1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

Crawford's eyes went wide as saucers, his breathing coming in sharp bursts that made Theodore wonder if the old man might collapse from apoplexy right there in his wheelchair.

"You're talking nonsense!" Crawford bellowed, his voice cracking with indignation. "Shaming the police force! Destroying its honor! Spitting on everything we stand for!"

Theodore kept his voice level, conversational even, which seemed to enrage Crawford further.

"What police honor are you referring to exactly? The tradition of staying silent when you know a colleague has committed murder? The honor of covering up crimes?"

Crawford's chest heaved like a bellows, his face flushing crimson.

"I've been a cop for forty years! I know better than some federal boy scout what real police work looks like!"

"And what does real police work look like?" Theodore asked with genuine curiosity.

"You keep your partner's secrets! You learn when to shut your mouth!" Crawford jabbed a gnarled finger at Theodore with undisguised contempt.

"During Prohibition, a cop like you would've been found swinging from a lamppost by morning! No one would've protected you or avenged you, because you're a traitor! You betray the men who had your back first!"

Crawford turned his fury on Bernie as well.

"You need to dump this partner before he gets you killed. Mark my words, he'll sell you out for thirty pieces of silver the moment it serves his purpose."

From the instant Theodore and Bernie had walked through his door, Crawford's four decades of street experience had sized them up completely.

He liked Bernie immediately, recognized the familiar aura of an old-school cop who understood loyalty, silence, and reliability. The kind of partner you could count on when the bullets started flying.

But Theodore? The kid reeked of duplicity. Too smooth, too clever, with the predatory intelligence of a fox wearing human skin. Everything about him screamed federal interference and betrayal.

Bernie diplomatically steered the conversation back to Coleman, and Crawford's demeanor shifted entirely.

Talking to Bernie felt natural, comfortable, like speaking to a brother in blue rather than some FBI interloper.

In Crawford's telling, Coleman transformed into a paragon of virtue so pure that angels would weep with envy.

Twenty minutes of hagiography followed, painting Coleman as the conscience of law enforcement itself.

Theodore's patience finally snapped. If he didn't intervene soon, Crawford would keep Bernie trapped in this nostalgic fantasy until Easter.

Bernie caught Theodore's warning glance and cut through Crawford's rambling. "Did Coleman know Clarence Earl?"

The question punctured Crawford's narrative balloon. He paused, perhaps steadied by the lengthy reminiscence, or simply because Bernie, not Theodore, was asking.

"I don't know," Crawford admitted reluctantly. "Far as I know, Coleman never mentioned anyone named Earl."

"What about Hayes?"

Silence stretched between them like a taut wire.

Bernie repeated Detective Ross's assessment of Hayes, asking Crawford to confirm the details.

Crawford sighed heavily. "Coleman knew Hayes, yes. But it's not what you're thinking, Hayes is a gang leader. Like it or not, we all have to know these people. Goes with the territory."

Bernie produced evidence of Hayes's territorial losses over the past month, mentioned their elusive caller, but Crawford remained immovable.

Coleman's sainthood was apparently beyond question, his reputation so sacred that divine intervention would be required to tarnish it.

Crawford even suggested that Bernie had been corrupted by spending too much time with Theodore, that only his brothers in blue could be truly trusted.

Bernie stared at Crawford for a long moment, then looked to Theodore with helpless confusion. He understood the old man's worldview, forged in the crucible of Prohibition, where cop loyalty meant survival.

But those days were decades past, and Crawford remained trapped in their amber.

Theodore had endured enough philosophical stonewalling. Seeing Bernie's surrender, he stepped forward aggressively.

"Coleman was in Hayes's pocket. Had been for years, providing protection in exchange for money."

"You lying snake!" Crawford snarled.

Theodore pressed on ruthlessly. "Coleman handled police pressure for Hayes, and Hayes kept Coleman's bank account healthy. You weren't involved directly, but you knew. Deep down, you always knew."

Crawford appealed desperately to Bernie. "Your partner's lost his mind! He's talking complete fantasy!"

