1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

"My uncle is John Edgar Hoover," Theodore said, his voice carrying the weight of casual certainty. "My name is actually Theodore Dickson Hoover."

He paused, studying the Senior Police Supervisor's expression. "Dickson is my father's name."

The supervisor's face had taken on an odd quality, part skepticism, part something Theodore couldn't quite read. Thinking the man was testing him with some kind of departmental humor, Theodore decided to match the tone.

"This is like Mr. Flores asking me to identify the murderer from this list."

The humor landed like a lead balloon.

The Chief's office fell into the kind of silence that follows a gunshot, absolute, ringing, dangerous. Every face turned toward him wore the same expression of stunned disbelief, as if he'd just claimed to be related to God himself.

Theodore shrugged, the gesture feeling inadequate against the sudden weight of their stares.

The frozen moment stretched until someone, Deputy Inspector Burton, cleared his throat. The sound broke the spell, and the room seemed to exhale collectively.

"That joke wasn't funny at all," Burton said, his voice carefully neutral.

Theodore nodded in agreement, eager to steer back to safer ground. "Even sixty years from now, no one could identify a killer from a simple list." The irony of his own words wasn't lost on him, in his previous life, profiling software and databases would make such identification possible, even routine. But that was a lifetime away, in every sense.

The Senior Police Supervisor had no interest in Theodore's theoretical future. His attention remained laser-focused on the present case, on the body cooling in the morgue and the community growing more restless by the hour.

He asked Theodore if he had any other methods.

Theodore proposed enlisting the help of Officer Williams, the Black patrol officer they'd encountered earlier, and Leroy's mother and son. The patrol officer would be easy enough to requisition through official channels. The civilians would require more delicate handling.

The supervisor's expression suggested this would need Chief Weideke's approval. Another layer of bureaucracy, another delay while the trail grew cold.

Coming out of the Chief's office, Bernie fell into step beside Theodore, his voice pitched low. "Those three are a diversion, right?"

Theodore met his partner's knowing look, the expression of a man who thought he'd figured out the game. Bernie had convinced himself that Amos had already whispered the killer's name in Theodore's ear during their hospital encounter.

Theodore felt a familiar frustration with his partner's simplistic thinking. He shook his head and headed toward the forensic lab, leaving Bernie to draw his own conclusions.

Gary stood hunched over his desk, pencil moving in careful strokes across a diagram of some unknown substance. His concentration was absolute, artistic almost.

Theodore watched him for several minutes before curiosity got the better of him. "Why don't you just photograph it with the camera?"

Gary glanced at the Polaroid camera sitting idle on the adjacent table, then back at his drawing with obvious disdain. "Photographs have neither aesthetics nor soul."

Theodore looked back at Bernie, who had begun regaling the younger forensic scientists with salacious details from Amos's case file. Even Gary had slowed his meticulous pencil work to eavesdrop.

When Bernie reached the part about Amos using his position as middle school football coach to proposition hundreds of women, Gary set down his pencil entirely. He walked to the examination table, pulled back the sheet covering the deceased, and studied the body with professional detachment.

"There's nothing remarkable about him," Gary observed, as if expecting a monster to look monstrous.

Theodore silently shook his head. Everyone he'd met today seemed touched by some form of madness, Bernie with his conspiracy theories, Gary with his artistic pretensions, even himself with his impossible knowledge of futures that hadn't happened yet.

Past ten o'clock that night, three figures appeared under the harsh sodium lights of the station entrance. Officer Williams stood protective watch over Leroy and his mother, the boy slumped in his wheelchair, the woman's hand gripping the push handles with white-knuckled determination. They moved together with the careful unity of people who'd learned that safety lay in numbers.

Leroy's eyes darted nervously between the building's imposing facade and the armed officers visible through the windows. His mother's face bore the particular strain of someone entering a place where her kind rarely emerged unscathed. Generations of hard experience had taught the Black community to fear these buildings, these badges, these men who held such power over their lives.

Officer Williams placed a gentle hand on the woman's shoulder, a gesture of comfort between people who understood the same dangers.

Bernie emerged to escort them inside, leading them through the institutional corridors to the Homicide squad room. While Leroy and his mother were processed at the front desk, Officer Williams remained behind for questioning.

Theodore and Bernie had decided to start with him, colleague to colleague, the conversation flowing more easily across the thin blue line that separated them from civilians.

They avoided the formal interrogation room, choosing instead the casual atmosphere of the squad room. Theodore settled into his desk chair while Bernie perched on the edge of an adjacent desk, hooking a spare chair with his foot for their guest.

Bernie led off, establishing rapport with the easy camaraderie of cops sharing war stories. Once Officer Williams relaxed, Theodore began his questioning.

They worked with practiced efficiency, their partnership honed by months of similar interviews. Within an hour, they'd struck gold.

Officer Williams knew the gang landscape of the Black community like a cartographer knows his maps. From their list of 147 names, he identified over fifty with gang connections, members, hangers-on, wannabes, and casualties.

