1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

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Chief Garcia was nowhere to be found; word had it he'd rushed home to deal with another crisis involving his boy. Young Garcia had stepped in it again, and the old man was left to clean up the mess.

The story of his life these days.

The Senior Police Supervisor tracked down the Deputy Chief and secured authorization to crack open the branch personnel files. The IBM Selectrics in the records room would be singing their mechanical song well into the evening.

The Patrol Supervisor that Ricky had summoned offered precious little. With hundreds of beat cops under his command, keeping tabs on two insignificant patrolmen was like counting raindrops in a thunderstorm.

Still, the Supervisor had connections. He dragged in officers who'd worked the same beats as Detective Brown and the victim, along with anyone who'd shared a cup of coffee or a complaint with either man. They filed into the interrogation room with the resigned expressions of men who'd rather be anywhere else.

These officers maintained proper respect for the badge, but their information proved as thin as dime-store coffee. The questioning stretched until the evening shift change, yielding nothing but a stack of departmental gossip that circulated through the precinct like smoke through a speakeasy.

The rumors painted a vivid picture of institutional dysfunction. Officers whispered that the Patrol Supervisor couldn't organize a two-car funeral, and that his wife's constant criticism had carved permanent lines of bitterness into his face, which explained why he rode his men so hard.

Before the officer could finish spinning this particular tale, the Supervisor himself burst through the interrogation room door like an avenging angel, dragging the storyteller out by his collar.

Other rumors suggested Ricky was the illegitimate offspring of someone important—city hall, maybe, or higher up the federal food chain. The officer relating this tidbit kept shooting curious glances at Ricky, fishing for a reaction that never came.

Ricky's expression remained as readable as a blank page, unaffected by Supervisor George's probing stares or the weight of speculation hanging in the stale air.

The gossip mill had churned out stories about everyone with rank: the Records Supervisor conducting extracurricular activities among the filing cabinets, a logistics chief skimming profits on substandard equipment, a Deputy Chief who'd married his way up the ladder, and Garcia himself, allegedly driven to premature gray hair by his son's endless scrapes with the law.

Some tales stretched credibility to the breaking point. Others rang with the uncomfortable weight of truth.

None contained what they needed.

These street cops spilled secrets about their superiors with the casual indifference of men discussing yesterday's weather, but when pressed about their peers, they clamped up tighter than a bank vault.

Ask about which supervisor was padding his expense account, and you'd get chapter and verse. Ask about misconduct among the rank and file, and suddenly, everyone developed selective hearing.

By the session's end, they'd harvested nothing but marital gossip, who was filing divorce papers, whose wife might be stepping out with the insurance salesman.

When it came to actual police work or disciplinary violations within their blue brotherhood, their lips were sealed with something stronger than Krazy Glue.

Ricky cornered several FOP Bronze members privately, hoping personal connections might loosen tongues. The response was uniform: "If it were you, would you tell?"

In any organization, informants rarely enjoyed long, healthy careers.

The sound of off-duty officers celebrating in the bullpen filtered through the interrogation room walls, a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere inside. Ricky closed the case folder with a snap, stood, and signaled the end of another fruitless day.

The East District Branch operated on strict union time.

They'd punch out even if the building was on fire. After lingering in the interrogation room to collect their thoughts, they emerged to find the precinct nearly empty, save for the skeleton crew manning the night shift.

Everyone parted ways in the parking lot, the Senior Supervisor tapping his wristwatch in a pointed reminder about morning roll call.

Having left earlier than usual, Theodore arrived back at the West District Branch to find the main office largely deserted. The moment he walked through the door, he was surrounded by eager colleagues hungry for details about the case that was setting tongues wagging throughout the department.

The detectives were particularly ravenous for inside information. Theodore fed their curiosity in carefully measured portions, packed up his desk, and headed home to his apartment, where his next-door neighbor intercepted him in the hallway.

The neighbor had caught wind of the case, too, but the version that had reached civilian ears bore little resemblance to reality. According to this latest mutation, three detectives had been executed in a line, with bloody messages left at the scene challenging the entire police department to a deadly game.

