1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI

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"You watched the patrol officers come and go."

Theodore's voice cut through the stale air of the interrogation room, each word measured and deliberate. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across George's face.

"You watched three students come down from upstairs and get into Chief Garcia's patrol car."

George shifted in the metal chair, his hands flat against the scarred table surface. Sweat had begun to bead at his hairline despite the room's chill.

"Only after that patrol car drove away did you dare to come out."

Theodore leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving George's face. "Did you go up?"

The detective's gaze had gone distant, unfocused. Theodore could see the scene playing out behind those eyes, the panic, the cowardice, the shame that would fester into something far more dangerous.

"After they left, did you go up?" Theodore's voice rose just enough to snap George back to the present.

George blinked rapidly, refocusing on Theodore's face. The practiced mask of confusion slipped back into place.

"You didn't dare to go up and see your partner." Theodore's words landed like physical blows. "You ran away in a panic."

George's knuckles went white against the table. A tremor ran through his shoulders, barely perceptible, but Theodore caught it. The tell-tale sign of a man confronting his deepest shame.

"Sergeant Dickson, I don't know what you're talking about." The denial came out mechanical, rehearsed. George shook his head with theatrical confusion, falling back on his prepared script: "I went to deliver the key to her, saw the door open, and she was tied to the bed—"

No matter how Theodore probed or how Ricky pressed from different angles, George clung to his story like a life preserver. Each question met the same stone wall of fabricated innocence.

The interrogation stalled. Theodore closed his folder with deliberate finality.

Outside the interrogation room, Ricky loosened his narrow tie and rubbed his neck. The bullpen beyond buzzed with the clicking of IBM Selectrics and the constant ring of rotary phones.

"Are you sure it's him?" Ricky's doubt was written in every line of his face.

Theodore nodded without hesitation.

"Why?"

Theodore wanted to explain the scent of failure that clung to George like stale cigarette smoke, the particular desperation of a man who'd discovered himself to be a coward and couldn't live with the knowledge.

All criminals were losers in their own way, but serial killers were a special breed. They needed to manufacture control through violence, to prove their worth through the ultimate power over life and death.

But such insights would sound like mumbo-jumbo to a by-the-book detective like Ricky. Instead, Theodore reached for the crime scene photographs, spreading them across the nearest desk like a poker hand.

"Physical evidence first. Victim Number One was subjected to reverse execution, strung up, and displayed. Victim Number Two endured extensive torture before being dragged to that window for all the world to see."

Theodore tapped the photos with his pen. "Both require considerable upper-body strength. Officer Deborah couldn't have managed either scenario."

Ricky studied the images, his jaw tightening at the brutal details.

"The ritualistic elements, stripping away the badge, the service weapon, the specific body positioning, these behaviors indicate a need for psychological dominance typically associated with male perpetrators." Theodore arranged the photos side by side. "Deborah's targets would have been the direct aggressors, Victim Number Two and his accomplices. Not the enabler."

"And she couldn't have gained entry so easily," Ricky added, catching on.

"Exactly. Both victims opened their doors willingly. Victim Number Two would have been especially wary of seeing Deborah again." Theodore pulled out a magnifying glass, studying the crime scene details. "But a fellow officer? That's a different story."

He pointed to specific elements in each photograph. "Look at the messages being sent. Victim Number One's execution speaks to cleaning house; this killer believes the victim was unworthy of the badge. But Victim Number Two's display carries pure humiliation. The killer wanted everyone to know this man was a predator."

"Two different emotions," Ricky murmured.

"Two different methods, two vastly different psychological needs being satisfied." Theodore straightened up. "Analyzed separately, neither case connects directly to Deborah's assault. They seem like the work of different killers entirely."

"But the badge—"

"The killer left Victim Number One's badge at Victim Number Two's scene, creating a connection that exists primarily in his mind. He was convinced these men shared culpability."

Ricky frowned. "Could Deborah and George have worked together?"

Theodore shook his head firmly. "Both killings show complete ritualistic behavior. Two people would have disagreements about details, causing the ritual to break down. This is the work of one man, driven by very specific psychological needs."

He gathered the photographs, his movements precise and economical. "George's motive stems from guilt over his failure to protect his partner, combined with rage at his own cowardice.

He projected his own weakness onto Victim Number One, another man who chose self-preservation over doing what was right."

"So killing Victim Number One was what, validation?"

"Reinforcement of a new self-image. By executing the man who made the same cowardly choice, George proves to himself that he's not a coward but an agent of justice." Theodore's voice took on the measured tone of a psychology textbook. "This perception was further reinforced with Victim Number Two's murder."

