, no evidence linking him to the robbery.

"Place is cleaner than a hospital operating room," Andrew reported.

He was now canvassing the neighborhood with Sixth Precinct detectives, hoping to establish connections between Thompson and his alleged accomplices.

Theodore suspected both efforts would prove fruitless. Thompson had demonstrated careful planning and operational security throughout their investigation.

Unlike the impulsive Cahill from their previous case, Thompson wouldn't have left an obvious trail for them to follow.

The laboratory report that arrived that afternoon confirmed Theodore's pessimism.

Despite a thorough examination, Thompson's Chevrolet had revealed no physical evidence connecting him to either the post office robberies or the bank heist.

Theodore reviewed the scientific findings one more time, then made his decision. It was time for the main event.

Somewhat to his surprise, Ronald didn't object.

Henry Thompson entered the interrogation room like a man reporting for a job interview.

The scar that ran from his left temple toward his eye socket looked like the work of a sharpened spoon or similar improvised weapon, the kind of injury that spoke to serious trouble during his incarceration.

His left leg dragged slightly as he walked, forcing him to move with deliberate care to maintain dignity.

Despite his physical limitations, Thompson projected an air of cooperative professionalism.

He settled into the metal chair without being asked, placed his hands flat on the table, and allowed the restraints to be applied without protest.

His movements had the careful precision of a man who'd learned that sudden gestures could be misinterpreted with violent consequences.

Once the door closed, Thompson looked between Theodore and Bernie with what appeared to be genuine confusion.

"When can I go home? I think there's been some kind of mistake."

He shifted the handcuffs with a self-deprecating smile.

"Look, I know I've got a record. I know that makes me a convenient suspect. But I've been clean since my release. I've got a steady job, a decent apartment. I'm not the person you're looking for."

No one responded to his plea.

Bernie looked to Theodore, yielding the interrogation to the senior agent's greater experience.

Theodore slid Havier's written confession across the table without comment. Thompson picked it up with his restrained hands, reading quickly through the multiple pages.

His expression remained carefully neutral, but Theodore noted the slight tightening around his eyes as he processed the accusations.

Thompson set down the confession and tapped it dismissively.

"Havier was my cellmate at Maryland State, sure. But we weren't exactly best friends. Just two guys doing time in the same space."

He looked up with practiced sincerity.

"I happened to be driving through downtown yesterday when all the excitement started. Had no idea there was a bank robbery going on until I saw the police cars."

Thompson's tone grew more insistent.

"This guy's got a rap sheet longer than my arm. Are you really going to take his word against mine? I've got a legitimate job now, I drive armored cars for the same bank he supposedly says I told him to rob. Why would I risk all that?"

Bernie interjected with deceptive casualness.

"So you're saying you haven't had any contact with Havier or Fernando since your release?"

Thompson shook his head emphatically.

"Maybe we nod hello if we run into each other around the neighborhood. But that's it. I've been focused on staying clean and keeping my job."

He leaned forward as much as the handcuffs allowed.

"You can check with my parole officer, Richard Mason. He'll tell you I'm not the same person who went into prison five years ago. I learned my lesson."

Theodore studied Thompson for a long moment, then nodded as if reaching some internal conclusion.

Thompson visibly relaxed, interpreting the gesture as agreement.

"See? I told you there was a mistake. I've got a good thing going now, steady work, clean record since release. Only an idiot would throw that away to rob banks."

Theodore retrieved the confession and fixed Thompson with a steady stare.

"Do you get satisfaction from manipulating men like Havier and Fernando? Using their desperation to do your dirty work?"

His voice remained conversational, almost curious. "What about now? Have you thought about how it feels to be betrayed by the people you thought you controlled?"

Thompson's confident expression flickered. "I don't know what you're talking about. Like I said, I barely know those guys anymore."

Theodore continued as if Thompson hadn't spoken.

"You're terrified of losing your new identity as a reformed citizen. The thought of going back to Maryland State keeps you awake at night."

"I don't, "

"Richard Mason is cooperating with our investigation. He admits you fooled him completely and now regrets vouching for your character."

"I, "

"Riggs National Bank terminated your employment an hour ago. They don't employ bank robbers, even reformed ones."

The practiced smile disappeared from Thompson's face entirely. He stared at Theodore with something approaching hatred.

"You can't do that. Just because I did time doesn't mean you can destroy my life on someone else's word."

His voice rose with genuine anger. "This is harassment, pure and simple."

Theodore pointed to the scar near Thompson's eye. "Prison souvenir? Somebody tried to take your eye out?"

Thompson's face twitched involuntarily, a tell so obvious that Theodore pressed the advantage.

"What about the leg?" Theodore gestured toward Thompson's damaged limb. "Another gift from your fellow inmates?"

"That's none of your goddamn business," Thompson snapped.

Theodore nodded with satisfaction, then shifted topics with calculated abruptness.

"You planned the original robbery for the morning of December fifteenth. Federal payday, when the vault would be loaded with cash. But our investigation into the shotgun purchase spooked you."

He leaned forward slightly.

"From the time Detective Morrison left Havier's apartment until you hit the bank, you had less than three hours to execute. That's not how you wanted it to go, was it?"

Thompson's voice was flat, all pretense of cooperation abandoned: "I didn't rob any bank."

Theodore pressed on relentlessly: "For the post office jobs, the practice runs, you drove the same Chevrolet you were arrested in yesterday, didn't you?"

Thompson remained silent.

Theodore nodded with conviction. "Same car for all three robberies. That wasn't smart, Henry. But then again, you were improvising by that point."

He turned to Ronald with theatrical confidence. "I think we need those post office witnesses to take another look at Mr. Thompson's vehicle. And we should probably have them view a lineup while we're at it."

Ronald blinked in surprise before catching Theodore's meaning. "I'll arrange that immediately."

As Ronald headed for the door, Theodore could see Henry Thompson's carefully constructed facade finally beginning to crack. The game was entering its final phase.

[End of Chapter]

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