1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

Theodore's psychological assault on Henry Thompson caught Ronald and Bernie completely off guard.

Neither had witnessed this side of their colleague before, calculating, ruthless, surgically precise in targeting a suspect's deepest vulnerabilities.

Theodore had read Thompson like a psychiatric evaluation.

The man's desperate attachment to respectability? Shattered with casual mentions of his terminated employment and collapsed social standing.

His attempts to hide the limp that marked him as damaged goods? Exposed by pointed questions about prison violence that had left him scarred and broken.

His need to maintain control? Demolished by reminders that the FBI investigation had forced him to abandon careful planning for panicked improvisation.

Every time Thompson tried to steer the interrogation toward safer ground, Theodore yanked the conversation back to his most painful memories.

The shiv that nearly took his eye, the beating that damaged his leg, the humiliation of being controlled by men he considered beneath him.

Finally, Thompson stopped trying to play the game entirely.

Theodore pressed his advantage without mercy, sliding Havier's confession back across the metal table.

"When you recruited Havier and Fernando for your robbery crew, did you ever consider they might eventually turn on you?"

Thompson's eyes flicked nervously to the document. "I told you, I don't know what you're talking about. I barely know those men—"

Ronald recovered his composure enough to join the attack.

"Our people just finished interviewing inmates and guards from your cell block at Maryland State. Their statements paint a very different picture of your relationship."

Thompson's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Okay, we knew each other in prison. But that was years ago. After release, we went our separate ways."

Bernie spread Havier and Fernando's files across the table with theatrical precision. "Your neighbors disagree with that assessment."

Thompson stared at the documents for a long moment, then looked up to meet Theodore's unwavering gaze. "You've got nothing solid. This is all speculation and the word of desperate men trying to save themselves."

Of the three agents, Theodore radiated the most danger, a predatory patience that suggested he could dismantle Thompson's defenses piece by piece until nothing remained.

"You have nothing," Thompson repeated, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper.

Theodore's response came like a chess master announcing checkmate in three moves. "In your original plan, what kind of vehicle were you going to use for pickup and getaway?"

Thompson shook his head with forced conviction.

"I never planned any bank robbery. I've reformed my life completely. Why do you keep insisting I'm guilty just because I did time for robbery before?"

Theodore leaned back slightly, his tone becoming almost conversational.

"You would never use your own Chevrolet for the job. You treasure your respectable identity too much to risk contaminating it with criminal activity."

He paused, letting the psychological profile sink in. "But you're also too smart to rent a vehicle that could be traced back to you through paperwork."

Theodore's voice carried the certainty of absolute knowledge.

"So you bought a car specifically for the robbery. Cash transaction, probably using false identification. Why didn't you drive that vehicle yesterday? Because the dealer hasn't delivered it yet?"

Thompson's composure cracked like ice under pressure. "I bought that car as a gift for a friend! It has nothing to do with any robbery! You're trying to frame me!"

Ronald felt his pulse quicken. He'd assumed Theodore was bluffing, using psychological pressure to force a confession.

The fact that Thompson had actually purchased another vehicle transformed speculation into investigative gold.

He slipped out of the interrogation room immediately, issuing rapid instructions to track down the mysterious second car.

Inside the room, Theodore continued his methodical demolition. "After the robbery succeeded, how did you plan to handle the stolen currency?"

His tone remained clinically detached.

"You understand that banks immediately catalog serial numbers of stolen bills and distribute them to every financial institution in the country. You couldn't simply spend the money directly; you'd need to launder it through established channels."

Theodore's eyes never left Thompson's face. "You'd have to handle that process personally. Too much risk in trusting Havier or Fernando with that kind of operation."

Thompson's mask finally slipped completely. He glared at Theodore with undisguised hatred, the pretense of cooperation abandoned.

Theodore set down his pen with quiet satisfaction. "You see, Henry, you're not nearly as clever as you imagine. Your supposedly perfect crime has more holes than a piece of Swiss cheese."

The interrogation room door opened as Ronald returned, his expression mixing vindication with urgency. He took in Thompson's defeated posture and Theodore's victorious calm, then looked to Bernie for clarification.

"Thompson already made contact with black market fences," Bernie explained.

"He was setting up the money laundering operation before the robbery even happened."

Ronald's face went through several emotions at once: admiration for Theodore's insight, frustration at his own oversight, and excitement at the investigative possibilities.