"But he'll need to keep killing to maintain that fiction," Ricky said slowly.

"Exactly. The moment he stops, the doubt creeps back in. The self-perception becomes unstable." Theodore smiled grimly. "That's his weakness. We attack there."

Ricky's understanding was imperfect, but he grasped the essential truth: Theodore had identified their killer. He chose to trust that judgment.

The search of George's locker yielded nothing unusual, spare clothes hanging neatly, toiletries arranged with military precision, and a dog-eared paperback novel.

His patrol car was equally mundane: half-eaten sandwich, coffee growing cold in a thermos, reports scattered across the passenger seat.

Theodore watched Ricky catalog the disappointing results. "Try his house."

A few phone calls connected Ricky with Supervisor George at the South District Branch. Within an hour, a search warrant was obtained and a team dispatched to George's residence.

Rather than wait for results that might never come, Theodore chose to return to the interrogation room, but not for George. He wanted to talk to the partner who'd been watching from the observation window, whose face had grown more troubled with each question Theodore asked.

The partner's demeanor was complex when called into the room, defensive yet guilty, loyal yet increasingly uncertain. His answers came out too smooth, too prepared.

"We were together both nights," he insisted. "I can guarantee it. We never separated."

When Theodore pressed for specifics, patrol routes, witnesses, and any corroboration, the partner's story began to show cracks.

Their midnight shifts were largely unsupervised, he admitted. Random patrols through empty streets, long periods of waiting in the patrol car, and minimal radio contact.

"George has been having trouble at home," the partner offered. "Divorce proceedings. His previous partner went through something similar, so he's been in a dark mood lately."

Theodore studied the man across the table. Sweat had begun to gather at his collar despite the room's chill. "Was anyone else present during your shifts? Any civilians who might have seen you?"

The partner's eyes dropped to the table. "The midnight shift is quiet. Everyone's asleep. We do our rounds and spend the rest of the time parked somewhere safe."

Theodore reached for the crime scene photographs, laying them out like accusations. The partner's breathing became shallow as he stared at the images of brutalized colleagues.

Ricky leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "George is your partner. Officer Michael Jansen was your colleague, too."

He pushed one of Victim Number One's photographs across the table. The partner flinched as if struck.

Theodore added the photo of Victim Number Two with the police badge positioned on his chest. "The killer isn't seeking revenge for Officer Deborah. He's trying to convince himself he isn't a coward."

"He won't stop," Ricky added. "He'll keep killing to maintain his fantasy of being some kind of righteous avenger."

Theodore tapped Victim Number One's photo. "To maintain this self-image, he doesn't hesitate to target fellow officers." His eyes bored into the partner's. "Is your record spotless? How long before he decides you're next on his list?"

"People from the South District are searching George's house right now," Ricky said casually. "We'll have results soon."

The partner stared at the photographs for a long moment, his internal struggle playing out across his features. Finally, his shoulders sagged in defeat.

"I don't know what he went to do," he said hoarsely. "Both nights, he said he had personal business. Left me to handle the patrol alone."

The admission hung in the air like smoke. Theodore felt no satisfaction, only the grim acknowledgment that another piece had fallen into place.

"Didn't you notice anything unusual about his behavior?"

The partner shook his head miserably. "He's my partner. You're supposed to trust your partner."

The second interrogation of George proceeded with the weight of his partner's confession behind it. Theodore informed him of the changed testimony without elaboration, watching George's face crumble as the implications sank in.

"All right," George finally said, his voice hollow. "I went to see my divorce lawyer."

"In the middle of the night?" Ricky's skepticism was palpable.

George's mouth worked silently as he searched for another lie, but Ricky cut him off with a new revelation: "Did you know Deborah accepted a ten thousand dollar settlement from Garcia afterward?"

The words hit George like a physical blow. His face went white.

"Officers Jansen and Brown each got three thousand to keep quiet." Ricky's voice remained conversational, almost friendly. "How much did you receive?"

George stared at him in shock, then exploded from his chair. "You're lying!"

"How did Officer Jansen afford that house on a detective's salary?" Ricky's calm never wavered. "Why did Deborah resign instead of filing charges?"

The questions hung unanswered as George's world reshuffled around this new information. Theodore watched the man's face cycle through disbelief, rage, and something approaching despair.

As expected, this particular breed of killer, methodical, ritualistic, convinced of his own righteousness, would not confess easily. And with their current physical evidence amounting to virtually nothing, they couldn't force the issue.

Ricky's frustration was evident as they left the interrogation room. He was beginning to doubt Theodore's certainty, to wonder if they'd made a mistake.

