1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

The Fifth Precinct Chief had been drowning in year-end obligations, budget meetings, political glad-handing, and the endless parade of holiday parties that came with his position.

He'd finally carved out a precious hour of quiet when Supervisor Rosen's call shattered his momentary peace.

Rosen lived in the same Chevy Chase neighborhood, their wives played bridge together, and their children attended the same private school.

The call should have been a routine professional courtesy between colleagues. Instead, it left the Chief staring at his phone, as if it had delivered news of a death in the family.

His mind, cluttered with case closure statistics and budget projections, struggled to process what Rosen had told him.

The Earl family massacre, that messy business from June that had mercifully faded from public attention, was being resurrected by the FBI.

He summoned the Deputy Chief, who in turn called Detective Ross.

After listening to Ross's account of his recent interactions with the federal agents, the Chief made his decision with the weary pragmatism of a man who'd survived twenty-three years in D.C. law enforcement.

"Handle it by the book," he instructed the Deputy Chief. "Full cooperation once that order comes through. No complications, no delays."

The Deputy Chief nodded and designated Ross to organize materials and physical evidence from storage.

However, after dismissing Ross, he quietly assembled a team of experienced detectives with a mission entirely different from his own.

They arrived at Hayes's real estate office like a surgical strike team, swift, efficient, and thorough. The filing cabinets surrendered their contents in minutes.

Following the Deputy Chief's specific instructions, the detectives bypassed the precinct entirely and delivered the seized documents directly to the FBI's headquarters at the Department of Justice Building.

Theodore and Bernie returned from the Legal Department to find their conference room transformed into a document warehouse.

Banker's boxes towered on every surface, manila folders spilling across the table like autumn leaves.

They exchanged glances of amazement. The formal bureaucratic process they'd initiated was supposed to take a week minimum.

They'd planned to spend the interim organizing notes and preparing for the long wait ahead. Bernie had even acquired a set of FBI training manuals for self-study.

The eager lawyer who'd predicted an afternoon delivery at the earliest was revealed as either overly cautious or poorly informed about the Fifth Precinct's efficiency.

Bernie suppressed his urge to grumble about unreliable legal advice while repeatedly thanking the detectives who'd delivered their bureaucratic windfall.

The cops responded with practiced humility, all in the line of duty, happy to help the Bureau.

Anything else you need? Before departing in a cloud of mutual professional goodwill.

Before Theodore and Bernie could begin examining their treasure trove, Supervisor Rosen summoned them to his office with news about Hattie Earl's autopsy.

St. Elizabeth's Hospital had responded to the FBI's request with clinical efficiency: Hattie Earl's body had not been autopsied in the traditional sense but had been utilized for "other medical purposes" before disposal. No autopsy records existed.

Bernie wanted to press for details about what exactly those "other medical purposes" might entail at a hospital known to serve CIA research interests, but prudence overruled curiosity.

Some questions were better left unasked in Hoover's FBI.

Returning to their document-laden conference room, they spread a Southeast District map across the table alongside Hayes's meticulously organized files.

The Fifth Precinct detectives had maintained the chronological order Hayes himself had imposed, a small mercy that would save hours of sorting.

Bernie found the first loan contract within minutes of searching, tucked between rental agreements like a serpent in the Garden of Eden.

"Now I know what to look for," Bernie said, passing the contract to Theodore. "Hayes was lending money to his tenants."

Theodore studied the document, comparing the handwriting and signatures with those on the rental agreements; the same author, the same predatory enterprise disguised as a legitimate business.

They found Clarence Earl's loan contract, filed with his rental agreement, a matched set that documented his family's descent into financial hell.

The contract bore a January signature: $3,000 borrowed at a twelve percent weekly interest rate.

Theodore's mental arithmetic painted a stark picture. By June, when the Earl family died, they would have owed Hayes $57,000.

"D.C. gangs don't mess around," Bernie muttered, staring at the astronomical figure.

"Felton's loan sharks only charged six percent weekly. These people are genuinely vicious."

He waved the contract triumphantly. "We've found Hayes's motive!"