Tracking fence networks was a fundamental FBI procedure for solving robbery cases. He should have thought of it immediately.

He rushed out again to coordinate the expanded investigation.

Theodore turned back to Thompson with the patience of a man holding a royal flush.

"So what's it going to be? Do you confess now, or do we wait until the prosecutor has enough evidence to seek the death penalty for armed bank robbery?"

Thompson's body language shifted from defiance to resignation, his shoulders sagging as if carrying an enormous weight. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"I just provided the planning. I never held a gun on anyone." The words came out in a defeated rush.

"They approached me first. I was just trying to survive."

He looked up with desperate eyes.

"In November, they robbed a gas station where I was getting fuel after work. I was wearing my Riggs National Bank uniform, the armored car service outfit."

Thompson's confession spilled out in fragments of self-justification and blame-shifting.

"They saw the uniform and cornered me, demanding inside information about security procedures and cash deliveries. They had guns! I didn't have any choice but to cooperate."

His voice took on a pleading quality. "Everything I did was under duress. I really was trying to go straight. I never lied to Richard Mason about wanting to reform."

Theodore said nothing, simply gathering his notes and preparing to end the interrogation. The confession was on record; the details could be refined later.

Bernie looked at Thompson with something approaching pity.

"So they coerced you into planning the entire operation? Forced you to purchase a getaway vehicle? Threatened you into establishing money laundering contacts?"

His tone dripped with sarcasm. "Save that story for the jury, Henry. Maybe they'll believe it."

The evidence materialized with startling speed.

By the end of the business day, Mike and Andrew had returned to headquarters with confirmation of both the mystery vehicle and Thompson's black market connections.

The efficiency surprised both Theodore and Bernie. Based on their experience in the Felton West District, such comprehensive results typically required several days of patient investigation.

In Washington, it had taken less than six hours.

Ronald explained the difference with obvious pride in his professional network.

"I called in some favors from friends in Counterintelligence, National Security, and Organized Crime. Also reached out to contacts at Internal Revenue."

He spread his hands with a grin. "When three federal departments start turning over rocks in the D.C. black market, things move pretty quickly."

Bernie gave Ronald an appreciative thumbs-up.

"The cases we handle here are exponentially more complex than anything local police departments deal with," Ronald continued, settling into his mentoring role.

"Success requires constant collaboration across multiple agencies and jurisdictions."

He clapped Bernie on the shoulder. "Building those relationships early will make your career infinitely easier. Take my word for it."

With Thompson's confession secured and physical evidence confirming the conspiracy, their active investigation was essentially complete.

Ronald deliberately reserved the final administrative work for Monday, wanting Theodore and Bernie to observe the complete case closure process.

Monday morning found the five-man team organizing case files and evidence with bureaucratic precision.

Ronald walked Theodore and Bernie through the intricate protocols for communicating with federal prosecutors, which forms required signatures, what evidence needed additional documentation, and how to structure testimony for maximum courtroom impact.

He contacted a prosecutor he'd worked with previously, arranging for case transfer and requesting notification when trial dates were scheduled.

After ending the call, Ronald demonstrated the FBI's internal procedures for archiving closed investigations, then casually placed a completed case summary on their supervisor's desk.

"Once the supervisor approves this, it goes into the permanent files," he explained.

"Ten years from now, if someone needs to reference our work on this case, everything will be properly catalogued and retrievable."

The final step involved transporting physical evidence to the basement storage facility.

Theodore and Bernie helped carry boxes of photographed currency, seized weapons, and documented materials to the climate-controlled warehouse where they would remain until needed for trial testimony.

When the last evidence bag was sealed and logged, their only remaining connection to the bank robbery case would be appearing as prosecution witnesses in federal court.

Friday afternoon brought a restless energy to the headquarters building. Agents throughout the office were mentally preparing for the weekend, their focus drifting from pending investigations to personal plans.

The FBI observed standard government schedules, two full days off, with only emergency call-backs disturbing agents' private time.

The large office buzzed with conversation and laughter, resembling a corporate workplace more than a law enforcement facility as closing time approached.

Ronald had gathered Mike, Andrew, Theodore, and Bernie in a conference room to discuss evening plans.

The FBI might not have formal traditions around celebrating case closures, but the five men had unanimously agreed that their success deserved commemoration.

The celebratory mood carried additional weight; Ronald had received his Chicago transfer orders that afternoon.

He would depart Monday morning with barely enough time to arrange personal affairs and bid farewell to Washington colleagues.