Seven were already dead. Eighteen had been maimed badly enough to end their criminal careers. Three nursed serious injuries that might still prove fatal. More than a dozen had simply vanished into that grey area between incarceration and death that swallowed so many young men in the community.

Only seven or eight remained active and whole, including the two men Theodore had seen laughing with Bernie in the hospital corridor.

These fifty-plus represented only the fraction that Officer Williams could personally identify. Theodore marked them carefully, with the deceased and disabled receiving special notation. The living presented immediate threats; the damaged ones suggested patterns of escalating violence.

When the questioning concluded, Officer Williams made an earnest plea for Theodore and Bernie to treat Leroy and his mother with care. He gave them final instructions, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd seen too many civilians disappear into the system's machinery.

Before leaving, he cast a worried glance toward the windows facing the Black community. Tensions ran high in those streets tonight. His absence might tip some delicate balance toward violence.

Bernie walked him out, returning with a heavy sigh. "That man carries the weight of his whole neighborhood."

Theodore gestured at the case files covering his desk. "We carry our own weight."

He stuffed the necessary documents into a manila folder. "Let's go."

Interrogation Room 1 felt smaller with three people crowded inside. Leroy's mother had refused all suggestions to separate from her son, and the boy had clung to her decision with desperate agreement. Their unity formed a wall against the institutional machinery that had already begun grinding around them.

Bernie had hoped to spare Leroy the harsh realities they needed to discuss, but the family remained immovable. When he warned that the questions might prove intense, even inappropriate for young ears, both mother and son rejected any arrangement that would divide them.

Theodore cut through Bernie's diplomatic delays with characteristic directness.

"How did you discover that Amos Williams was your father?"

The question hit Leroy like a physical blow. His entire body seemed to swell with indignation, his face flushing red.

Theodore pressed forward, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "You didn't just admire him, you idealized him. You constructed an entire fantasy around what it would mean to have him as a father."

"You weren't angry about your mother's relationship with him. You'd suspected that for years, maybe even felt secretly pleased by the possibility."

"I didn't!" Leroy's voice cracked with adolescent fury.

Theodore ignored the outburst. "What destroyed you wasn't learning he might be your father. What you couldn't accept was that this father had ignored you for over ten years."

"The reality of Amos Williams was nothing like the man you'd imagined. That's why you refused to execute his game plan. Even when you saw his tactical predictions proving correct, you actively sabotaged them."

"You preferred losing to having the team's victory connected to him. You wanted him to bear responsibility for failure. Part of you hoped the team would lose."

Leroy exploded from his wheelchair, screaming denials until Theodore's colleagues had to escort him from the room. His voice echoed down the hallway, raw with the particular anguish of adolescent betrayal.

Theodore shrugged at Bernie's questioning look.

Bernie shook his head silently, moved to lower the blinds, and called for someone to comfort Leroy's mother. The institutional machinery continued its work, separating families, isolating witnesses, reducing complex human relationships to interrogatable components.

The Patrol Department had provided them with their smallest, most intimidating interrogation room, a windowless box barely half the size of the Homicide unit's facilities. A single bare bulb cast harsh shadows across the scarred metal table and two uncomfortable chairs.

Leroy had heard the stories his people told about these rooms, these buildings, these men in uniform. Terror myths passed down through generations of harassment and worse. When Theodore and Bernie entered, the boy's face went white with genuine fear.

Bernie closed the door with deliberate finality, and Leroy instinctively raised his arms to protect his head.

The gesture gave Bernie pause. He studied the cowering teenager and let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Weren't you quite the tough guy just now?" Bernie tossed his notebook onto the metal table with a sharp slap, pulled out a chair, and settled into it with practiced intimidation.

Bernie's stern expression perfectly matched every nightmare story Leroy had heard about brutal cops and disappeared suspects. The boy trembled visibly.

Theodore shook his head at his partner's theatrics. "How did you discover your relationship with Amos Williams?"

The simple question, delivered without menace, seemed to unlock something in Leroy. The story poured out, stress before the big game, seeking comfort from his coach, arriving at the house to witness his mother's humiliation.

Amos Williams had thrown her out like trash, shoes, coat, purse scattered on the ground behind her, her dignity trampled under his contempt. Leroy had seen it all from the shadows.

When the boy finished, Bernie's demeanor shifted completely. He left the room, returned with tissues, and perched on the table's edge with paternal concern.

"You need to be stronger than Amos," Bernie said gently. "Don't let his weakness become yours."

At first, Leroy resisted the kindness, suspicious of any cop who showed him humanity. But Bernie's patient conversation gradually drew him out, school troubles, family struggles, team dynamics. The boy's defensive walls crumbled under sustained compassion.

Eventually, Leroy proved invaluable. His knowledge of the student body far exceeded Officer Williams's street-level intelligence. He could identify gang members, bullying victims, academic achievers, social outcasts. He knew which kids carried knives, which ones dealt drugs, which ones got beaten at home.

Theodore used this intelligence to winnow their list from 147 suspects to 73, still far too many for effective investigation, but a significant improvement.