"Every time they went debt collecting, you found excuses to be elsewhere," Theodore continued relentlessly.

"You pretended ignorance, told yourself you weren't complicit. It was the same that night."

Crawford checked his wristwatch with theatrical precision. "My wife's coming home. You gentlemen should leave."

The phrase triggered déjà vu in Theodore's mind. D.C. residents seemed to treat dismissal as their primary defense against uncomfortable questions.

"You knew they were collecting that debt, so you called in sick early," Theodore continued, ignoring the dismissal.

"Coleman, Hayes, and his muscle broke down Clarence Earl's door. They didn't worry about police response because the responding officer was already there. Even if something went wrong, Coleman could guarantee first arrival and control the investigation."

Theodore fixed Crawford with an unblinking stare.

"Coleman discriminated against Black people, so why did he handle so many cases involving Black victims? How many of his cold cases were calls he responded to alone, without you?"

"Enough!" Crawford roared.

Before he could continue, the front door opened and a pleasantly plump elderly woman entered carrying grocery bags.

"Darling, we're having the Hendersons for dinner tonight, and who might you—"

She was Black. Unmistakably, completely Black.

Bernie shot to his feet, his shock written plainly across his face as he looked between the woman and Crawford.

The woman seemed accustomed to such reactions. She kissed Crawford's cheek affectionately, disappeared into the kitchen with her bags, then returned with water glasses and a plate of homemade cookies.

She settled beside Crawford with the comfortable intimacy of decades.

Crawford's face had turned to granite. He gripped his wife's hand tightly.

"You should leave," he repeated coldly. "I've said everything I'm going to say."

The woman clearly believed these were her husband's colleagues paying a courtesy call. She playfully swatted Crawford's thigh with gentle reproach, insisting that Theodore and Bernie stay for dinner.

Crawford told her they had police business to discuss. She retreated to the kitchen with gracious understanding.

Silence filled the living room like a thick, smoky haze. Bernie finally found his voice.

"You were a patrol officer for forty years, just because—"

"That's right," Crawford cut him off with arctic finality.

Bernie glanced toward the kitchen. "Are you still going to protect Coleman?"

Crawford's silence was his answer.

Bernie spread crime scene photographs across the coffee table methodically, explaining their reconstruction of events, concluding with the observation that in Coleman's eyes, Crawford's wife was indistinguishable from the corpses in those pictures.

Crawford glanced at the photos and swept them away. "I have nothing to tell you."

He pointed accusingly at Theodore. "Don't expect me to become like him—a traitor! I will not betray the police force. Never!"

Bernie looked to Theodore, who stepped forward to collect the scattered photographs.

"You don't dare admit what you knew about Coleman's activities on those nights you conveniently missed duty," Theodore began, his voice taking on the clinical tone of a psychiatrist dissecting a patient.

"Because admitting knowledge means admitting cowardice."

"You avoided Coleman's crime scenes by taking convenient leave, using non-participation to salve your conscience. Coleman chose you as a partner precisely because he recognized this weakness in you."

Theodore gestured toward the kitchen. "Not only would you avoid involvement in his schemes, you'd actively protect his secrets without demanding a cut of the profits."

"You crave respect, but your marriage choices have excluded you from mainstream police acceptance. You desperately uphold what you imagine are police traditions, yearning for inclusion while depending on the emotional support your wife provides."

"Now that you're paralyzed, you need secrecy more than ever. You're terrified of committing even the smallest act of betrayal against your idealized police force, afraid they'll abandon you entirely."

Theodore closed his briefcase with a decisive snap. "You've already told us enough, Sergeant Crawford."

Crawford stared up at Theodore, his expression cycling through anger, recognition, and finally something approaching defeat. Surprisingly, he offered no rebuttal.

After a long silence, Crawford's rigid posture began to sag. Bernie and Theodore exchanged glances and settled back onto the sofa.

Crawford's lips trembled, opening and closing soundlessly before he found his voice.

