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Chapter 26: FOP
Theodore gave Wenner a clear answer on Friday.
Although this FOP sounded like a shadow government or some illegal organization, he decided to join, partly out of curiosity, partly to secure that July agreement.
Wenner seemed to have anticipated his decision and took him straight to Old Gun Bar after work.
The blind and lame bar owner hugged Wenner as usual, their backs slapping together with familiar enthusiasm.
After they separated, the owner pushed Theodore with mock displeasure, complaining that he hadn't visited the bar in ages.
Wenner whispered something in the owner's ear. The man's expression shifted, and he nodded at Theodore with a knowing smile before leading them toward the storage room.
Once all three were inside, the owner closed and locked the door from the outside.
The storage room was spacious but unlit. As soon as the door shut, darkness swallowed them whole, creating an atmosphere thick with mystery.
Wenner clicked on his flashlight and led them deeper inside, stopping at the innermost wall. He moved aside a heavy shelf, revealing a hidden door.
Theodore glanced around, noting how both Wenner and Bernie had adopted serious expressions, their faces touched with something almost reverent.
Wenner pushed open the concealed door, releasing a wave of damp, musty air. Beyond lay a narrow staircase descending into darkness.
Probably an old wine cellar, Theodore thought.
At the bottom of the stairs, twelve detectives wearing copper badges had already gathered around rusted oil drums. The moment Theodore appeared, they struck their batons against tin cabinets in perfect unison.
"This is the brotherhood's 'Firearms Ceremony' for new members," Bernie explained quietly from behind him.
A thirteenth detective stepped forward, this one wearing a silver badge, and handed the velvet tray he carried to Wenner.
Theodore's eyes widened slightly.
It was Chief Weideke.
Wenner seemed oblivious to Theodore's surprise as he approached, tray in hand.
"Theodore Dickson." The copper badge on the velvet gleamed like dried blood under the kerosene lamplight. Wenner's voice carried unusual gravity, the ceremony and surroundings lending his words an almost sacred weight.
"Fuel, Exemption, Eternal Rest, three privileges, in exchange for your eternal loyalty to the brotherhood."
Boom!
The twelve detectives struck their cabinets again, their voices joining in the oath's repetition.
Bernie's hand settled on Theodore's shoulder. "Just say 'I accept,'" he whispered. "And don't ask how the funeral fund works... nobody here wants to use that thing prematurely."
Theodore followed the instruction. Wenner lifted the copper badge from the tray and pinned it to his chest.
Looking down, Theodore examined the badge's engravings: "Guardian of Order" and "Loyal Brotherhood." The main design combined a flame, a hammer, and a coffin.
The moment Theodore accepted the oath and wore the badge, the basement's solemn atmosphere dissolved.
The twelve witnesses approached one by one, embracing him and welcoming him to their ranks.
Chief Weideke also clapped his shoulder, praising him as young and promising.
"Work hard, son. The FOP never abandons its own," Weideke said with a chuckle.
Theodore shot a subtle glance at Wenner, thinking, Your treatment of Wenner hardly seems like 'never abandoning your own.'
But then he reconsidered, Wenner held a silver badge, and so did Cahill. That had to count for something.
The FOP wasn't what Theodore had imagined.
Not that he could have articulated exactly what he'd expected, but the reality certainly differed from his assumptions.
Theodore's initiation had summoned Chief Weideke directly. Apparently, Cahill would have attended too if he hadn't been injured and hospitalized.
As for the ceremony's importance, though, the other twelve officers either lived nearby or happened to be patrolling the area.
Moreover, after the initiation, there was no celebration, no festive dinner, no party. The sixteen men simply emerged from the cellar and accepted a round of drinks courtesy of the Old Gun Bar's owner.
Then those on patrol returned to their beats, and those off duty hurried home.
The only difference was that everyone embraced him and patted his arm before leaving, treating him with newfound familiarity.
Theodore didn't even know most of their names, many faces he was seeing for the first time.
Weideke and Wenner remained at Old Gun Bar, apparently settling in for a long night of conversation with the owner.
Bernie took Theodore to visit Del Rio Funeral Home.
According to Bernie, this was a mandatory experience for every new member.
Del Rio Funeral Home served as the FOP's designated mortuary. The building wasn't large, but its interior carried a distinctly oppressive atmosphere.
Bernie led him to sit in the small chapel at the front for several minutes. Before leaving, he told Theodore, "Remember to bring two packs of cigarettes to the funeral home every week. They'll make sure you look exactly like you did in life... that's the rule."
With that, he produced two cigarette packs and walked toward the chapel's back door.
Theodore followed, wandering through the funeral home until they reached the crematorium.
Bernie placed the cigarettes on a windowsill and introduced Theodore to the elderly man inside, who was applying makeup to a corpse. "This is my partner. He just joined today."
The old man glanced back at Theodore, then continued his work. "What material do you prefer?" he asked.
"Huh?" Theodore replied.
"Pine, oak, mahogany, walnut, maple? Or metal?"
Theodore shook his head. "No, thank you. I don't think I'll need it anytime soon."
The old man looked up, sneering. "I hope you'll still be coherent enough to tell me your preference when the time comes."
Bernie's expression darkened, and he quickly pulled Theodore away.
Outside the funeral home, a heavy mood settled between them.
In the car, Bernie took the wheel again. Perhaps trying to shake off the funeral home's lingering atmosphere, he said, "Luke has a case he wants you to look at."
Luke was a Homicide Team detective, bald, large, and burly, even bigger than Bernie. He was a cheerful man who loved singing in the office, though he was completely tone-deaf and always looked utterly absorbed in his performances.
"And Vico, Finch, Joseph, Richie... they all want your help too." Bernie gestured broadly. "They're asking if you can talk to ghosts or something."
Theodore looked puzzled. "How would I know? If they want my help, why don't they just ask me directly? Also, it's not communicating with ghosts, it's just a skill that can be learned, trained, and mastered."
Bernie automatically ignored the latter part and exclaimed dramatically, "Come on! Do you realize you've only been with the Homicide Team for a month?"
Theodore nodded.
"One month, and you've already solved six cases. Six! Man! Do you have any idea what you're capable of?"
"Our clearance rate has been abysmal this year, there wasn't even enough space on the board to write everything down. At your current pace, I'm afraid we'll soon need to dig into the archives and pull out cold cases from previous years."
He was referring to the 'red board' in the main office, which had been nearly full when Theodore arrived. If he hadn't solved six consecutive cases... it would have overflowed entirely.
, Cases involving prostitutes weren't counted in those statistics.
Theodore shook his head, refusing to bask in Bernie's praise.
He understood both the strengths and limitations of relying solely on profiling. The cases he'd encountered since joining the Homicide Team weren't actually ideal candidates for profiling work.
Using profiling to solve cases was truly a last resort. When crime scenes were properly preserved, they could often be cleared through evidence like fingerprints alone.
Theodore sighed and said to Bernie, "If they really want to solve cases, they'd do better to preserve their crime scenes more carefully. That way, they wouldn't need my help, they could solve the cases themselves."
Bernie couldn't quite grasp the connection, but after several consecutive cases, he'd begun to notice that Theodore seemed to work faster when crime scenes were well-preserved.
Could it really make such a difference?
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