1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

After a brief discussion, the Homicide detectives attributed the previous evening's strange theater to Eugene Harper's machinations.

The man had made calls to three senior supervisors and the Mayor himself, only to be escorted away by Chief Weideke like a scolded child.

Everyone agreed Harper had used political connections to obstruct the West District's investigation, a breach of protocol that left a bitter taste in their mouths. Even the Mayor, who'd appointed Harper as commissioner, earned their contempt through association.

The Mayor had always been a weak presence in city politics, easily overlooked and frequently ignored. But this fiasco had branded him permanently in the detectives' minds as an incompetent fool.

"Serves him right if his approval ratings tank," someone muttered as they filed out of the station.

"Let Santos win the next election," another added with venom.

Everyone recalled the afternoon's television coverage with disgust, their grumbling echoing through the corridor as they headed home.

By morning, their speculation proved correct.

Eugene Harper held a press conference, announcing with theatrical pomposity that he'd obtained sufficient evidence to identify the killer as a member of the Free Warriors football team.

The Mayor had authorized him, he claimed, and several high-ranking Felton Police Department officials supported his plan to lead an action team into the Black community at noon to apprehend the suspect.

The Homicide team watched the broadcast in stunned silence from their squad room. When it ended, the previously quiet atmosphere exploded into heated conversation.

"The man's lost his damn mind!" Detective Cahill's voice boomed over the others.

"What kind of idiot does the Mayor think he is, appointing a lunatic like Harper as commissioner?"

Within minutes, the local television station connected with Councilman Santos for an emergency interview.

Santos appeared composed but grim, promising to speak directly with the Mayor to end what he called "this dangerous farce."

The station then reached Police Chief Charles Adams, whose barely controlled anger was transmitted clearly through the television speakers.

"I'm going to City Hall immediately to convince His Honor not to further inflame this situation," Adams declared. "If the Mayor insists on this reckless course of action, I'll be forced to defy his orders and instruct the department not to support this unauthorized operation."

Before Harper could even enter the Black community, the community had already mobilized in response. Within two hours of the broadcast, over a thousand protesters had gathered in front of City Hall, their chants echoing through the downtown streets.

The city's riot-experienced police force quickly deployed to maintain order, forming human barriers to prevent the crowd from breaching the building's perimeter.

By noon, the Mayor had no choice but to appear personally on the City Hall steps.

Speaking through a bullhorn to the angry crowd, he announced the immediate revocation of Eugene Harper's commissioner status and the return of investigative authority to the Felton Police Department.

Back in the West District squad room, the detectives erupted in cheers when the news broke over the radio.

Wenner pressed his hands down until the room quieted, then announced the official reopening of their investigation with the satisfaction of a man who'd seen justice prevail over politics.

Theodore and Bernie set out for the Black community after a quick lunch, driving through streets still buzzing with the morning's political drama.

The community felt eerily empty; most residents had joined the downtown protest, leaving behind only the elderly and infirm.

Bernie parked outside the community boundaries as a precaution and radioed for Officer Williams to meet them.

The Black patrol officer arrived quickly, his face flushed with excitement despite obvious exhaustion. He hadn't slept since yesterday's events began, but his spirits remained remarkably high; the community's victory over Harper had energized him like a shot of adrenaline.

He led them first to Ruby Lee's residence.

Ruby Lee was a stocky woman of medium height with a round face, close-cropped hair, and full lips that protruded slightly.

They found her preparing to take her son out, maneuvering his wheelchair toward the door with practiced efficiency.

She showed respectful deference to Officer Williams but regarded Theodore and Bernie with cold suspicion, her body language radiating defensive wariness.

After Officer Williams made introductions, he helped carry the wheelchair-bound young man downstairs, leaving Theodore and Bernie alone with Ruby.

Theodore's gaze caught the rolled sleeves of her blouse, noting her muscular forearms before asking about her whereabouts during the time of the murder.

Officer Williams's departure clearly unnerved her. She crossed her arms defensively and replied with nervous caution,

"I was helping at the community middle school, preparing for celebration activities. Why? What's this about?"

"Who else was helping with preparations?" Theodore pressed.

Ruby stammered through a dozen names, her voice growing more uncertain with each one.

Theodore and Bernie exchanged meaningful glances. "Wasn't Ella May James there?"

Ruby's expression shifted subtly. "Yes, she was with me. We decorated the athletic field together. She hung streamers and balloons."

Her voice trembled with barely controlled anxiety.

Bernie pulled back his jacket, revealing his service weapon, not as a threat, but as a reminder of authority. "If you continue lying to us, we'll have to take you in for formal questioning."

Theodore cut straight to the heart of it. "Ella May James is our primary suspect in Amos Williams's murder."

The words hit Ruby like a physical blow. She fell silent, studying them with deep wariness.

"She wasn't at the school that night, was she?" Theodore asked quietly.

Ruby hesitated, torn between community loyalty and legal obligation.

"You only need to tell us if she was there," Bernie said gently, concealing his weapon again. "You're not identifying anyone or betraying your people. She killed Amos Williams, Ruby."

