1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

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The West District's home field advantage proved decisive from the opening kickoff.

While the East District boasted golf courses, tennis courts, and private shooting ranges befitting their wealthy jurisdiction, they lacked something as pedestrian as a football field.

The West District, by contrast, offered a more colorful array of amenities, underground casinos, red-light districts, and yes, proper athletic facilities where grown men could settle their differences with something approaching civilization.

The game drew an impressive crowd of detectives and their families, all admitted free of charge.

Chief Weideke and his East District counterpart, Richard Garcia, claimed front-row seats behind their respective coaching benches, their usual composure evaporating within sixty seconds of kickoff.

The transformation was infectious.

What began as polite departmental rivalry exploded into full-throated tribal warfare when Cahill's booming voice cut through the autumn air like a foghorn.

Bernie caught his star cheerleader's enthusiasm from the sidelines, turning to flash two thumbs up toward the stands.

Cahill responded by draining half a beer and unleashing a declaration of war that would have made a longshoreman blush.

"Screw the East District guys! Go to hell, East District!"

The stunned silence lasted perhaps three heartbeats. Both chiefs turned toward the stands with expressions of scandalized disbelief. Cahill shrank into his collar like a scolded child.

Then every West District detective erupted from their seats in unified defiance.

"SCREW THE EAST DISTRICT GUYS!"

"GO TO HELL, EAST DISTRICT!"

The East District contingent abandoned their cultivated reserve with admirable speed, leaping to their feet with retaliatory chants that lacked only Cahill's lung capacity to match the West District's decibel level.

The verbal artillery exchange continued throughout the game, each side straining vocal cords in service of departmental honor.

The West District's superior acoustics translated into field dominance.

They claimed victory 18-15, sending Chief Weideke into celebratory theatrics that included shadow-boxing the air toward his defeated counterpart before wading onto the field to embrace his mud-caked warriors.

Remarkably, no actual violence erupted in the stands.

Chief Garcia even joined Weideke in his office afterward for two glasses of whiskey and magnanimous defeat, proving that interdepartmental warfare could still conclude with gentleman's protocols.

That evening's celebration at Old Gun Bar stretched past midnight, leaving half the West District nursing hangovers the following morning.

Internal Affairs tactfully overlooked the widespread tardiness while supervisors discovered a sudden fascination with paperwork that kept their eyes averted from empty desks.

The euphoria lasted exactly until afternoon, when Werner summoned Theodore to Chief Weideke's office.

Four men waited inside: Weideke, Senior Police Supervisor, Flores, East District Homicide chief Ricky Cullinan, and a middle-aged stranger, Werner, identified as George Rivera, South District Homicide commander.

Weideke's expression had returned to its customary gravity. "You're going south to work a case. One of our own has been killed."

With Bernie occupied in his coaching persona, Theodore found himself partnered with Ricky for the journey. The East District veteran provided grim details during the drive.

Officer Michael Jansen had missed roll call without explanation or approved leave.

When East District patrol contacted their South District counterparts to conduct a welfare check, they discovered Jansen dead in his bedroom.

Theodore glanced sideways at Ricky's mention of attendance procedures, earning a puzzled look from the older detective who seemed to expect questions that never came.

"Michael was found in the master bedroom, positioned against the bed," Ricky continued.

"Full police uniform, hands cuffed behind his back, executed kneeling. The killer took his badge and service weapon."

The ritualistic nature struck Theodore immediately. This wasn't robbery or passion; it was a statement.

Jansen's middle-class neighborhood in the South District represented the typical compromise for Felton law enforcement.

East District wealth remained beyond most detectives' reach, while the West District's colorful demographic mix, prostitutes, addicts, gang members, and minorities, made it unsuitable for family men seeking respectability.

The victim's house sat isolated on the community's eastern edge, surrounded by "For Sale" signs that marked the development's newness and suburban affordability.

A road separated the property from its nearest neighbors, creating the perfect location for someone seeking privacy.

Theodore's attention was fixed on the front lawn's obvious disturbance, footprints and cigarette butts scattered across the grass.

Before he could examine them closely, a South District detective strolled across the scene and casually flicked his own cigarette onto the evidence.

Theodore paused, shook his head, and continued toward the house.

"How many people have been through here?" he asked Ricky.

Supervisor Rivera calculated mentally. "About a dozen."

Ricky couldn't hide his sideways glance toward Rivera, thinking, And you want Theodore to transfer here?

