1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

The real estate office squatted at the end of the street like a forgotten afterthought, a single-story wooden structure that looked ready to surrender to the next strong wind.

Theodore studied the weathered facade as they approached, noting how the painted sign had faded to barely legible letters.

Inside, the layout spoke of modest ambitions: desks flanking the entrance, a pair of well-worn sofas arranged around a coffee table scarred with ring stains, and filing cabinets that had seen better decades.

A tin stove hugged the far wall, cold and lifeless as a tombstone.

The chill hit them immediately. Bernie's first sneeze echoed in the cramped space, followed quickly by a second.

"Sorry about the cold," the real estate agent said, gesturing apologetically toward the dead stove.

"Business hasn't been what you'd call brisk lately."

They settled onto the sofas, the worn springs creaking under their weight. Bernie pulled out the crime scene photographs, his breath visible in the frigid air.

"What can you tell us about the murder at 3221 Anacostia Road? Six months back."

The agent accepted the photos with practiced hands, studied them briefly, then passed them back with the casual indifference of a man who'd seen his share of unpleasantness.

"I know about it."

He leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the desk. "Knocked thirty percent off the rent after that business."

"Thirty percent?" Bernie's eyebrows climbed.

The man stood and began rummaging through a filing cabinet, papers rustling. "That's right. When the Freeman family came looking to rent the place, they wanted that discount on account of what happened there."

"Did the Freemans know about the murder when they signed?" Bernie pressed.

"Course they did." The agent's voice carried a note of professional pride. "I don't hide things like that from my clients. Bad for business in the long run."

Bernie frowned. "Funny thing, Mrs. Freeman told us she didn't know anything about any murder."

The rummaging stopped. The agent turned, his expression carefully neutral. "Well now, I did tell her to keep quiet about it."

He pulled out a thick folder, setting it on his desk with deliberate care.

"Thirty percent off is generous, you understand. Word gets around about deals like that, every tenant in Southeast D.C. starts demanding discounts for every little thing that might've happened in their place."

He gestured toward Detective Ross with surprising boldness.

"Hell, Detective, you know how it is in this part of town. Show me a house where nobody ever died, and I'll show you new construction."

Theodore watched this exchange with growing fascination.

In 1965, in Washington, most Black men wouldn't dream of addressing a white police officer with such casual familiarity.

Yet this real estate agent carried himself with an easy confidence that suggested he'd navigated these waters before.

"What's your name?" Theodore asked.

The man paused in his filing, turned with that same easy smile. "Just call me Hayes." He chuckled.

"Beginning to wonder if you boys were gonna ask."

Theodore nodded, ignoring the pointed looks from Bernie and Detective Ross.

Bernie cleared his throat, steering them back to business. "So, Mr. Hayes, what can you tell us about the actual murder?"

Hayes retrieved several contracts from his cabinet, spreading them across the coffee table like a dealer laying out cards. "Ahh, the Earl family. They were Good people."

His voice carried genuine regret. "Always paid on time, never late, never tried to negotiate like some folks do. Most worry-free tenants a man could ask for."

Theodore examined the paperwork.

The earliest contracts bore Clarence Earl's careful signature, dating back to 1955. Clean, professional documents stating monthly rent of forty-two dollars, due by the last day of each preceding month.

The Freeman family contracts began in July, this year, with the reduced rent of twenty-nine dollars, payable by month's end.

Thirteen dollars. Hayes was losing thirteen dollars every month because of the murders.

"Tell me what you remember about that day," Bernie said, settling back into the sofa.

Hayes shook his head slowly. "Wasn't around when it happened. Had business elsewhere, didn't hear about it for two days."

He rubbed his jaw. "Lucky thing several other houses on that block belong to my tenants, or the place would've been picked clean by thieves before I got back."

"When you did get there," Theodore interrupted, "was the furniture still in place? Nothing moved?"

"Think so." Hayes's brow furrowed in concentration. "Can't say for certain, but it looked right to me."

Bernie handed over the crime scene photographs again. Hayes squinted at them, taking his time with each image before nodding slowly.

"Yeah, that's about how I remember it."

Theodore selected a photo showing the blood-stained sofa. "What happened to this piece?"

"Had to get rid of it." Hayes grimaced.

"Blood soaked clear through. No amount of cleaning was gonna save it. Sold it cheap to some Italian fellow who figured he could do something with it."

He settled into his chair, warming to the subject. "The scene was a real mess when I got there. Drawers yanked out, cabinet contents scattered everywhere. Looked like somebody'd torn the place apart hunting for something."

Theodore leaned forward. This was information the photographs couldn't provide.

"Right there in the living room, front of where that sofa sat, the floor was soaked black with blood. Big area, maybe four feet across. But that wasn't all of it; there were spatters on the cabinet doors, streaks on the walls."

Hayes shook his head at the memory. "Cost me plenty to get that place cleaned up and repainted for the next tenants."

Theodore studied the photographs again.

None showed bloodstains on cabinets or walls. Either the photographer had been remarkably selective, or Hayes was embellishing.

