Chapter 121: Greatly Benefited
The intelligence report on the Felton Star reached Hoover's desk by late afternoon, but he left it untouched until evening.
Personal business had no place during official hours, a principle the Director maintained religiously.
Only after returning to his Georgetown apartment did Hoover retrieve the folder, settling into his leather armchair while Tolson poured scotch.
They examined the report with the same methodical attention they applied to national security matters.
Tolson had also pulled the previous Felton files, extracting newspaper clippings that documented the phenomenon of the twin detectives.
Both men remained genuinely puzzled by Theodore's sudden interest in acquiring such a publication.
The Felton Star was indistinguishable from countless third-rate tabloids cluttering Washington newsstands, sensationalist garbage that serious people ignored.
Normal acquisition costs would run approximately $350,000, according to the report.
Abnormal methods could reduce that figure anywhere from $35 to nothing, depending on how abnormal one was willing to get.
Hoover considered the matter briefly, then delegated it to Ms. Gandhi.
With Jack Kennedy's inauguration approaching and Robert Kennedy assuming the position of Attorney General, the Director's schedule would become impossibly dense.
Subordinates could handle minor acquisitions.
Previous selection training sessions had been conducted in the headquarters' basement's cramped training facility. This year's unusually high enrollment had forced coordination with military authorities for expanded space.
Two locations were being considered: the Anacostia Naval Base in Southeast D.C., or the Marine Corps base at Quantico, Virginia.
During their drive home, Bernie speculated about which venue they'd draw. Theodore shifted uncomfortably at the mention of Quantico, a name that carried complex associations from his previous existence.
Bernie continued sharing intelligence gathered from veteran agents. The fourteen-week program is divided into ten weeks of training followed by four weeks of final assessment.
Coursework covered basic skills, legal procedures, evidence collection, weapons training, physical conditioning, plus practical applications including case simulation, interrogation techniques, inter-agency cooperation, and report writing.
The schedule was rigorous: reveille at six Monday through Saturday, lights-out at nine, with packed days between. Sundays offered limited freedom, with permission to leave base after one o'clock.
Bernie's excitement was infectious. He'd questioned every experienced agent in the building, accumulating details like an intelligence analyst preparing for infiltration.
January 4th arrived cold and dark. Seventy-five men from across the nation assembled behind the Justice Department building at dawn, their breath forming small clouds in the frigid air.
Three olive-drab military trucks waited with canvas covers snapping in the wind.
The trainees sorted themselves naturally into distinct categories. University graduates appeared nervous and over-eager, like young deer wandering into a lion pride.
Military personnel maintained a rigid posture and economy of movement, swaying expertly with the truck's motion.
Police detectives displayed varied backgrounds but shared the same predatory alertness, eyes scanning fellow passengers like searchlights sweeping a perimeter.
Initial silence prevailed as seventy-five strangers assessed one another, their canvas walls blocking out the outside world.
Theodore peered through a gap in the tarp and answered Bernie's question from the previous evening: they were heading to Quantico.
The detective beside him leaned closer, asking about the base's reputation. Everyone in the truck turned toward Theodore, hungry for intelligence about their destination.
Ed Cooper, a Marine sergeant from the rear of the truck, volunteered information about Quantico's Marine Corps training facilities. To illustrate the Marines' reputation, he shared a joke:
"A group of Marines gets sent to an Air Force base for parachute training, jump altitude: one thousand feet. Marines get nervous; send a representative to negotiate. Can we jump at five hundred feet instead? Air Force says no, five hundred feet isn't enough altitude to deploy a parachute. Marines are shocked: 'You mean we're supposed to be carrying parachutes?'"
Most passengers, including Bernie, erupted in laughter. Even Theodore chuckled at the self-deprecating humor.
Only two trainees remained stone-faced, Marines from Camp Pendleton and Camp Lejeune, flanking Cooper with stern expressions.
The laughter died abruptly as the Marines identified themselves.
After several seconds of uncomfortable silence, the truck exploded with even louder laughter, the detective who'd initially asked about accommodations nearly fell through the canvas opening.
That broken ice led to general introductions and rapid camaraderie. By the time they reached Quantico's gates, the truck had transformed from a collection of suspicious strangers into the beginning of a team.
Just after seven, their convoy passed through Quantico's security checkpoint. Marine sentries swept searchlights across the trucks, and conversation ceased instinctively.
They disembarked at a converted warehouse serving as a processing center. Two clerks sat behind a paint-chipped table beside stacks of manila folders and an ancient typewriter.
Each trainee registered their personal belongings, then received standard-issue suits, leather shoes, and briefcases containing "FBI Agent's Manual" copies.
After changing into their new uniforms, the group was marched to a long wooden barracks containing eight sets of bunk beds arranged in a row, like piano keys.
Theodore, Bernie, and several truck-mates were assigned together.
Everyone except the military veterans appeared stunned by the cramped quarters; most had never experienced institutional living.