Theodore set the record straight without revealing operational details, leaving his neighbor looking vaguely disappointed by the truth's lack of dramatic flair.

Day three dawned gray and unwelcome.

Only Supervisor George and Theodore gathered in the South District Branch conference room. The Senior Police Supervisor was conspicuously absent, though everyone could guess his current occupation: damage control.

The rumors that had sprouted after yesterday's shift change were spreading through the city like wildfire, and without official information to contain them, each retelling grew more lurid and fantastic.

A detective appeared in the doorway, announcing a phone call for Ricky at the East District Branch. Ricky returned minutes later, his expression grim, gesturing for Theodore and Supervisor George to follow.

"New victim," he said simply.

The latest casualty lived in one of the city's better neighborhoods. A jogger making his morning rounds had spotted something through the victim's window that sent him running straight to the nearest patrol car.

Theodore frowned. "What's the connection to our case?"

Ricky's eyes were flat, professional. "When the first responders entered to check on the victim, they found Officer Michael Jansen's badge."

He added, almost as an afterthought, "I've already had the scene secured."

They drove through tree-lined streets where prosperity showed in manicured lawns and late-model automobiles. The community's security guard waved them through after Ricky flashed his credentials, directing them toward the flashing lights that marked another intersection of violence and investigation.

The crime scene was a three-story villa that stood naked to the street, no courtyard, no privacy fence, just an expanse of green lawn separating the front door from the sidewalk. The ground floor featured a massive picture window that offered an unobstructed view into the interior, as if the architect had designed the house for voyeurs.

Theodore studied the exterior briefly, noting sight lines and access points, then pulled on latex gloves and paper shoe covers before entering the scene.

Glass crunched underfoot near the entrance, debris from the first responding officers who'd been forced to break the door's window to reach the victim.

Standard procedure, but it always made Theodore wince. Every broken pane meant potential evidence lost to necessity.

The interior layout was straightforward: stairs to the left leading to the upper floors, a living room to the right, and in the center of that living room, a pool of blood that had already begun its slow march across the hardwood floor.

Walking inside, the metallic tang of blood hit him like a physical blow. This villa shared an unsettling characteristic with Victim One's residence: it felt uninhabited, more like a stage set than a home.

The living room contained only scattered chairs and a lonely table pressed against the far wall, as if someone had ordered the minimum furniture package and called it sufficient.

The chairs now lay scattered and overturned, evidence of a struggle that had ended badly for one participant.

Theodore navigated the furniture carnage to reach the blood pool's epicenter. The crimson stain hadn't fully congealed, its edges creeping outward in slow motion. Drag marks led toward the window, terminating where the killer had arranged his final tableau.

The victim lay positioned before the picture window like a grotesque museum display. The naked body was supine, arms pinned beneath the torso, mouth sealed with silver tape. A wooden stick protruded from the anus, and the genitals had been removed with surgical precision. Officer Jansen's missing badge rested on the victim's chest like a perverted medal of honor.

Theodore resisted the urge to examine the body closely; that was the coroner's job. Instead, he signaled for the forensic team to document everything before disturbing the scene, then headed upstairs to search for context.

The second floor offered three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a pair of walk-in closets that echoed with emptiness. Only one bedroom showed signs of occupation, and there Theodore found the victim's belongings concentrated in a single canvas bag.

The bag's contents painted a picture of transient living: keys, condoms, half a bottle of amphetamines, two changes of clothes, and a modest collection of small bills that suggested cash-only transactions. Nothing to indicate permanent residence or conventional employment.

By the time Theodore returned downstairs, the coroner had finished photographing the body and was preparing it for transport. Theodore handed over the victim's possessions and began his own methodical analysis of the blood spatter patterns, reading the story written in crimson across the hardwood floor.

Twenty minutes later, he stepped back outside where Ricky waited with a team of evidence technicians. At Ricky's signal, they swarmed into the house like ants at a picnic, bagging anything that might potentially matter to a jury.