Bernie outlined his theory: Hayes had come to collect an impossible debt. The Earl family, gathered in their living room, couldn't pay.

When Hayes's man tried to assault Hattie as leverage, her accidental death in the struggle escalated everything beyond control. Hayes then eliminated the witnesses and fled.

The mysterious caller's reluctance suddenly made sense.

Who would risk Hayes's retaliation by cooperating with authorities?

Theodore regarded Bernie with appreciation before gently shaking his head.

"Mrs. Freeman was paying thirty percent below market rate for that house," he reminded his partner.

"When we found her in the Northeast, she and her coworkers felt comfortable gossiping about Hayes behind his back. He didn't inspire the same fear in them as he does in our caller."

Bernie briefly considered whether Mrs. Freeman might not have been aware of Hayes's reputation, then dismissed the idea himself.

A woman sharp enough to negotiate that rental discount would certainly recognize dangerous territory when she saw it.

"Hayes had to be there personally," Bernie insisted, though he couldn't articulate why the conviction felt so strong.

Theodore studied Bernie curiously, wondering at his partner's certainty about Hayes's direct involvement, but Bernie was already moving to the map.

"He told us business was bad lately," Bernie said, spreading rental contracts across the table. "Let's see exactly how bad."

They spent the next three hours creating a visual timeline of Hayes's empire, using colored pins to mark properties by month.

Hayes's monthly rental agreements provided precise data points, revealing the ebb and flow of his territorial control.

During their methodical cataloging, they discovered additional loan contracts, one of which showed a borrower who owed Hayes over $300,000, a sum that would have purchased a house in Georgetown's most prestigious neighborhood.

The Southeast District's demographics worked in Hayes's favor. As a designated colored section of D.C., housing remained perpetually scarce, demand consistently outstripping supply. Hayes's properties rarely stayed vacant.

Their completed map told a story of gradual collapse. From June through September, Hayes had maintained sixty to seventy properties with minimal fluctuation.

At $45 per month in rent per unit, he was collecting approximately $3,000 in legitimate income alone, before accounting for his lending operations.

But November brought disaster.

Hayes's holdings plummeted from nearly seventy properties to barely fifty. Most shocking was Anacostia Road, where he'd lost almost half his territory in a single month.

"He's losing control of his main thoroughfare," Bernie observed, pointing to the shrinking colored clusters. "Other gangs are moving in, pushing him back block by block."

Theodore nodded, gathering the reviewed contracts into neat stacks. "We need to interview Detective Coleman's partner."

Remembering their formal reopening procedure, he added, "After the cooperation order comes through."

Bernie glanced at the document chaos still covering their table. "Might not take the full week at this rate."

Theodore agreed, and they consolidated their findings before heading to the FBI laboratory.

Theodore wanted to reconstruct Mabel Earl's shooting based on autopsy evidence, specifically, to estimate the shooter's height from bullet trajectory and powder burns.

The lab's ballistics expert was intrigued by the challenge. Mabel Earl had been seated when shot, the assailant firing from above at close range.

Powder residue patterns and entry wound angles provided mathematical constraints for calculating the shooter's probable height.

The next afternoon brought their answer: approximately six feet tall, roughly 1.83 meters.

Hayes stood no more than five feet seven.

Bernie stared at the laboratory report, turning pages as if hoping the numbers might rearrange themselves into a more convenient configuration.

"Looks like we definitely need to visit Coleman's partner," he conceded.

The timing was too precise to be a coincidence.

Coleman's death in the line of duty one month ago, Hayes immediately losing half his Anacostia Road territory, the connection seemed obvious.

"How tall was Detective Coleman?" Theodore asked.

Bernie looked up from the report, understanding dawning in his expression. "You think Coleman shot Mabel and Clarence Earl?"

Theodore nodded slowly.

Bernie made another note in his ever-present notebook. With the formal investigation temporarily stalled, documentation was all they could manage.

Monday at noon brought liberation: the Fifth Precinct contacted the Investigation Department to confirm receipt of their cooperation order. The Earl family massacre case was officially reopened, two days ahead of the legal department's conservative estimate.