When they returned to the squad room, chaos greeted them.

A commissioner Theodore recognized from television news had arrived with over a dozen detectives, demanding custody of Leroy and his mother. The man's performance was theatrical in its bombast, invoking mayoral authority, departmental jurisdiction, federal oversight.

The Homicide team stood unmoved, their faces masks of professional indifference. They'd seen this political theater before. Jurisdictional power plays were as common as coffee stains in their world.

Frustrated by their non-response, the commissioner began making phone calls, to supervisors, to politicians, finally to the Mayor himself. His voice rose with each conversation, promises and threats flowing in equal measure.

Theodore found the performance unnecessarily dramatic, even by the standards of 1960s law enforcement politics. Something felt staged about the man's fury.

After the final phone call, the commissioner fell silent. The sudden quiet felt more ominous than his earlier shouting.

Minutes later, Chief Weideke appeared, summoned by the chain of calls that had reached even the Mayor's office. He approached the commissioner with the weary expression of a man accustomed to political fires that needed extinguishing.

Theodore nudged Bernie, who seemed transfixed by the unfolding drama. They had work to finish.

The Homicide unit's interrogation rooms weren't soundproofed, a deliberate oversight that allowed suspects to hear the machinery of justice grinding around them. Leroy's mother had listened to every word of the confrontation outside, her anxiety building with each raised voice.

Learning that her son remained unharmed transformed her into their most cooperative witness. Using Theodore's psychological profile as a guide, she helped them narrow the suspect list to 38 people.

Theodore's attention focused on two names: Ruby Lee and Ella May James.

Both women had maintained relationships with Amos Williams over a decade ago. Both had used bribery to secure spots for their children when Amos became head coach. Both had recently suffered devastating losses.

Ruby Lee's son had joined a gang after being cut from the team and was now permanently disabled from gang violence. Ella May James's boy had died from asthma two weeks earlier, a sickly child who'd been bullied mercilessly at school until his weak heart finally gave out.

Both women enjoyed sterling reputations in their community. They volunteered at church functions, helped neighbors in need, maintained the kind of moral standards that made them pillars of their social circles.

But their attitudes toward Amos Williams couldn't have been more different.

Ruby Lee had consistently pressured him to acknowledge responsibility for his children, to step up and become the man she believed he could be. She'd confronted him repeatedly, hoping to shame him into decency.

Ella May James had approached him only once that anyone knew of, a single, private conversation that Leroy's mother had witnessed by accident. After that, silence.

Theodore asked if Leroy's mother and son could remain at the station for their own protection. She agreed readily, disturbed by the political maneuvering she'd witnessed in the squad room.

Outside the interrogation room, Bernie voiced concerns about Theodore's logic.

"You jumped from 38 suspects straight to two names," he said. "That's a hell of a leap."

Theodore kept his voice low. "Only their children's tragedies occurred close enough to the murder to serve as triggers. Combined with Amos's pattern of avoidance, two weeks provides just enough time for grief to transform into murderous rage."

Bernie consulted his notebook, finding Theodore's original profile. "But Ella May James only approached Amos once during the bribery period. That doesn't fit your description of the killer."

"She didn't approach him only once," Theodore corrected. "Leroy's mother only saw her approach him once. There's a significant difference."

They reached Chief Weideke's office and knocked.

The Senior Police Supervisor waved them forward. "Results?"

Theodore nodded with confidence.

Bernie hesitated, then nodded as well, still uncertain about the rapid elimination of suspects.

Bernie delivered their report professionally, but when he reached their conclusion, he couldn't help glancing at Theodore for confirmation.

"We believe the murderer is either Ruby Lee or Ella May James."

The supervisor listened intently, then erupted in hearty laughter, not mockery, but genuine pleasure. He stood and approached them, clapping both on their shoulders.

"Outstanding work! You haven't disappointed my expectations."

Bernie sensed something off in the supervisor's response, but exhaustion clouded his analytical abilities. The praise felt wrong somehow, but he couldn't articulate why.

Theodore frowned. "Can we bring them in for questioning now?"

The supervisor looked to Chief Weideke for guidance.

Weideke checked his watch and tapped the desk with his pen. "No rush."

His tone carried the weight of decisions already made in rooms Theodore hadn't been invited to enter.

"You two haven't had proper rest in days. Go home. Get some sleep."

Bernie started to protest, what would happen to their case, their suspects, their carefully constructed investigation?

But Wenner intervened, escorting them back to the squad room and announcing the end of their shift with bureaucratic finality.

"Boss, " Bernie's anxiety was palpable now.

He felt the wrongness that had been building all day, the sense that their entire investigation had been orchestrated from the beginning. But exhaustion and confusion prevented him from grasping the larger pattern.

Theodore shared his unease. In his previous life, he'd learned to trust such instincts, they usually signaled manipulation by forces operating beyond the visible investigation. But in 1965, in Hoover's FBI-influenced world, such manipulation was simply how the system functioned.

The question wasn't whether they were being manipulated.

The question was by whom, and toward what end.

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