The story that emerged differed slightly from Theodore's analysis.

Crawford hadn't been entirely ignorant of Coleman's activities; he'd known about the protection racket, the after-hours debt collection, the systematic abuse of police authority.

But Hayes wasn't Coleman's partner in crime. He was Coleman's victim.

"When we first encountered Hayes, he was just a street thief who'd been caught and beaten nearly to death," Crawford whispered.

"Coleman took him away. Next time I saw Hayes, he was dressed like a businessman. Clean suit, polite manners, running that real estate office."

Crawford waved his hand wearily. "That's all I'm saying. Can you leave now?"

Outside Crawford's house, Bernie gave Theodore an appreciative thumbs-up. "I thought he'd never break."

Theodore shook his head as he settled into the passenger seat. "He was always going to talk."

"Why?"

Theodore tapped the case file. "Coleman couldn't have sent this case to the FBI himself."

Bernie studied the file, then sighed. "Crawford did the right thing, at least."

"He sent this case to the FBI on impulse," Theodore disagreed.

"My psychological assessment was accurate; he's fundamentally a coward. Both he and Hayes were Coleman's victims, not his accomplices."

Bernie started the engine, suddenly thinking of Detective Ross. "What about Ross? Is he involved?"

Theodore shook his head. "He's another Crawford, vaguely aware of Coleman's activities, probably noticed inconsistencies in Coleman's work, but chose willful ignorance. That's why he cooperates with our investigation while simultaneously defending Coleman's reputation."

"If Ross wasn't involved, what was the caller afraid of?"

They got their answer quickly enough.

Returning to the Fifth Precinct, they arrived just as Detective Ross was half-dragging their mysterious caller through the front entrance.

The man trembled like autumn leaves in a hurricane, treating the police station like a condemned man approaching the gallows.

As Ross pulled him inside, the caller whispered desperate pleas to spare his family.

Ross greeted Theodore and Bernie, then processed the caller for questioning. Ten minutes later, they faced him across an interrogation room table.

The caller's terror was palpable, his voice cracking as he begged them to protect his family in exchange for cooperation.

Theodore and Bernie exchanged concerned glances. Bernie opened his notebook.

"Tell us what you saw the night of the incident."

The caller answered cautiously: "I didn't see anything?"

Bernie's pen paused mid-sentence.

Reading their expressions, the caller quickly reversed course. "I mean, I saw it! I definitely saw it! People coming out of Clarence's house!"

"Who were they?"

"Hayes?" The caller watched Bernie's face desperately for confirmation. Getting no reaction, his uncertainty deepened, and he blurted out two random names.

Bernie dutifully recorded everything, asking follow-up questions as needed.

The caller's cooperation was excessive, his answers constantly shifting based on perceived reactions.

He watched their faces like a weather vane tracking wind direction, ready to change his story at the slightest hint.

Theodore couldn't determine which statements contained truth and which were fabrications. Such testimony was legally worthless.

Bernie tried reassuring the caller that no harm would come to his family, that he had nothing to fear.

The caller nodded eagerly, with the credulity of someone who'd believe that trees grew money if you told him so.

Bernie looked to Theodore helplessly.

Theodore ended the interrogation. The caller's fear transcended specific individuals, such as Coleman or Hayes; it represented a wholesale terror of the entire system.

Such deep-seated paranoia couldn't be overcome in a single conversation. Even temporary reassurance would crumble the moment he left their protection.

The Fifth Precinct's interrogation rooms resembled those in Felton, sound carried easily through the walls. Detective Ross had been waiting outside, and seeing them emerge so quickly, he approached with offers of assistance.

Theodore glanced back at the caller, declined Ross's eager help, and authorized the man's release.

The caller fled like a pardoned prisoner.

Ross withdrew his outstretched hand, asking what needed to be done next. With the cooperation order in place and direct inquiries from the Precinct Chief and Deputy Chief, Ross's attitude had shifted to genuine helpfulness.

Theodore considered their options. "Bring in Hayes."

[End of Chapter]

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