1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

Hayes's office stood empty when they returned, the afternoon light slanting through dusty windows onto vacant chairs.

Bernie invested five dollars at the neighboring shop to learn that Hayes had departed with new clients shortly after their earlier visit. Property showings, the shopkeeper explained with the casual indifference of someone accustomed to the rhythms of small business.

Theodore and Bernie positioned themselves strategically down the street, settling into the kind of patient surveillance that separated professional investigators from amateurs. Their wait proved mercifully brief, ten minutes before Hayes appeared around the corner, accompanied by a young family.

The husband carried a toddler of perhaps two or three years, while his wife cradled a newborn infant against her chest. Despite the exhaustion etched into their faces, both parents radiated the unmistakable glow of people who had found something precious in an unforgiving city.

Hayes ushered them into his office with practiced courtesy, handling the business transaction with efficient professionalism. After seeing his clients safely on their way, he approached Theodore and Bernie with raised eyebrows.

"Gentlemen, I didn't expect to see you again so soon." His tone carried polite curiosity. "Is there something else I can help you with?"

Bernie reached instinctively for his pocket, fingers searching for the badge and credentials that would have been there in another life, then let his hand fall empty to his side. "Actually, Hayes, we need to discuss some old business with you."

He paused deliberately. "Or should we call you 'BIGBALL'?"

The silence stretched between them like a taut wire. Hayes studied their faces with the careful attention of a man accustomed to reading dangerous situations.

"Nobody's called me 'BIGBALL' in a very long time," he finally said.

Bernie felt a flicker of surprise at Hayes's immediate acknowledgment. Most people would have denied recognition, bought time, deflected. "Why didn't you mention that you and Clarence Earl were cellmates in prison?"

Hayes spread his hands in a gesture of casual dismissal. "Didn't seem relevant to anything." He paused, then continued with the matter-of-fact tone of someone stating obvious truth. "All right, yes, Clarence and I shared a cell. He looked out for me, helped me avoid being, "

The sentence hung unfinished, but the implications were clear enough.

", So after I got out, I gave him a break on the rent. Fair's fair."

Hayes moved to his filing cabinet, withdrawing several rental contracts for properties on Anacostia Road. "Normal rent in that area runs about fifty dollars monthly. I only charged Clarence forty-two."

The paperwork confirmed his claim, showing rental prices clustered around the fifty-dollar mark for comparable properties.

Bernie set down the contracts and leaned forward. "Did Clarence Earl have enemies in prison?"

"Of course." Hayes's response came without hesitation. "Hard to survive a place like that without stepping on somebody's toes."

He settled into his chair, fingers drumming thoughtfully on the desk. "When Clarence helped me out, he made some people very unhappy. The kind of people who don't forget slights."

Hayes pursed his lips, accessing memories he'd clearly prefer to leave buried. "Clarence had this thing about fairness, you understand. Couldn't stand to see the strong picking on the weak. Made him a lot of enemies."

"Who specifically?" Bernie asked, notebook ready.

Hayes provided a comprehensive list, meticulously writing down names and explaining each man's particular grievance against Clarence Earl. His thoroughness spoke to either exceptional memory or careful mental cataloging of potential threats.

At least half the incidents involved direct attacks on Clarence, with Earl responding in pure self-defense. The remainder, as Hayes had indicated, stemmed from Earl's compulsive need to intervene when he witnessed injustice.

Bernie pocketed the list and consulted his notes. "Tell me more about those bloodstains you saw on the cabinet and walls."

Hayes frowned in concentration, accessing details from six months past. "Dried blood, definitely. Dark stains on the cabinet doors, streaks on the wall near the sofa." He shook his head apologetically. "Can't recall the exact patterns, just that it was extensive. More than you'd expect from... well, from what I understood had happened there."

"The blood-soaked sofa," Bernie continued. "You mentioned selling it to an Italian gentleman. We'll need his contact information."

Hayes obligingly wrote out an address on a slip of paper, his handwriting neat and precise.

After several more routine questions, Bernie closed his notebook and glanced at Theodore, signaling the handoff.

Theodore's question came from an entirely different angle. "Why do they call you 'BIGBALL'?"

Hayes froze as if struck. His expression cycled through a series of emotions, embarrassment, anger, resignation, before settling into reluctant acceptance.

The silence stretched uncomfortably long.

Finally, Hayes spread his hands in surrender. "Back in Baltimore, the other inmates said my... equipment... swung like a church bell when I walked." Color rose in his cheeks. "The nickname stuck whether I wanted it or not."

He straightened in his chair, regaining some dignity. "Haven't used it since my release. Trying to run a legitimate business here, and prison nicknames don't exactly inspire confidence in clients."

Theodore surveyed the crowded filing cabinets, the neat stacks of contracts, the evidence of a thriving enterprise. "Has anyone tried to muscle in on your business?"

A brief silence fell over the office, heavy with unspoken implications.

Hayes shook his head with careful emphasis. "No. No one's tried that."

"Why not?" Theodore's tone carried genuine curiosity rather than accusation.

"Don't know. Maybe because I keep everything legal and above board." Hayes glanced at his watch with pointed meaning. "This doesn't seem connected to what happened to the Earl family."