"Any signs of forced entry?" Theodore asked. "Doors, windows?"

Hayes barked a laugh. "Hell, by the time I got back, the front door was gone and somebody'd pried out two windows."

He spread his hands. "This is Southeast D.C., son. Amazing, they left the walls standing."

Detective Ross nodded vigorously, his face showing grim agreement with this assessment of neighborhood character.

Theodore and Bernie exchanged glances. The casual acceptance of such extensive theft struck them as almost surreal.

Outside the real estate office, they prepared to part ways. Bernie reminded Theodore to ask Detective Ross about the crime scene photographer.

"Those pictures," Theodore said, pulling out one of the more poorly composed shots. "Detective Coleman took these?"

Ross nodded. "Department policy. First officer on scene takes charge of the case, handles the photography."

Theodore held up the blurry, poorly framed image. "Are Detective Coleman's photos from other cases like this?"

Ross was quiet for a long moment. "No," he finally admitted. "Not all of them."

"But the cases involving Black victims are?" Bernie pressed, climbing out of their car with a file folder in hand.

Ross nodded reluctantly. "You have to understand, Coleman was pushing sixty. Old school."

Bernie fell silent, apparently at a loss for words.

Ross removed his hat, ran fingers through thinning hair, and stood by his patrol car looking distinctly uncomfortable.

But Theodore's mind had latched onto something else entirely. "If Detective Coleman had such strong feelings about Black people, how did he end up first on scene?"

He gestured down the street. "This entire neighborhood is Black families."

Theodore turned to Ross. "Was Coleman even on duty that day?"

The detective's face darkened. "What exactly are you implying?"

Theodore could feel the sudden chill in Ross's demeanor, but pressed on with genuine confusion.

"I'm asking a factual question. Do you think I'm suggesting Coleman committed the murders, and you won't consider that possibility because you're fellow officers?"

Ross's jaw tightened. "Coleman died in the line of duty. What you're talking about is slander."

Theodore stared at him for several seconds, then slowly shook his head and turned away. The futility of the exchange washed over him like cold water.

They were speaking different languages. Theodore dealt in observable facts; Ross operated from institutional loyalty, treating that loyalty as fact and using it to reject inconvenient realities.

Bernie smoothly changed subjects, asking Ross to check patrol duty rosters from the night of the murders.

They parted company with the kind of strained politeness that fooled no one.

"So what's your read on the killer?" Bernie asked once they were driving toward the Federal Bureau of Prisons.

Theodore set down his notebook, organizing his thoughts. "Hattie Earl was strangled. As for Mabel and Clarence Earl, well, they were shot."

He traced the scene in his mind.

"Mabel was sitting on the sofa when she was hit; she either fell to the floor dying, or was moved there afterward. The killer had to accomplish all this very quickly, in maybe about five to ten minutes at the outside."

Bernie glanced around nervously, then leaned closer. "How do you figure the timing?"

As he spoke, he pointed upward.

Theodore looked up, suddenly understanding Bernie's concern about surveillance, and fell silent for several moments.

Finally, he spoke, "Police report says neighbors heard gunshots, then silence, then called for help."

"Multiple killers?" Bernie asked quietly.

Theodore nodded. "It has to be, Clarence Earl was a construction worker, a strong and capable man. Mabel and Hattie also weren't some helpless damsels either."

He pulled out the crime scene photos again.

"Even with a gun, once the first person goes down, the other two are going to fight for their lives. But there's no sign of that kind of struggle."

The room in the photographs was disheveled, yes, but from searching, not from desperate combat. It was too neat for a life-or-death struggle involving three adults.

"The killer, or killers, didn't give the Earl family much chance to resist. After the first victim, the others were eliminated quickly."

Bernie had worked with Theodore long enough to recognize when something was off in his analysis. "You think Hayes is lying about something."

Theodore gave him an appraising look, impressed by Bernie's growing analytical skills.

"He mentioned blood on walls and cabinets," Theodore said, sketching a rough floor plan in his notebook.

"But look here, Mabel Earl was shot while sitting on this sofa. Her blood would splatter on the killer and the sofa itself."

He tapped his pencil against the paper. "For blood to reach walls and cabinets, either Clarence Earl was shot near those surfaces and his body moved to the center of the room afterward..."

Theodore paused, adding with characteristic precision: "Or even if some blood did reach the walls naturally, it would be minimal. A few drops at most."

He closed the notebook. "The extensive blood damage Hayes described either has nothing to do with this case, or—"

"Or he's lying," Bernie finished.

Theodore pocketed his notebook, pursuing another line of thought. "The killer left plenty of evidence at the scene. Fingerprints, probably. Physical traces. But none of it was properly documented."

His voice took on a speculative tone.

"Either the killer didn't plan to commit murder, it was accidental, unintended, or he knew Detective Coleman would handle the scene in a way that would protect him."

Bernie offered a third possibility: "Maybe the killer simply didn't care about leaving evidence behind."

Theodore considered this possibility seriously and nodded. That actually made the most sense.

The Federal Bureau of Prisons occupied an imposing building that seemed designed to discourage casual visitors.