Supervisor George watched the process with undisguised amazement. Unfortunately for the evidence team, the sparse furnishings meant slim pickings, not much to catalog in a house that felt more like a temporary hideout than a home.

Ricky gestured toward the car. Before they could continue the investigation, protocol demanded they report to the brass and sort out jurisdictional questions that could tie up the case for weeks if handled wrong.

Back at the East District Branch, Chief Garcia's assistant escorted them directly to the corner office where important decisions got made behind closed doors.

To Theodore's surprise, Garcia had already worked his bureaucratic magic, reaching an accommodation with his South District counterpart that cut through the usual territorial disputes.

The South District was ceding the entire case to the East District Branch, where Ricky's team would take point while the South District provided support as needed. It was an unusually clean handoff, the kind that happened when everyone recognized they were dealing with something bigger than normal precinct politics.

Chief Garcia wanted a progress report, his weathered face showing the strain of handling both the investigation and the media pressure that was building like storm clouds on the horizon.

Ricky and Supervisor George both turned to Theodore, tacitly acknowledging who had become the case's de facto lead investigator.

Theodore had spent the drive back organizing his thoughts, and now he lay out his preliminary reconstruction with the clinical precision of a pathologist describing an autopsy.

"The killer struck last night, probably after midnight when the neighborhood was asleep," Theodore began. "He either knew Victim Two personally, or used some kind of police identification to gain entry: badge, uniform, something that made the victim open the door without question."

Garcia leaned forward, his thick fingers drumming against the desk's leather surface. "Go on."

"Once inside, the killer immediately subdued the victim and conducted the torture session on the ground floor. After death, he dragged the body to the window for maximum visibility, placed Victim One's badge on the chest, and departed through the front door, locking it behind him like he was leaving for work."

Theodore paused, letting the procedural details settle before moving to the psychological analysis that would either make or break their investigation.

"The ritualistic elements tell us everything about motive," he continued. "The castration, the anal penetration with the wooden stick, the public display by the window, this isn't random violence. The killer is communicating his judgment of Victim Two's character."

"What kind of judgment?" Garcia asked.

"Sexual deviance. The killer believes Victim Two was a sexual predator, someone who deserved this specific type of punishment."

Theodore saved his most important observation for last. "The badge placement connects our two cases definitively, but more than that, it shows escalation. Only three days between murders, and the killer is growing bolder. We'll see another body soon, probably within the week."

Chief Garcia nodded grimly, promising full departmental support while mentioning the uncomfortable reality of political pressure from headquarters.

Someone upstairs was questioning Theodore's assignment to the case, suggesting a more experienced detective might better serve the investigation.

Theodore shook his head firmly. "I want to stay on this case, Chief."

His interest had deepened considerably after examining the second crime scene. The killer's victim selection and the extreme ritualistic behavior completely contradicted his initial profile, suggesting a more complex psychological landscape than he'd first suspected.

This case was beginning to remind him of the Carlos Mendoza investigation, the kind of puzzle that could define a career.

Garcia waved off the headquarters pressure. "Already told them no. I'm also buying us more time before they start breathing down our necks about clearance rates."

Outside the Chief's office, Ricky seemed subdued, while Supervisor George kept shooting him looks that mixed envy with professional respect. Theodore suggested a trip to the forensic lab, explaining his lack of confidence in the East District's medical examiner.

"Their coroner combines the worst qualities of every forensic pathologist I've ever worked with," Theodore explained as they walked toward the basement laboratory. "Slow, sloppy, and chronically incomplete."

The forensic lab supervisor's face went pale when Theodore entered, and his hand moved unconsciously toward his shoulder as if remembering an old injury. Interesting reaction, but Theodore filed it away for later consideration.

At the examination table, both Ricky and Supervisor George found themselves staring at the victim's mutilated groin area before quickly looking away with visible discomfort. The coroner, seemingly eager to please, launched into his preliminary findings.

"Death occurred six to eight hours ago, preceded by extensive torture," the medical examiner reported. "Multiple sharp instrument wounds across the torso, significant blood loss, and both the castration and wooden stick insertion were performed while the victim was still alive."