Mike and Andrew would accompany him to the Midwest. Ronald had specifically requested them for his new team, knowing their established working relationship would help him hit the ground running in unfamiliar territory.

Tonight would serve as both a celebration and a farewell.

After work, Ronald led the group across the Potomac to Arlington, navigating residential streets with the confidence of long familiarity.

They stopped at a nondescript brick building marked only with a small sign reading "L&O", no indication of its true purpose.

"FBI agents only," Ronald explained as they approached the entrance. "You need Bureau identification to get through the door."

Theodore and Bernie would have been turned away, but Ronald's explanation of their probationary status earned them temporary admission.

"The owner is supposedly the head of our Investigation Department," Ronald continued as they found a table.

"Whether that's true or not, it guarantees security and privacy. Most agents living in Arlington consider this their regular hangout."

The bar's atmosphere differed dramatically from the law enforcement establishments Theodore had experienced in Texas.

Rather than the raucous, testosterone-fueled celebrations common among local police, FBI agents seemed to prefer quiet conversation over drinks and appetizers.

Men sat in small groups, nursing single glasses of wine or beer while discussing cases, career moves, and family matters. The environment felt more like an exclusive gentlemen's club than a typical cop bar.

Ronald ordered extensively, multiple appetizer platters, then sent Mike out for barbecue and pizza from nearby restaurants, filling their table until it groaned under the weight of food.

The extravagant spread convinced Theodore that rumors about the bar owner's identity were accurate.

No legitimate business could survive in Arlington by catering to federal agents who nursed single drinks for hours while occupying valuable table space.

Theodore and Bernie found the refined atmosphere somewhat disconcerting.

After months of unwinding with Detective Morrison and his colleagues, arm wrestling contests, drinking games, and alcohol-fueled storytelling sessions, this genteel approach felt almost antiseptic.

Ronald dominated the conversation that evening, sharing hard-won insights about navigating Bureau politics, maintaining professional relationships across agencies, and advancing within the federal law enforcement hierarchy.

By the end of the night, all five men felt significantly closer as colleagues and friends.

Still, Theodore and Bernie exchanged knowing glances.

Despite appreciating Ronald's mentorship and genuine affection for their Washington colleagues, both men missed the unrestrained camaraderie they'd enjoyed in Texas.

Saturday afternoon found Theodore and Bernie in Bethesda, meeting with a real estate agent recommended by Ronald.

The previous evening's conversation had clarified Bernie's housing timeline, with selection training beginning in January, and moving into an apartment now would mean paying rent for months of unused occupancy.

They had agreed that Bernie would stay at Theodore's apartment through the training period.

If Bernie passed selection and received a permanent assignment to Washington, he could bring his wife, Hilda, and begin house-hunting seriously.

Unlike apartment rentals, purchasing property requires careful consideration and comparison shopping.

The real estate agent was a heavyset man in his fifties with the practiced enthusiasm of someone accustomed to handling federal employees with reliable incomes and security clearances.

"This community exemplifies the American dream," he proclaimed as they toured the first property.

"Colonial architecture, mature oak trees, perfect for raising children who'll attend Walter Whitman High School alongside senators' sons and Supreme Court justices' daughters."

His sales pitch continued without pause.

"Twelve Harvard acceptances last year! Your children would be classmates with the offspring of Federal judges and State Department officials. The community center hosts weekly social events where your wife will meet the most respectable women in the Washington area."

Theodore and Bernie exchanged glances, both noting how the agent had immediately assumed their domestic arrangements and social aspirations.

"Most importantly for FBI personnel, the commute to the Justice Department is only twenty minutes," the agent concluded.

"Much more convenient than Georgetown, and without the traffic congestion."

The comment about Georgetown traffic sparked mutual concern; neither man had realized the area's transportation challenges.

After viewing three similar properties with comparable layouts and amenities, Bernie inquired about pricing.

The agent's smile widened considerably.

"This lovely home is priced at only thirty-seven thousand, with ten percent down and monthly payments under one hundred fifty. Your federal housing allowance will cover half the mortgage."

Bernie's enthusiasm cooled noticeably at the figure.

Recognizing their hesitation, the agent guided them to several less expensive properties. Unfortunately, the reduced prices came with correspondingly inferior locations and structural conditions.

They spent the entire afternoon touring Bethesda neighborhoods without finding anything suitable within Bernie's budget constraints.