He stood and stepped aside, making space for them to leave. "Gentlemen, I have other appointments. Unless you have more questions directly related to, "

Theodore interrupted, pointing at the filing cabinets. "Did you write all these contracts yourself?"

"Yes, I did."

"College education?"

Hayes shook his head. "Prison education. You'd be surprised what a man can learn when he has time and motivation."

Theodore studied him intently. "What crime sent you to prison originally?"

Hayes's expression hardened. "That definitely doesn't relate to the Earl family murders."

"Where were you the day they were killed?"

"Business trouble. Minor complications." Hayes pointed to his feet, then to himself. "This is Southeast D.C., and I'm not a prisoner anymore. I think it's time for you gentlemen to leave."

Bernie stepped forward with the confidence of someone who understood the neighborhood's realities. "What kind of trouble? Teaching some young gang a lesson about territory?"

Both Hayes and Theodore turned to stare at him. Theodore's expression suggested particular interest in Bernie's sudden insight.

Bernie shrugged, unperturbed by their attention. "Like you said, this is Southeast D.C."

He gestured toward the window, encompassing the world beyond Hayes's office. "You can't just set up legitimate business here without dealing with the local ecosystem."

Bernie warmed to his theme, drawing on knowledge that came from sources Theodore couldn't quite identify. "Theft and robbery are the least of your worries. Every gang in the area wants protection money. Corrupt cops want their cut. When one gang gets eliminated, you have to establish relationships with whoever replaces them."

He moved closer to Hayes, his voice taking on the certainty of someone stating established fact. "Everyone in this neighborhood has a vested interest in keeping you down at their level. They want you as corrupt as they are."

Bernie stopped directly in front of Hayes, studying his face. "So either you have exceptionally good relationships with the local criminal element, or you were part of it originally. Which is it, BIGBALL?"

Hayes and Bernie locked eyes in a silent contest of wills.

After a long moment, Hayes smiled with what might have been admiration. "I don't know what you're talking about."

His tone remained polite, but the steel underneath had become more apparent. "I really do need you gentlemen to leave now."

Theodore and Bernie exchanged glances, recognizing the futility of pushing further. They departed Hayes's office without additional protest.

In the car, Bernie started the engine and immediately launched into analysis. "He's definitely hiding something major!"

His excitement was palpable. "Maybe he's our killer!"

Theodore tapped his wrist, drawing attention to the advancing hour. "If we stay here much longer, it'll be dark."

They still needed to canvass Anacostia Road, gathering information from residents who would be returning home from work about now, their best opportunity to find people willing to talk.

Bernie glanced back at Hayes's office, then pulled into traffic. "He's definitely hiding something," he muttered, unable to let go of his suspicions.

Hayes's evasive behavior had been obvious to anyone paying attention.

Once they were moving, Theodore opened his notebook, wrote two brief lines, then closed it again.

"Why would Hayes kill the Earl family?" he asked Bernie.

Bernie considered the question seriously. "He provided Clarence Earl with reduced rent for five years, believing he'd repaid his life debt from prison."

His voice gained momentum as he developed the theory. "Hayes felt he owed Clarence nothing more, but maybe Clarence disagreed. The favor became a burden, then a grudge."

Theodore shook his head slowly. "Hayes is trying to imitate the white-collar professionals from Northwest D.C."

He stared out at the passing neighborhood, seeing more than just buildings and streets. "He envies their lives. Respectable jobs, tailored clothing, polite speech, community respect."

Theodore turned to face Bernie directly. "He despises his criminal past. Won't mention it, won't use his old nickname, completely rejects that identity. He's attempting to draw a clean line between who he was and who he's trying to become."

A pause, then: "You're absolutely right, though."

Bernie blinked, momentarily confused. "Right about what?"

"Your analysis of Hayes's background," Theodore said, showing genuine enthusiasm. "In a place like Southeast D.C., maintaining a respectable facade requires serious backing. The kind of backing that comes with strings attached."

Bernie absorbed this, then looked around at the passing streetscape. "So he really is the killer?"

Theodore didn't answer immediately.

Hayes lying about his whereabouts, Hayes having criminal connections, Hayes denying his past, these were separate issues from Hayes murdering the Earl family. The connection between them wasn't necessarily causal.

Bernie's disappointment was visible.

But Theodore felt no such disappointment. Bernie's analytical leap, his growing understanding of criminal psychology and neighborhood dynamics, pleased him more than concrete progress on the case itself.

The "favor turned into a grudge" reasoning seemed somewhat forced, but Theodore valued the attempt more than the conclusion.

He hesitated, then offered what comfort he could. "Very good analysis. The thinking process was excellent."

Bernie glanced at him, understanding the subtext, and managed a wry smile. "Thanks."

By the time they reached Anacostia Road, lights glowed in windows on both sides of the street, families settling into evening routines.

Theodore didn't immediately begin knocking on doors as originally planned. Instead, he had Bernie drive slowly from one end of the street to the other, then back again, circling the neighborhood twice before finally stopping in front of 3221 Anacostia Road.