Without Ronald's personal connections to smooth the way, they found themselves facing the full weight of federal bureaucracy.

"Minimum one week for processing," the clerk informed them with bureaucratic satisfaction. "Written application required, supervisor approval, background verification."

Bernie made an executive decision. "Let me make a phone call."

He disappeared into the building's labyrinthine corridors, leaving Theodore to study the marble walls and wonder what exactly Bernie was saying to Ronald's contact.

Thirty minutes later, Bernie emerged arm-in-arm with a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit, both laughing like old friends.

In the car, Bernie handed Theodore a fresh notebook and turned the ignition. "Looks like we're taking a trip to Baltimore."

According to the information Bernie had obtained through Ronald's network, Clarence Earl had served time in Maryland State Prison.

The federal system didn't typically house state prisoners, but the fluid border between D.C. and Maryland, combined with limited federal facilities, meant inmates often served federal sentences in state institutions to avoid excessive red tape.

"The FBI has a Baltimore field office," Theodore observed.

Bernie glanced at him. "Back to headquarters?"

They returned to FBI headquarters, where Bernie made inquiries about procedures for requesting local field office cooperation.

The duty agent seemed genuinely puzzled, unable to understand what kind of mission would require such coordination.

However, recognizing Theodore's connection to the Chief, the agent wisely kept his questions to himself and explained that supervisor approval was required for any inter-office communication.

The supervisor harbored the same curiosity as his subordinate and asked directly about their investigation.

Upon learning about the Earl family case, the supervisor's face went through a series of remarkable contortions.

He looked up at Theodore with something approaching fascination, which left Theodore feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

After a long silence, the supervisor reached for his phone and dialed a number. While waiting for the connection, he pointed at Theodore.

"What inmates are you looking for?"

Bernie quickly consulted his notebook and handed over the relevant page.

The supervisor tore off the sheet with the names, returned the notebook, and waved dismissively.

"Alex Rosen here—"

Leaving the supervisor's office, they made another stop at the FBI's legal counsel to inquire about formal visitation procedures for St. Elizabeth's Hospital.

The answer came back swiftly and definitively: they had no visitation rights whatsoever.

Outside the legal counsel's office, Theodore and Bernie stood in the hallway exchanging meaningful glances.

Bernie's mind immediately began spinning conspiracy theories, particularly when combined with Theodore's analysis that a single killer would have been hard-pressed to accomplish everything in the available time frame.

Add in the mysterious St. Elizabeths Hospital, which sounded ominously like the kind of place where government agencies conducted secret research or human experimentation.

Bernie pulled Theodore into an empty conference room and quietly voiced his suspicions.

He theorized that maybe supernatural entities, werewolves, extraterrestrials, or something beyond normal human capabilities, had killed the Earl family.

Government agencies, discovering the incident, had transported the bodies for clandestine research.

This would explain the perfunctory case records, the nearly blank autopsy reports, and Detective Coleman's inexplicable presence at the scene, followed by his convenient death in the line of duty.

Theodore listened to Bernie's increasingly animated presentation with growing bewilderment. "Is there some third-rate comic newspaper actually being distributed in D.C. now?"

Bernie stopped mid-sentence.

Bernie hesitated, clearly wrestling with something.

Bernie finally shook his head. "No, the Felton Star is still only selling in counties around Felton."

Theodore stared at him in genuine shock. "It hasn't gone bankrupt yet?"

They faced each other across the conference table in awkward silence.

The agent who consistently reminded Ronald to answer his phone appeared in the doorway, summoning them back to the supervisor's office.

The supervisor returned Bernie's note and handed over a new slip of paper. "This is the address of Clarence Earl's former cellmate."

Bernie pocketed the information without immediately examining it.

The supervisor regarded Theodore with obvious interest. "How's your investigation progressing? What have you learned?"

He had reviewed Ronald's previous reports and had become intrigued by Theodore's analytical approach.

Over the weekend, he had requested archived files from Theodore's solved cases in Felton for study.

What he discovered had astonished him: Theodore consistently moved in the right direction at every investigative step, as if guided by some internal compass that pointed toward truth.

He genuinely wanted to understand how Theodore accomplished this.

Bernie provided a detailed summary of their investigation's progress.

The supervisor listened intently, then asked Theodore directly: "Do you have a suspect in mind?"

Theodore shook his head.

"Which direction do you think the investigation should take?" The supervisor pointed toward Bernie. "The deceased's former cellmate?"

Theodore found the supervisor's line of questioning confusing. He couldn't quite grasp what the man was actually trying to ask.

The supervisor posed several more questions, but they seemed to be operating on completely different wavelengths, like radio operators trying to communicate on different frequencies.

Finally, looking thoroughly puzzled himself, the supervisor dismissed them with a wave.

Outside his office, Bernie unfolded the slip of paper and read the contents.

The note contained a familiar location and an even more familiar name: Hayes, nicknamed 'BIG BALL'.

Bernie looked up from the paper, a grim smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Seems we need to have another conversation with Mr. 'BIG BALL'."

[End of Chapter]

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