1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

The detective squad buzzed with an enthusiasm Theodore hadn't witnessed since his arrival in 1960s Felton.

Word of the upcoming interdepartmental football game had spread through the precinct like wildfire, transforming even the most cynical veterans into eager scouts, analyzing potential opponents with the fervor typically reserved for homicide cases.

Chief Weideke's blessing carried unprecedented weight; selected players could abandon their usual duties entirely, focusing solely on training under Head Coach Bernie Sullivan's watchful eye.

The steady, unflappable chief had thrown the full weight of his authority behind the endeavor, a gesture that spoke volumes about the game's importance to departmental morale.

Bernie's selections from the Homicide Team raised no eyebrows among the rank and file. His choices reflected cold pragmatism rather than favoritism.

The detectives who worked murder cases maintained better physical conditioning than their counterparts shuffling through patrol duties or pushing paper in the Traffic Division.

The case briefing unfolded with Theodore's meticulous report serving as the foundation. He read nearly verbatim from his typed pages, watching the assembled supervisors' faces shift as the truth emerged.

The deceased coach hadn't died in some racially motivated violence, as initially suspected, but at the hands of a Black woman seeking justice for his corrupt practices.

Senior Police Supervisor Morrison's announcement that the twin detectives would handle the case from this point forward carried the weight of careful deliberation.

Theodore recognized the political calculation; two seasoned investigators with sterling reputations could navigate the racial sensitivities better than anyone else on the force.

The second announcement blindsided Theodore entirely.

Twenty-two officers, three senior executives, and seventeen action team members would be deployed to the Black Community for extended duty.

Morrison couched it in diplomatic language about "promoting beneficial development of black-white relations" and "easing tensions," but Theodore couldn't fathom how sending two dozen white cops into predominantly Black neighborhoods would accomplish anything beyond creating human punching bags.

The press conference transformed Theodore into an unwilling star. Morrison positioned him prominently before the cameras, his recent promotion to Sergeant lending credibility to the department's claims of progressive thinking.

For the sake of his hard-won rank, Theodore maintained a diplomat's smile throughout the ordeal, his cooperation clearly flattering the Senior Police Supervisor who basked in reflected glory.

Afterward, the newly promoted sergeants gathered in an informal circle, six middle-aged veterans surrounding one conspicuous outlier.

Theodore found himself the center of attention, fielding invitations to backyard barbecues and family dinners with the ease of a politician working a crowd.

Everyone recognized his meteoric trajectory, breaking Bernie Sullivan's record for fastest promotion to Sergeant was merely the opening act of what promised to be a legendary career.

The Black community's reaction surprised him most. His defiance of the mayor's orders during the recent crisis had earned him genuine respect from quarters where white cops typically found only suspicion and hostility.

It was a currency he hadn't expected to possess, yet one that might prove invaluable in the years ahead.

Director Adams kept his office door open when Theodore arrived with the Senior Police Supervisor. They encountered Councilor Santos emerging from what had clearly been an animated discussion, his blue-collar roughness on full display as he enveloped Theodore in a bone-crushing embrace.

"Look who we got here! Sergeant Dickson himself!" Santos's booming laughter echoed down the corridor as he pounded Theodore's back with enough force to rattle his teeth.

Eugene Harper trailed behind the councilor, maintaining his professional demeanor despite the theatrical display.

The Senior Police Supervisor exchanged pleasantries while Theodore extricated himself from Santos's enthusiastic congratulations.

Director Adams's meeting lasted exactly five minutes, enough time for encouragement, praise, and expressions of future expectations before his assistant interrupted with news of the Oil Company delegation's arrival.

The Senior Police Supervisor escorted Theodore out, pausing in the hallway to deliver what seemed like a prepared speech.

"Director Adams thinks highly of you, Theodore. His support made this promotion possible."

Theodore studied the man's earnest expression, genuinely puzzled. "I thought you and Bernie pushed for this."

The Senior Police Supervisor's momentary speechlessness spoke volumes. Theodore rubbed his shoulder where Santos had nearly dislocated it, then offered Bernie's characteristic shrug, a gesture he'd unconsciously adopted over their months of partnership.

As they reached the parking area, Theodore leaned out the passenger window with studied casualness. "What do you say we try for the FBI selection next year?"

The Senior Police Supervisor's startled reaction was immediate and telling. He glanced around nervously, ensuring no eavesdroppers lurked nearby before shaking his head vigorously.

"Theodore, that's..." He trailed off, clearly wrestling with thoughts he dared not voice aloud.

Back at the West District Branch, the entire Homicide Team rose in unison as Theodore entered, their applause echoing off the institutional green walls.

Bernie materialized despite his coaching obligations, his pride evident as the other detectives ribbed him about his shattered record.

"So what if he broke it?" Bernie slung an arm around Theodore's shoulders with proprietary satisfaction. "Just proves we make one hell of a team."