The East District might have its limitations; their medical examiner had particularly irritated Theodore during previous cases, but at least they understood crime scene preservation.

Rivera, catching Ricky's pointed look, returned it with genuine confusion.

His old-school credentials were impeccable, earned through decades of street-level police work, climbing toward command.

When he'd learned the victim's identity, his first instinct had been to defer to the East District. Ricky's suggestion to involve Theodore had earned Rivera's complete support.

Theodore's preliminary yard examination proved futile; too many boots had trampled any meaningful evidence. He extended his hand toward Rivera. "Gloves and shoe covers?"

Rivera stared at the outstretched palm with blank incomprehension.

Ricky coughed diplomatically, summoning a detective to retrieve proper equipment from their vehicle.

Since working with Theodore, he'd discovered the advantages of scene preservation and now mandated gloves and protective gear for all his personnel. He even maintained emergency supplies in his personal car for situations exactly like this.

The victim's house reflected a bachelor's sparse existence.

The first floor contained minimal furniture, a basic sofa and table, kitchen equipped with essentials only. The emptiness created an almost echoing quality to their movements.

Upstairs, most rooms stood vacant except for the bathroom, walk-in closet, and master bedroom where Jansen had spent his final moments.

The victim's body had been removed, leaving only bloodstains beside the bed and evidence of the killer's methodical work.

The bedside table's open drawer revealed a key with an East District keychain. According to standard police practice, Jansen's badge should have rested beside it, his service weapon in the same or adjacent drawer.

The lower drawer contained only socks and underwear, confirming Theodore's suspicions about the missing items.

He bagged the drawer handle for fingerprint analysis, though the scene's cleanliness suggested a careful perpetrator unlikely to leave such obvious evidence.

The South District forensic examiner had completed the preliminary examination when they arrived at the station. His deference to Theodore's reputation was evident in his careful presentation of findings.

"Full rigor mortis, not yet subsided, death occurred 24-36 hours ago based on corneal opacity. Fatal wound is a single gunshot to the back of the head, approximately .3-inch entry wound. Victim shows restraint marks on both wrists, consistent with handcuffs, but no signs of struggle."

He produced the handcuffs, standard police issue.

"Victim was in full uniform, neat and undamaged. Everything suggests he was compliant during the final moments."

The ritualistic elements were unmistakable to everyone present. This was theater, designed to send a message to law enforcement specifically. Rivera took an unconscious step backward, clearly hoping one of his companions would assume command.

Their temporary conference room assignment felt familiar, another borrowed space for another complex investigation.

Rivera's barely concealed relief at their arrival would have been amusing under different circumstances.

Senior Police Supervisor Flores arrived with urgent instructions from headquarters: Director Adams personally demanded resolution within 72 hours.

Rivera's expression tightened. Ricky's face showed genuine concern as he squeezed Theodore's shoulder apologetically.

The impossible timeline was obvious to everyone except, perhaps, Theodore himself.

After an awkward silence, Flores attempted to redirect attention. "What did the forensic examination reveal?"

Ricky summarized the medical findings while the three senior men contemplated the public relations nightmare awaiting if details leaked, which they inevitably would.

Theodore finally broke their circular anxiety. "Maybe we should just wait here for the killer to turn himself in."

Flores hastily changed subjects. "Have you found anything significant?"

Theodore nodded. "This was premeditated. The killer gained quick control upon entry, forced the victim into position, executed him efficiently, and departed. The entire sequence was professional, swift, decisive, and targeted."

"It could be gangs," Rivera suggested gang involvement, drawing a noncommittal response from Theodore, who continued his analysis.

"The killer knew the victim's habits intimately and secured his weapon before Jansen could react, eliminating any possibility of resistance."

Rivera nodded in agreement. "I keep my service weapon and badge in my nightstand, too."

Ricky confirmed the practice. "Most frontline detectives do the same."

The implication struck both men simultaneously. Their shocked expressions turned toward Theodore, understanding dawning in their features.

Flores, lacking field experience, required an extra moment before the memory of his own bedside weapon storage completed the connection. His voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

"Are you certain about this?"

Accusing a police officer of murdering a fellow officer represented the gravest possible allegation within law enforcement, potentially more devastating than the ritualistic execution itself.

Theodore reviewed his analysis carefully before responding with quiet certainty. "Yes. I'm sure."