Ruby's expression crumbled. After a long internal struggle, she nodded almost imperceptibly, then glanced around nervously as if afraid unseen watchers might witness her cooperation.

Downstairs, Officer Williams sat on the front steps chatting with Ruby's son, their easy camaraderie a stark contrast to the tension upstairs.

When Theodore and Bernie emerged first, he breathed visible relief, though sorrow quickly replaced it as he understood the implications.

They waited while Ruby hurried down, collected her son, and departed quickly without meeting their eyes.

Theodore and Bernie looked at each other, both feeling like schoolyard bullies who'd just stolen lunch money from a smaller kid.

Officer Williams then guided them to Ella May James's residence, but found no one home. They knocked persistently until a neighboring elderly woman emerged, irritated by the racket.

"She's gone to the church," the neighbor announced with the rambling tone of someone who rarely got visitors. "Hasn't been home for days now. Going to live in the church, seems like."

"Ever since little Willy died, she barely comes back."

The community church was roughly the same size as the small chapel at Del Rio Funeral Home, but it sat on an exceptionally wide lawn.

Judging by the worn grass patterns, the space hosted frequent outdoor gatherings and community events.

Inside, the heavy scent of burning candles filled the air. At the altar, Ella May James had just finished replacing spent candles and knelt in prayer.

She was a tall woman with dark skin, short-cropped hair, and a haggard expression that spoke of sleepless nights and profound grief. Her clothes hung loosely on her frame, suggesting recent weight loss.

After completing her prayers, she rose and approached Officer Williams with the resigned dignity of someone who'd been expecting this moment. She let out a long, weary sigh and extended both hands toward Theodore and Bernie.

"I killed Amos Williams."

The simple confession hung in the incense-heavy air like a final prayer.

Theodore grasped her arm and rolled up her sleeve, revealing several scratches on her wrist that had scabbed over. Both palms were wrapped in gauze bandages.

When he unwrapped them, obvious abrasions were visible on the webbing between her thumb and forefinger, and across her palms.

Theodore nodded to Bernie and produced his handcuffs, securing them with the gentle efficiency of someone arresting a cooperative suspect. He turned her over to Officer Williams's custody.

The patrol officer stood frozen for a moment, staring at the cuffed woman in confused disbelief.

Theodore looked between Officer Williams and Bernie, recognizing the delicate racial dynamics at play. Bernie grimaced with understanding.

Given the recent tensions over Harper's proposed raid, having a Black officer transport a Black suspect back to the white-dominated police station sent the right political message.

"You come back with us," Bernie told Officer Williams.

They placed Ella May James in the patrol car's back seat and returned to the station as a convoy, the symbolism carefully calculated to demonstrate respectful cooperation rather than aggressive enforcement.

After processing, Ella May James was taken to Interrogation Room 1, where she proved exceptionally cooperative, almost eager to tell her story.

She seemed impatient with procedural delays, as if confession offered the only path to some form of peace.

She admitted to killing Amos Williams without reservation and described the crime in methodical detail, her voice carrying the flat affect of someone who'd rehearsed these facts countless times in her own mind.

Her son Willy had tried out for the football team alongside Leroy. One boy made the cut; the other didn't. Watching Amos treat Leroy like a beloved son while dismissing Willy as worthless had driven her to confront the coach.

"He told me Willy was useless," she recounted with quiet bitterness. "Said he had no talent for football at all."

To end her complaints, Amos had promised that if Ella May and her son ever needed help, they could come to him. It was the kind of empty gesture that cost nothing and meant less.

Two weeks earlier, Willy had suffered a severe asthma attack requiring emergency treatment. The Black community hospital lacked the necessary equipment for resuscitation, and he needed immediate transport to a white hospital with proper facilities.

Ella May had gone to Amos for help, but never even saw him. Willy died from suffocation while she waited in vain for assistance.

That night, Amos had been at the school until dawn, developing game strategies for the upcoming match. When she begged him to attend Willy's funeral, he had refused, claiming he needed to take Leroy shopping for equipment.

"I couldn't understand why he would treat Willy that way," she continued, her voice growing hollow. "I wanted to ask him if he would feel guilty if his own son died."

But Amos remained busy with football, dismissing her with phrases like "Later," "Another time," "After the game." Always after the game.

Desperate for confrontation, Ella May had gone to Oak Grove Manor High School, hoping to corner him as soon as the match ended. But the school expelled Black spectators from campus, forcing her to find another way inside.

She'd obtained a temporary worker badge from Southern Star Catering Services, blending in with other Black staff members serving the predominantly white crowd. Then she waited, anxiety building with each passing quarter.

In the latter half of the third quarter, she saw Amos return to the locker room alone and followed him inside.

"'Only a strong boy like Leroy is my son!'" Ella May repeated his words with bitter precision. "'My son? Does that sick little bastard deserve it?'"

The memory seemed to play behind her eyes like a film reel she couldn't stop.

"I circled behind him and saw Leroy's equipment bag was open, with a new strap visible inside. I pulled out the strap, wrapped it around his neck, and pulled tight."