The conference room door opened, and a detective appeared with news: Supervisor George from South District had made discoveries. A certain organic material is soaking in a gasoline can in the garage. A Smith & Wesson Model 10 revolver whose serial number matched Officer Jansen's service weapon.

Supervisor George was personally delivering the evidence to the East District.

Ricky turned to Theodore with surprised admiration. Theodore simply closed his folder and stood, looking through the observation window at George, who sat with clenched fists and compressed lips.

"You can tell us now," Ricky suggested when they re-entered the room. "Save everyone some trouble."

"I don't know what you're talking about," George shot back defiantly. "Someone's trying to frame me!"

Theodore stopped Ricky before he could argue further. They would wait for the physical evidence to arrive.

Supervisor George appeared ten minutes later with two manila evidence bags, his relief at returning to South District obvious in every gesture. He declined Ricky's invitation to participate in the follow-up investigation with barely concealed horror; he'd just escaped this particular whirlpool and had no intention of diving back in.

The forensics lab occupied the basement of East District, fluorescent lights reflecting off white tile walls. The medical examiner looked up from his typewriter with guilty haste, assuming Theodore had come to pressure him about the delayed autopsy report.

"I'll have it finished before closing," he promised quickly.

Theodore glanced at the half-completed pages and checked his watch. "That's ambitious."

The examiner wiped his forehead nervously, then noticed the evidence bags. "What have you brought me?"

Forensic examination confirmed their suspicions. The organic material in the gasoline can was indeed the missing portion of Victim Number Two's anatomy. Test-firing the revolver and comparing bullet striations confirmed it as the weapon used in both murders.

Back in the interrogation room, Ricky placed the evidence bags in front of George with ceremonial formality. Faced with irrefutable proof, George's defiance crumbled.

"Yes, I killed them both."

The confession flowed out in a steady stream. He'd conducted detailed surveillance on all five men involved in Deborah's assault: Victim Number One, Detective Brown, Victim Number Two, Brooks, and Kenneth. All were marked for execution.

Both murders had been committed during his unexplained absences from patrol duty. He'd chosen to kill Officer Jansen during a football game broadcast because every cop in the city would be distracted, whether on duty or off.

The methodology matched Theodore's crime scene analysis almost perfectly.

After executing Jansen, George had planned to target Detective Brown next. But Brown was under protection, the opportunity never arose, so he'd shifted to Victim Number Two.

His police credentials had made entry simple; what citizen wouldn't open their door for a uniformed officer? Once inside, subduing and torturing the victim had been straightforward.

George felt no remorse. As Theodore had predicted, he viewed himself as an instrument of justice, executing righteous punishment on men who'd escaped official consequences.

He expressed only regret that Detective Brown and the other two accomplices remained alive.

Neither Theodore nor Ricky chose to argue with this twisted logic. George's disappointment at their lack of moral outrage was almost comical.

With the confession complete and the details recorded, George's interrogation was finished. Two detectives escorted him to the detention cells while Theodore and Ricky returned to the conference room to organize their files and write the final report.

Near closing time, Chief Garcia returned to the station and summoned them to his office. After listening to Ricky's summary, Garcia sat in silence for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Theodore with an expression impossible to read.

Finally, he waved them away without comment.

Theodore stopped by the forensics lab on his way out. As predicted, the medical examiner hadn't finished the autopsy report despite his earlier promise.

"Helping you with that evidence testing threw off my schedule," he complained while clearing his typewriter and filing the incomplete pages. "I would have finished on time otherwise."

The detectives at East District were always the most eager to escape at closing time. The examiner grabbed his coat and bag, hurrying out before anyone could assign him additional work.

The conference room was empty when Theodore returned; Ricky had already departed for the day.

The drive back to West District was quiet, Wenner uncharacteristically avoiding questions about the case. He didn't escort Theodore to Chief Widdek's office for a debriefing.

But the main detective bullpen buzzed with excitement. Word had already spread that the killer was one of their own, and the detectives surrounded Theodore with eager questions and theories.

Less than two hours had passed since George was locked in his cell, yet news of his arrest had traveled through the department faster than Theodore's car could carry him back to West District.

In the insular world of law enforcement, scandal moved at the speed of whispered phone calls and hurried conversations in station house corridors.

By morning, every cop in the city would know that Detective George Morrison had been arrested for the ritualistic murders of Officer Michael Jansen and civilian David Chen.

The real story, of cowardice transformed into murderous self-justification, would likely never make it into the official reports. But it would live on in the careful psychological profiles Theodore maintained, one more case study in the dark mathematics of human failure.

[End of Chapter]