He lifted the victim's hair to reveal a small circular wound at the base of the skull, surrounded by distinctive burn marks.

"Single gunshot to the brain stem, just like Victim One. Same caliber, same placement, same execution-style killing."

The coroner also displayed the victim's wrists, where deep ligature marks had cut through skin and muscle tissue, painting a picture of desperate struggle against restraints that offered no mercy.

Supervisor George's hand drifted toward his service weapon, a subconscious reaction to the brutality on display. When he noticed everyone watching, he forced his hand back to his side with visible effort.

Something about the coroner's nervous energy troubled Theodore, but he simply requested the full autopsy report as soon as possible before leading his team out of the lab's antiseptic corridors.

Ricky found them an empty conference room where they could analyze the case without interruption. Theodore spread the crime scene photographs across the table and began connecting the psychological dots that would hopefully lead them to their killer.

"The killer's emotional relationship with these two victims is completely different," Theodore began, pointing to corresponding photographs from both crime scenes. "With Victim One, we see clinical efficiency, execution in the bedroom, no attempt at public display, minimal personal involvement."

He slid Victim Two's photographs forward. "But look at this. The killer dragged the body to the window specifically for public viewing. He wants the neighborhood to see his work, to witness his judgment. This demonstrates a powerful need for external validation of his actions."

"The torture methods confirm it," Theodore continued. "Victim One died quickly and cleanly. No unnecessary suffering. But Victim Two endured hours of methodical torture before the final gunshot. The killer invested personal emotion into this killing, rage, disgust, maybe even satisfaction."

Supervisor George leaned forward, studying the ligature marks on Victim Two's wrists. "Why the difference? Because he thought Victim Two was some kind of sex offender?"

Theodore shook his head. "That's part of it, but there's something more personal here. The level of rage, the ritualistic elements, the public display, this killer didn't just disapprove of Victim Two's alleged crimes. This was personal vengeance."

A detective knocked and entered, handing Ricky a manila folder containing Victim Two's identification. A patrol officer had recognized him, which immediately raised Theodore's curiosity.

When Ricky brought the patrol officer in for questioning, the explanation proved illuminating. Victim Two, now identified as Mark Ramirez, listed occupation as "student", was a regular fixture in the city's party scene, particularly popular with the children of wealthy families looking for excitement their trust funds couldn't buy.

Theodore requested Ramirez's criminal record, convinced they'd find a history of sexual offenses that might explain the killer's ritualistic punishment. Ricky took the request upstairs to Chief Garcia, returning an hour later with disappointing news.

The record was completely clean, not even a drunk and disorderly charge.

Either Mark Ramirez was the most law-abiding party boy in the city's history, or someone with significant influence had been sanitizing his record before charges could stick.

Given Ramirez's association with wealthy young socialites, Theodore suspected the latter.

He thought about Victim One, about Detective Brown's continued refusal to discuss his partner's conduct, and felt pieces of a larger puzzle beginning to align.

"We need to talk to Detective Brown again," he told Ricky.

Brown was brought in quickly, but this time they eschewed the intimidating atmosphere of the interrogation room in favor of the conference room's more conversational setting.

Brown appeared outwardly impatient but settled into his chair with the resigned compliance of a man who understood the importance of cooperation, even when it made him uncomfortable.

Theodore described Mark Ramirez's death in clinical detail, sparing nothing about the torture, the mutilation, the public display by the window. He watched Brown's face carefully, noting the visible shock and revulsion that confirmed this wasn't merely another case to him.

When Theodore asked directly about Officer Jansen's disciplinary record, Brown fell silent for nearly a full minute before delivering the same non-answer he'd given before.

The silence told Theodore everything he needed to know.

"Is someone preventing you from talking, Detective Brown?" Theodore asked quietly.

Brown looked up briefly, his eyes meeting Theodore's for just a moment before dropping back to the table. In that brief contact, Theodore saw fear, not of the killer, but of something much closer to home.

[End of Chapter]