Snow had begun falling again as they stepped from the car, fine flakes drifting down from the gray evening sky.

Theodore looked up at the darkening clouds and knocked on the door of the Freeman family's immediate neighbor.

A middle-aged man answered with obvious wariness, his eyes moving from Theodore to Bernie and back again.

Bernie took the lead, identifying himself and stepping forward for conversation.

The man declined to invite them inside, instead closing his door and standing on the small porch to talk.

When Bernie asked about the Earl family murders from six months earlier, the man quickly explained that his family had moved to the neighborhood less than a month ago and knew nothing about previous incidents.

They moved to the neighbor on the other side. The police report had recorded the emergency call as coming from a "neighbor," without specifying which house.

A tall, thin middle-aged man opened this door.

He also refused to let them inside.

When he learned they were investigating the Earl family massacre, the man immediately turned to retreat into his house. Bernie caught his arm, preventing escape.

The man struggled against Bernie's grip, looking nervously up and down the street while repeating in a low voice: "I don't know anything. I don't know anything about it."

"How long have you lived here?" Bernie asked, maintaining his hold.

The man struggled twice more, found himself unable to break free, and fell into sullen silence.

Theodore stepped closer. "Were you the one who called the police that night?"

He pointed toward the gray expanse of street. "Did you use the public phone over there?"

The man's eyes flicked toward the phone booth Theodore had indicated, but he remained silent.

Bernie leaned in, his voice dropping to conversational levels. "Here's how this works, friend."

His tone carried the patient certainty of someone explaining simple mathematics. "You can cooperate with us, tell us exactly what happened that night, what you saw, and help us catch the killer."

Bernie paused for effect. "Or you can keep protecting him and hope he believes you never said anything to anybody."

The man's face contorted with a mixture of grief and outrage. "You police officers only know how to bully people!"

Theodore felt compelled to clarify. "We're FBI personnel, not local detectives."

"What's the difference!" the man shot back.

Theodore thought about this question carefully and realized there probably wasn't much practical difference from this man's point of view. He nodded in acknowledgment.

The man struggled again.

Bernie twisted his wrist, pressing him against the wall with his arm pinned behind his back. "Nobody wants to bully you. We just need to know what happened that night."

Theodore moved closer. "Only one police report was filed. Nobody else called for help, just you."

His voice carried genuine curiosity rather than accusation. "Why did you make that call?"

The man stopped struggling, sagging against the wall in apparent defeat.

"Hayes mentioned that Clarence Earl was helpful to his neighbors. How did he help you?" Theodore continued.

Bernie added his own pressure, leaning in close. "Listen, friend, we're not trying to cause you problems. We just want to catch whoever murdered Clarence Earl's entire family."

His voice carried conviction. "Clarence Earl didn't deserve what happened to him."

The man turned his head to study their faces, clearly wrestling with internal conflict.

Bernie pressed his advantage. "You can trust us. Nobody's noticed this conversation yet, and we won't reveal our source."

He gestured toward their car. "Tell us what you know, and we leave immediately. Nobody will know you talked to us."

After a long moment, the man began to speak.

His voice was barely above a whisper, words tumbling out rapidly as if he wanted to finish before losing his nerve:

"I saw someone break into Clarence's house. Soon after, there were crashing sounds from inside."

He gestured toward the Freeman house. "Then I heard Hattie scream, followed by gunshots."

The man pointed to the area in front of what was now the Freeman family's door. "After a while, they came out and had some kind of argument right there."

"They?" Bernie pressed.

The man nodded confirmation. "After they left, I went outside to check. The Clarence family was already dead."

"How many were there? Did you recognize any of them?"

The man nodded but offered no names.

Theodore suddenly spoke with the tone of someone testing a theory: "Was it Hayes? Or Detective Coleman? Were both of them there?"

The man looked up in surprise, his expression confirming that Theodore had struck close to the truth.

Bernie glanced at Theodore, then turned the man around to face him directly.

"Listen carefully, friend."

His voice took on the gravity of someone offering crucial advice. "I have a better suggestion for you."

Bernie paused, ensuring he had the man's complete attention. "You can come back with us, "

The man's face showed immediate shock and anger, clearly believing Bernie was betraying their earlier assurances.

Bernie quickly continued: "I could let you go right now and keep my promise about confidentiality."

His tone became deadly serious. "Doing that might mean nothing happens to you and your family."

Bernie leaned closer. "But it's much more likely that when we start investigating these people, they'll come looking for you first. To eliminate loose ends."

His eyes held the man's steadily. "Believe me, friend, I know how these people operate. They absolutely will do that."

The man struggled once more.

This time, Bernie released him immediately.

The man squeezed past them, darted through his front door, and slammed it shut; the sound of multiple locks engaging echoed from inside.

Theodore and Bernie stood on the porch, listening to the sounds of frantic activity from within, furniture being moved, belongings being gathered.

Bernie tried knocking again, but received only shouted demands for them to leave.

Concerned about attracting unwanted attention from lingering too long or making too much noise, they reluctantly returned to their car.

Bernie glanced at the illuminated house one final time, started the engine, and drove away into the gathering darkness.

[End of Chapter]

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