The first day proved to be relaxed, with minimal supervision beyond the requirement to confine to barracks.
After dinner, Supervisor Black assembled all seventy-five trainees in the warehouse for an orientation speech.
Following Black's remarks, they returned to barracks for nine o'clock lights-out.
But sleep remained elusive after darkness fell. Harold Wilson, Theodore's bunkmate, wrote letters by flashlight, whispering as he composed.
"Dear Martha, today I actually touched a real FBI badge, "
Wilson was a Chicago detective who'd married the previous year. His romantic enthusiasm contrasted sharply with Billy Hawk, the Marine occupying the bunk above, who slipped into the latrine and emerged triumphantly juggling two bourbon bottles.
This feat earned unanimous approval from previously horizontal trainees, who sat up offering silent salutes.
Theodore marveled at how Billy and Harold had smuggled contraband past military inspection. The bourbon was shared democratically, leaving everyone satisfied and drowsy.
Soon, snoring filled the barracks.
Morning brought the surreal spectacle of seventy-five men jogging in business suits and leather shoes.
Complaints were universal. Harold Wilson nearly lost his shoe for the fourth time, pausing to jam it back on while muttering:
"This thing's harder to deal with than my wife."
Supervisor Black materialized behind him like a phantom, chrome megaphone in hand, amplifying his inquiry directly into Wilson's ear, "How difficult is your wife to deal with?"
Wilson's startled "Damn!" drew general laughter.
Nearby, Billy Hawk extracted a wrinkled tie from his pocket, whispering urgently to Theodore: "Buddy, help me get this thing tied."
Theodore examined the mangled silk, bewildered by its condition. He'd barely finished the Windsor knot when Black's sharp gaze swept between them, missing nothing.
After the supervisor moved on, Billy exhaled gratefully and offered a thumbs-up: "Thanks, buddy."
Before he could finish speaking, Billy slipped on wet grass and landed hard on his backside.
Post-run complaints were unanimous. Only a handful maintained a neat appearance; most had fallen at least once, their fresh suits now mud-splattered.
Amid general griping, formal training commenced.
Morning sessions covered legal procedures and forensic science. Theodore paid careful attention to the legal course, taught by hired local judges and retired prosecutors.
Rather than statutory theory, they focused on practical application, specifically, how to manipulate legal technicalities.
Today's instructor, an elderly local judge, spent two hours on a single topic: legitimizing questionable evidence.
He provided seven different methods, using scenarios like agents falsely claiming search warrants to enter apartments and find drugs, then making such discoveries legally admissible.
The presentation genuinely broadened Theodore's understanding of legal manipulation at the highest levels of government.
All trainees scribbled furiously, including Theodore, capturing every nuance of judicial gamesmanship.
The old judge appeared satisfied with their attention, reluctant to end his performance.
Forensic science generated more general enthusiasm. The FBI Laboratory instructor demonstrated fingerprint lifting techniques using clear, perfect prints on glass slides.
This elementary exercise failed to engage Theodore's interest; he completed the task in five minutes, showed the instructor his results, and then retreated to his notebook for sketching and theoretical notes.
The afternoon brought weapons and tactical training, including pistol marksmanship, vehicle interdiction tactics, building entry formations, and close-quarters combat.
These represented Theodore's persistent weaknesses. Despite months of practice with Bernie, significant deficiencies remained.
Theodore approached each exercise with methodical concentration, understanding that theoretical brilliance meant nothing without basic tactical competence.
Free time ran from five to seven, combining dinner with personal activities.
Evening study sessions from seven to nine allowed for group discussion and review of daily material. Nine o'clock curfew was rigidly enforced.
After lights-out, excitement persisted throughout the barracks. Men sat on bunks or tiptoed, discussing first-day impressions in hushed tones.
Harold Wilson continued his letter-writing campaign by the light of a flashlight.
Billy Hawk ignored the temperature completely, parading in boxer shorts while delivering animated commentary about inhumane shoe policies and impossible legal coursework.
After several laps, he retrieved the second bottle of bourbon from its hiding place, distributing shares with democratic generosity.
Theodore lay reviewing the day's lessons, surprised to find the training more valuable than anticipated.
The afternoon tactical instruction alone had provided genuine benefit, skills that might prove crucial in future fieldwork.
Perhaps Hoover's insistence on formal training wasn't merely bureaucratic harassment.
Perhaps even experienced agents could learn essential techniques from structured instruction.
The bourbon and exhaustion eventually prevailed. One by one, conversations faded into snoring as seventy-five future FBI agents settled into military-style rest.
Outside, Quantico's Marine sentries maintained their eternal vigil, protecting the next generation of federal law enforcement while they prepared for battles yet to come.
[End of Chapter]
__________________
Check out more than 65+ chapters right now! 🔥
👉 patreon.com/cw/Mr_UmU
https://www.patreon.com/Mr_UmU