Chapter 11. A call from D.C
The original Theodore believed his uncle had controlled every aspect of his life since childhood—dictating which schools he attended, what courses he selected, which activities he participated in... even determining which family's daughter he would eventually marry and where he would work. His uncle had orchestrated everything.
After finally mustering the courage for an explosive confrontation, he'd decided to flee home, sever all family ties, and vow never to speak to his uncle again.
Though he hadn't understood the purpose of his rebellion, in a sense, he'd achieved his goal.
Theodore wasn't a defiant youth, however. He remained skeptical about the effectiveness of using his middle name as a surname and working at a police station as means of hiding from his uncle—who happened to be the Director of the FBI.
Yes, his uncle was the infamous J. Edgar Hoover.
The rumored cross-dresser, homosexual, shadow government founder, intelligence chief, staunch anti-communist, gravedigger of the Black Panther Party and CPUSA, alleged assassin of Dr. King, supposed mastermind behind the JFK assassination—a thoroughly rotten old man whose accumulated titles couldn't fit on the Homicide Team's whiteboard.
He had never psychologically prepared himself to interact with this legendary figure.
But when would he ever be ready? Should he simply allow such a valuable resource to go to waste?
Theodore lifted the receiver and dialed a memorized sequence of numbers.
The call was answered by Hoover's private secretary, Helen Gandy.
Within the Federal Bureau of Investigation, there was a well-known saying: Even if you offend Director Hoover, never offend Miss Gandy.
Helen Gandy was one of Hoover's only two confidantes. Hoover called her 'indispensable.'
The other was Hoover's rumored romantic partner, Clyde Tolson.
The former held all of Hoover's secrets; the latter served as repository for Hoover's spiritual and emotional needs.
Hoover firmly believed these two would never betray him. Indeed, they didn't. After Hoover's death, both demonstrated their absolute loyalty through their actions.
"Federal Bureau of Investigation Director's Office."
Helen Gandy's voice came through the line, making it almost possible to visualize the scene: a woman in a black business suit, wearing glasses, her expression as stern as an old nun's.
"This is—" Theodore hesitated. "This is Theodore. Is he available? I need to speak with him."
"Little Theodore?" There was a pause. Helen Gandy's surprise was audible. "You finally called."
After that single sentence, Helen Gandy quickly demonstrated her professionalism. "Director Hoover is available. Please hold."
Following a brief silence, a low voice emerged from the other end. "Hello?"
Theodore shivered involuntarily.
He looked down in confusion, thinking he wasn't frightened—the voice sounded quite amiable. Why was he trembling?
"This is—"
Theodore began to introduce himself diplomatically, but the person on the other end didn't allow him the opportunity.
"How long do you plan to remain at that pathetic police station?"
"Did you think I couldn't locate you by hiding in Texas? You should have fled north—run to the other side!"
The steady voice carried unmistakable anger.
"It seems Sunday school failed to teach you about obedience."
"I've already dispatched people to retrieve you."
"When you return, you'll spend two years in the Navy Marine Corps learning what obedience means!"
Excuse me?
Pardon?
Amiable?
Theodore's ears were still ringing with "I've already dispatched people to retrieve you" and "you'll spend two years in the Navy Marine Corps."
Next year, the Vietnam War would begin. America would successively deploy half a million troops over the following twelve years, with nearly four hundred thousand buried in that small Southeast Asian country.
If Hoover was truly determined to make him learn 'obedience,' he possessed no means of resistance. The man's string of titles weren't merely for show.
Theodore didn't directly challenge Hoover—doing so would only provoke him and eliminate all negotiation possibilities. Instead, he proposed a seemingly impossible condition:
"Give me three years. In three years, I can achieve promotion to Sergeant. If I fail, I'll obediently follow your arrangements."
Sergeant represented the lowest command rank in police hierarchy, marking the transition from regular officer to management position. Promotion to Sergeant typically required at least five years of police service—often seven to nine years—and also demanded an internal vote by the police union.
"You have no authority to negotiate," Hoover said loudly.
He was growing angry. In his opinion, Theodore had learned arrogance during his months of absence.
"You have to let me try," Theodore attempted to argue. "Otherwise, if you drag me back, I'll constantly attempt to escape."
"You have to let me try," he repeated. "If I'm still unsuccessful in three years, I promise I'll do whatever you say thereafter, without objection. If I can genuinely achieve promotion to Sergeant in three years, you won't need to worry about me anymore, correct?"
From his inherited memories, Theodore didn't believe Hoover was simply manipulating him—he was probably just concerned about his welfare.
If Hoover truly wanted to torment a child, there would be no need to send him to the finest schools, provide superior education, attend every parental activity throughout his childhood, and then arrange a clear congressional path after graduation.
Theodore's reason for rejecting the arrangement differed from the original owner's. Primarily, he clearly understood he couldn't walk that path.
He was someone who made his living through technical expertise, and he excelled at it. He could serve as a technical supervisor, but he couldn't be a Congressman. He neither knew how to engage in political rhetoric nor wanted to learn.
The other end fell into brief silence, with muffled voices audible in the background.
About a minute later, Hoover's voice returned to its steady tone. "You don't have three years."
"I'll only give you seven months—until Christmas."
"Now, I'm going to have lunch with Clyde."
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Theodore didn't know whether to feel relieved or annoyed.
Relieved that he'd made the call, securing seven months of 'probation' and avoiding immediate retrieval to D.C. and deployment to the Navy Marine Corps.
Annoyed that he'd made the call, setting himself an impossible task.
Seven months to become Sergeant?
He might as well attempt ascending to heaven.
Theodore decided that when Bernie arrived, he'd request advice on battlefield survival to prepare for his future.
After writing for a while longer, people finally began trickling in.
Unlike yesterday, many appeared sleep-deprived today, looking listless and weakly greeting arrivals, then uniformly guzzling coffee.
It seemed the power of overtime work was clearly much weaker than staying up all night drinking.
When Bernie arrived, Theodore quietly inquired about the previous evening's events.
Bernie, however, was surprisingly vigorous. While organizing paperwork for cases 600403 and 600511, he explained that they'd found nearby patrol officers to escort them home, though several hadn't gone home but had chosen to visit Rose Street next door.
Saying this, he pointed to the person sleeping at the desk in front of them and quietly informed Theodore that he was one of those who'd gone to Rose Street.
Theodore then asked about the previous night's expenses, and Bernie told him not to worry.
"When our Homicide Team solves cases, both headquarters and the branch office distribute bonuses." He pulled a crumpled wad of gas coupons from his pocket to show Theodore. "Individual bonuses have already been converted into this garbage—they can't possibly deduct the team bonus."
"This portion covers last night's group activities."
"Besides this, our Homicide Team maintains reserve funds for group activities. These are sufficient to cover last night's expenses."
Theodore thought, no wonder everyone had been drinking freely yesterday—it turned out there were 'team building funds' to cover everything.
He then asked Bernie for battlefield survival advice, and Bernie's eyes lit up immediately. He chattered enthusiastically, then prepared to devise a training program for him.
Bernie dragged him toward the training ground, wanting to first assess his skill level. However, this conversation was overheard by nearby colleagues and spread throughout the entire Homicide Team within minutes.
So a large contingent of the Homicide Team surged toward the training ground.
As this group loudly fired weapons at the training facility, Wenner stood in the empty office, deep in contemplation.