He turned the tables on his tormentors with characteristic wit. "All of you combined couldn't match what we've accomplished."

The celebration at Old Gun Bar stretched deep into the night, bourbon and camaraderie flowing in equal measure until even the most hardened veterans stumbled toward their respective homes.

The next morning brought clarity along with hangovers. Theodore's promotion had already faded from public attention, overshadowed by the escalating political theater between Jack and Charlie.

Four televised debates since late September had transformed what seemed like Charlie's inevitable victory into a genuine horse race.

Charlie's knee injury in September should have ended any challenger's hopes, yet Jack had seized every opportunity with the instincts of a natural predator.

Where Charlie appeared pale and stammering on camera, stubbornly refusing makeup that might have hidden his obvious discomfort, Jack projected confidence and vitality that translated perfectly through television screens into American living rooms.

In an era where international tensions demanded strength and assurance from leadership, voters wouldn't gamble on a candidate who couldn't project competence under pressure.

Theodore waited a full week for some acknowledgment from D.C. When none came, he chose a pleasant Saturday afternoon to place the call himself.

Ms. Gandhi's voice carried its usual professional warmth, instantly conjuring her image in Theodore's mind. "Federal Bureau of Investigation Director's Office."

After Theodore identified himself, a brief silence preceded her response. "Theodore, congratulations on your promotion to Sergeant."

"Does he know?"

"Of course." The slight tremor in her voice suggested more than routine professional awareness. "News from Felton reaches the Director's office quite promptly."

Theodore smiled, settling back in his chair. The July promise had been fulfilled at last.

Apartment 4132 on Q Street maintained its familiar atmosphere of controlled paranoia and meticulous organization.

J. Edgar Hoover, still in his silk pajamas despite the afternoon hour, tapped the unopened file folder with characteristic impatience.

"Come look at this treasure," he commanded his longtime companion.

The folder had arrived a week earlier but remained sealed; other priorities had demanded Hoover's attention.

Charlie's sudden vulnerability in the campaign had consumed countless hours of strategic consideration and behind-the-scenes maneuvering.

The thought of that "pretty boy" Jack gaining ground through television appearances rather than substantive policy positions made Hoover's blood boil.

He and Tolson consumed such intelligence reports daily, their practiced eyes scanning for relevant details with the efficiency of long experience. This particular package contained not just case materials but comprehensive analyses of political shifts and law enforcement developments, all meticulously categorized and cross-referenced.

Tolson's expression grew serious as he absorbed the contents. Hoover's stern features hardened further as his fingers drummed against Theodore's photograph.

"We give him sergeant's bars and look how cocky he gets," Hoover muttered.

"He accomplished it in twelve months," Tolson observed. "That's among the fastest promotions in the country."

Hoover almost snapped that the achievement was solely due to bearing the Hoover name, but something made him swallow the words. The kid had earned his stripes through legitimate police work, not family connections.

Tolson shuffled through additional documents. "Now that he's reached sergeant rank, we should bring him back to the Bureau."

Hoover spread his hands in mock innocence. "Who prevented his return?"

Remembering Theodore's deliberate phone call, ensuring Ms. Gandhi would relay news of the promotion directly, Hoover couldn't suppress a grudging smile.

The boy understood how to manage up the chain of command, a crucial skill in Washington's labyrinthine power structure.

He positioned himself behind Tolson's chair, studying his frustrated partner with undisguised amusement.

"Quite capable, this nephew of mine," he mused aloud. "Perhaps it's time he came home."

Bernie Sullivan's football obsession had created staffing challenges throughout the Homicide Team, leaving Theodore to shoulder additional responsibilities as November arrived.

The newly minted sergeant proved more than equal to the task, leading successful closures on three active cases and one cold file that had gathered dust since 1958.

His performance silenced even the most persistent doubters among the department's old guard.

November's arrival shifted conversation from electoral politics to athletic competition. Headquarters dispatched observation teams to compile statistics on each district's performance, creating an atmosphere of inter-departmental rivalry that bordered on the absurd.

West District detectives, recognizing Theodore's value as their secret weapon, encouraged him to coordinate with investigators from other divisions.

The resulting collaboration produced an unprecedented level of cooperation between traditionally competitive units.

For the first time in recent memory, the various branches and headquarters operated as parts of a unified whole rather than feuding kingdoms, all united in their determination to claim victory on the football field.

As game day approached, Theodore found himself at the center of expectations that had little to do with law enforcement and everything to do with departmental pride.

It was, he reflected, a peculiar position for someone whose previous life had never involved organized athletics.

But then again, nothing about his current existence followed conventional patterns.

In 1960s America, a young sergeant with his uncle's name and his own growing reputation can write his ticket anywhere he wants to, including back to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, if he plays his cards correctly.

The question was whether J. Edgar Hoover was ready to welcome his nephew home.

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