"He tried to stand but fell to the ground. He struggled hard but could only reach my wrists with his hands."

She held up her bandaged palms as evidence.

"I held tight and didn't let go for a long, long time. He was already dead when I finally released him."

"I stuffed his body into a toilet stall. Then it got chaotic outside, so I left."

The confession concluded with the same flat affect with which it began, not the dramatic climax of a crime drama, but the weary recitation of facts by someone who'd found no satisfaction in revenge.

Theodore and Bernie emerged from the interrogation room to enthusiastic applause from their colleagues. The case itself hadn't been particularly challenging, but the accompanying circus of racial tension, political incompetence, and mayoral resignation had made it feel like navigating a minefield while juggling flaming torches.

Every detective in the squad room seemed eager to send this particular pile of complications to the district attorney's office as quickly as possible.

"This thing stinks worse than week-old fish," Cahill announced to general agreement.

Bernie grinned and took theatrical bows as they walked to Wenner's office to deliver their report.

Wenner appeared unusually irritable, sitting sideways in his chair while kneading his forehead with one hand. His other hand unconsciously pulled open a desk drawer, revealing its empty interior.

Theodore recognized the signs; Wenner had exhausted his monthly chocolate allowance and was suffering withdrawal symptoms under the doctor's orders to limit his sugar intake.

When Bernie began rambling through unnecessary details, Wenner's patience evaporated quickly.

"Why did she voluntarily confess?" he interrupted with a glare that made Bernie stumble over his words.

Bernie looked helplessly at Theodore, who decided against mentioning that their supervisor resembled a man going through detox.

"Ella May James is a devout Christian," Theodore explained. "Her faith teaches that murder is sinful. The guilt has been tormenting her, and she hopes to atone by surrendering to earthly justice."

Wenner accepted this explanation with a satisfied nod, then glared at Bernie again for good measure.

Bernie began wondering who had angered the "bulldog" today, not recognizing the symptoms of sugar withdrawal in his supervisor's behavior.

After enduring the complete report, Wenner waved them away with instructions to write up their findings immediately.

Excluding the political complications, the case was straightforward enough that the entire squad collaborated on the paperwork. Within twenty-four hours, a complete report sat on Wenner's desk.

Wenner seemed as disgusted with the case as everyone else. He signed the report without reading it, then tossed it into Bernie's arms as he chatted with colleagues near the office door.

The squad room fell silent for a moment, then erupted in cheers.

The detectives gathered around Wenner's desk, watching him move the mysterious sixteen-digit code from the left side of his calendar to the right side, whatever bureaucratic ritual that represented. Another round of cheers followed.

When Wenner announced they'd celebrate at Murphy's Bar tonight, the cheering reached fever pitch.

The detectives embraced each other with the enthusiasm of soldiers who'd survived a particularly unpleasant campaign, their faces bright with genuine relief and camaraderie.

Following tradition, everyone abandoned serious work and settled in to wait for quitting time.

Theodore requested a copy of the case file, organizing his thoughts to record observations in his notebook. Despite his colleagues' revulsion, he found value in the case's complexity.

Ella May James represented a classic transformation from victim to aggressor, someone who'd reclaimed control of her life through violence when all legitimate channels failed her. She shared psychological patterns with Carlos Mendoza from the Sam murder case, both driven to kill by systems that had failed to protect those they loved.

After a night of heavy celebration at Murphy's Bar, Theodore barely made it to work on time the next morning. The colleague handling attendance waved him through with a knowing smile, having already marked him present.

Theodore thanked his considerate coworker and entered the empty squad room without surprise. Post-case celebrations always resulted in mass absenteeism the following day, with most detectives straggling in around noon, looking like survivors of a bombing raid.

He poured coffee from the perpetually brewing pot, settled at his desk, and began organizing his case notes in the peaceful silence.

As noon approached, the detectives gradually materialized, nursing hangovers and moving with exaggerated care. Everyone arrived except Bernie, whose empty desk beside Theodore's seemed particularly conspicuous.

Instead of their usual afternoon routine of sharing baked goods and killing time, the detectives remained at their desks, engaging in distracted conversation that felt forced and artificial.

Theodore sensed anticipation in the air; his colleagues were waiting for something, though he couldn't determine what.

Past three o'clock, Wenner and Bernie appeared together in the doorway. The squad room immediately fell silent, every face turning toward them with expectant attention.

Under their collective gaze, Wenner allowed himself a rare smile.

"The tournament pairings are out."

He paused for dramatic effect, savoring the moment.

"Our first opponent is the East District."

The room stayed quiet for exactly one heartbeat, then exploded in enthusiastic celebration.

"Yeah!!" The cheer echoed off the institutional walls.

Cahill's voice boomed over the others, even drowning out the general celebration: "Kill the East District bastards!"

Theodore realized he'd been witnessing the calm before a very different kind of storm, not a criminal investigation, but an interdepartmental competition that apparently meant everything to these men who spent their days wading through humanity's darkest impulses.

In the world of 1960s police work, where stress built up like steam in a boiler, even cops needed their games.

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