During their travels, Theodore encountered several vaguely familiar faces, people he remembered from mandatory social functions Hoover had forced him to attend.

By evening, Bernie and the agent had agreed to explore Arlington properties the following day before ending their house-hunting expedition.

On the drive back to Theodore's apartment, Bernie expressed genuine regret about Bethesda's unaffordability. He genuinely liked the area's family-friendly atmosphere and professional demographics.

Theodore glanced back at the community disappearing in his rearview mirror. "If this area were truly ideal for FBI agents, it would already be filled with FBI agents," he observed pragmatically.

"Like Arlington is."

He also offered Bernie tactical advice: "You should find a different real estate agent. This one knows you're not from Washington originally, and he's trying to take advantage of that."

Bernie's Texas accent made his outsider status immediately obvious to anyone with regional awareness.

The following day, Bernie continued his property search in Arlington while Theodore received an unexpected summons from J. Edgar Hoover himself.

Rather than providing advance notice that might allow Theodore to manufacture an excuse, Hoover had simply dispatched a Bureau car to Theodore's apartment building.

Associate Director Tolson accompanied the Director, prepared with arguments to overcome Theodore's anticipated resistance to social obligations.

To their surprise, Theodore showed no reluctance whatsoever.

In fact, he seemed genuinely pleased by the invitation, hoping Hoover would expose him to agency heads from the Federal Bureau of Prisons, Veterans Administration, Internal Revenue Service, and similar departments.

Theodore envied Ronald's extensive professional network, his ability to accomplish tasks through personal relationships and bureaucratic connections.

Rather than investing years in tedious relationship-building, accompanying Hoover to high-level gatherings offered an efficient shortcut to the same results.

Hoover remained unaware of Theodore's calculating motivations.

Satisfied with his nephew's apparent cooperation, he handed Theodore a thick manila folder during their drive.

"I've reviewed your case report thoroughly," Hoover said with obvious approval. "Solve this new investigation, and you can lead your own team independently."

Theodore examined the bulging file, then attempted to negotiate additional concessions.

"Given our demonstrated competence, Bernie and I shouldn't need to complete the standard selection training. It would be an inefficient use of Bureau resources."

Hoover's expression immediately darkened. "Absolutely not! Every FBI agent must complete selection training without exception."

Tolson provided clarification before Theodore could argue further.

"The training program includes numerous outstanding candidates, military veterans, and experienced local law enforcement officers. Your investigation team cannot consist of only you and Sullivan."

He gestured toward the file Theodore held.

"Just Participate in selection training, live alongside these candidates, evaluate their capabilities up close. You'll be able to recruit the talent necessary to build an effective team."

Theodore studied Hoover's implacable expression, then offered a compromise

"We'll participate in training, but active cases must take precedence over classroom instruction."

Hoover's lips twitched in what might have been amusement. "Mm," he grunted, which Theodore interpreted as grudging agreement.

Privately, Hoover made a mental note to instruct the Investigation Department supervisor to avoid assigning Theodore any cases until selection training concluded.

Theodore felt satisfied with the negotiation, confident that finding investigations in Washington would present no difficulties.

The city overflowed with federal crimes requiring Bureau attention; he essentially wouldn't need to participate in training at all.

His improved mood made Theodore exceptionally cooperative during that evening's social gathering, surprising Hoover and generating unexpected concern.

After returning Theodore to his apartment, Hoover sat in thoughtful silence during the drive back to his home.

Finally, he turned to Tolson with a worried expression. "Theodore won't end up like his father, will he?"

Theodore's father, Dickson Nailor Hoover II, had served with distinction during World War II before suffering a complete mental breakdown in the conflict's aftermath.

The family had been forced to commit him to a private sanatorium, where he remained under psychiatric care.

Theodore's enthusiastic behavior that evening reminded Hoover uncomfortably of his brother's final period of apparent normalcy before the psychological collapse.

Tolson chose not to respond to Hoover's question directly. His mind was occupied with different concerns entirely.

Theodore's performance during the post office and bank robbery investigations had definitively proven the validity of his psychological profiling methods. There was no practical need to assign him another case before training began.

But Hoover had done so anyway.

Tolson suspected the Director's motives were more complex than simple competency evaluation.

Maybe... just this was his own way to give Theodore more, more connections, more people, or perhaps he was just being a broody uncle.

Tolson sighs, as he thought.

'Heavy is the crown, you can't even love your loved ones.'

[End of Chapter]

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