Bernie exhaled in relief. December 19th, with Christmas weekend approaching rapidly.

He'd promised his wife and children he'd be home for the holidays, a commitment that had seemed increasingly unlikely as bureaucratic delays mounted.

Armed with evidence retrieval orders and field cooperation waivers from the Legal Department, Theodore and Bernie descended on the Fifth Precinct with renewed authority.

Detective Ross greeted them with visible discomfort. Despite a week of searching, he'd failed to locate additional case materials or physical evidence beyond what they'd already seen. The gaps in the file spoke to either systematic incompetence or deliberate concealment.

Bernie smoothly redirected the conversation, sparing Ross further embarrassment while extracting the information they needed.

"Detective Coleman's personnel file?" Bernie inquired, pen poised over his notebook.

Ross glanced nervously at Theodore. "He died in the line of duty. His file's at headquarters now, not with us."

"How tall was he?"

Ross gestured vaguely. "About six-foot-one, maybe six-foot-two."

Bernie and Theodore exchanged meaningful glances. The ballistics evidence was pointing toward a very uncomfortable conclusion.

"We need to interview Coleman's partner," Bernie continued. "Where can we find him?"

Ross hesitated, clearly reluctant to facilitate what felt like an investigation into the actions of a fallen colleague. But the cooperation order left him no choice, and he provided the address with obvious reluctance.

"What about our caller?" Bernie asked, finally.

"Getting ready to move," Ross replied. "Packing up to leave town."

Bernie closed his notebook decisively. "Bring him in immediately. We'll interview Coleman's partner separately."

Ross offered to accompany them, but Theodore declined without diplomacy. Ross's blind loyalty to Coleman's memory would only complicate the interview.

The detective needed to be in criminal defense, not law enforcement; he had a talent for rationalizing the irrational.

They left the precinct and drove through D.C.'s snow-laden streets toward Crawford's residence.

A week of intermittent snowfall had blanketed the city in nearly a foot of white, transforming familiar neighborhoods into winter landscapes that muffled sound and obscured familiar landmarks.

Detective Coleman's former partner, Crawford, was sitting in his wheelchair when they arrived, contemplating the snow-covered garden with the philosophical patience of a man whose world had suddenly contracted to the dimensions of his backyard.

Crawford's Germanic features, with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes, were etched in lines of permanent displeasure as Bernie explained their purpose. His reaction was immediate and hostile.

"He's dead! Died in the line of duty!" Crawford's voice carried the outrage of betrayed loyalty. "You should show him basic respect!"

Theodore felt he was facing Detective Ross in an older, bitterer form.

He studied Crawford carefully, confirming he wasn't hallucinating some temporal displacement that had aged Ross thirty years and confined him to a wheelchair.

"Is there any necessary connection," Theodore asked with genuine puzzlement, "between Coleman being dead and the possibility that he murdered Clarence and Mabel Earl?"

Crawford's glare could have melted the snow in his garden.

Theodore had no patience for another philosophical debate about hope versus reality.

He presented his evidence systematically: laboratory calculations placing the shooter at Coleman's height, Coleman's documented racial prejudice aligning with the crime's psychology, and his suspicious behavior as first responder despite his usual indifference to cases involving Black victims.

He handed Crawford a crime scene photograph, supporting it with autopsy reports and case files.

"Coleman cared enough about this case to rush to the scene, but then handled it with his usual unprofessional attitude toward Black victims. The contradiction suggests personal involvement."

Crawford studied the photograph without speaking, his fingers tracing the image's edges with unconscious reverence.

Theodore reclaimed the photo before Crawford's emotional state could damage crucial evidence. "What was Coleman's relationship with Hayes?"

Crawford gestured silently for Bernie to push him inside. Once transferred to his living room sofa, Crawford pointed accusingly at Theodore.

"You need a new partner," he told Bernie. "This one doesn't smell like police at all. He reeks of FBI."

Theodore leaned forward with genuine curiosity. "What does the police force smell like? Covering up your partner's murders?"

[End of Chapter]

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