1960: My uncle is the FBI Director

Chapter 144 Mrs. Anderson

DC, Southwest District.

Charles Anderson is interviewing for a new job.

He seemed somewhat distracted, his gaze frequently sweeping past the manager and looking across the street.

It was an old apartment building.

The manager asked him about his work experience.

Charles Anderson snapped out of his daze and told the manager that he had worked at the Riverside Hotel.

Fearing the manager might not know where the Riverside Hotel was, he gave him the address in detail.

The manager knows exactly where the Riverside Hotel is.

He looked up at Charles Anderson:
"Is it true that a guest at the Riverside Hotel was murdered?"

Charles Anderson remained silent for a moment, then nodded.

The manager, intrigued, temporarily suppressed his urge to fire the man, put down his pen, and asked:

"I heard the person who was killed was a woman?"

Charles Anderson: "She's a prostitute."

"A bitch who'll do anything with her legs spread."

"I'll even take a dog if you pay me."

The manager asked him with great interest, "Really?"

Charles Anderson nodded vigorously: "Yes!"

He said:
"Some people advised her to respect and love herself, but she wouldn't listen."

Prostitution is a high-risk profession everywhere, especially according to Charles Anderson's description, and this is a low-end prostitute.

The manager remarked a couple of times, then asked, "Have you caught who did it?"

Charles Anderson did not answer this time.

The manager didn't pay attention, assuming that Charles Anderson didn't know either.

He then inquired with Charles Anderson about the situation at the scene and the condition of the deceased.

Charles Anderson spent most of his interview discussing the case.

The manager smacked his lips, still wanting more, and refrained from kicking the man out, considering that Charles Anderson had thoroughly satisfied his curiosity.

He waved to Charles Anderson:

"Come to work tomorrow."

…………

The linen room on the fifth floor yielded virtually nothing.

At least Theodore couldn't glean any useful information from those two pornographic books and the old radio.

They couldn't even confirm whether they belonged to Charles Anderson.

Bernie suggested checking out the staff locker room.

Charles Anderson closely matches Theodore's profile of the killer.

Theodore's profiling had never been wrong before.

Bernie already equates Charles Anderson with the murderer.

Whether by coincidence or accident, Charles Anderson happened to be off today, making it impossible for them to find him.

Bernie interpreted this as Charles Anderson absconding.

He was already treating Charles Anderson as the murderer.

The hotel manager was very cooperative and took the two to the staff changing room.

Bernie pried open Charles Anderson's closet.

The place was spotless; not even a piece of paper was left behind.

Bernie looked at Theodore:
"He ran away."

Theodore asked the hotel manager:

"Did you include Charles Anderson's address in your employee background checks?"

"Or his family situation?"

The hotel manager shook his head repeatedly:

"All we know is that Charles has never been to jail and has no criminal record."

Theodore asked him, "How did you know?"

The hotel manager looked somewhat embarrassed.

He admitted that he obtained the criminal record by contacting an acquaintance in the Third Precinct's archives.

They also contacted another acquaintance at the Federal Bureau of Prisons to help investigate the prison records. The other hotel staff's so-called investigations were all done in the same way.

Theodore wasn't interested in his actions; his focus was on the fact that the Third Precinct archives could find Charles Anderson.

They used the hotel's phone to contact Detective Thomas of the Third Precinct, asking him to look up Charles Anderson's file in the archives.

Detective Thomas remained as lazy as ever, indifferent to desires and unhurried.

He didn't even ask who Charles Anderson was or why they needed to investigate him; he simply agreed.

He has completely given up.

Thanks to the Third Precinct’s excellent record management system, Charles Anderson’s file was quickly located.

The address listed is in the Southwest District.

The southwest of DC was originally a slum, just like the southeast.

A few years ago, the government began a large-scale construction project.

Office buildings, commercial streets, government buildings... one high-rise building after another rises from the ground, continuously spreading from north to south.

The address in Charles Anderson's file is an old apartment building with a brick-red exterior.

That area belongs to an old neighborhood and has not yet been demolished and rebuilt.

Across the street from the old apartment building is a brand-new apartment building that was completed less than six months ago.

When Theodore and Bernie drove to the old apartment building, several construction workers were working outside.

Bernie learned from construction workers that by the end of this month, a large area around the old apartment building would be bulldozed to make way for new apartment buildings.

Construction workers told them that many residents had already moved out of the building.

Theodore and Bernie went up to the fifth floor and quickly found the target address.

The room was right at the end of the corridor.

Theodore moved quietly, drew his sidearm, disengaged the safety, and stood against the wall, guarding one end of the door.

Bernie held a gun in one hand, guarding the other end.

The only sound in the corridor was the whistling of the wind.

After a moment of silence, Theodore nodded to Bernie.

Bernie raised his hand and knocked on the door, but no one answered.

He knocked on the door again.

After a brief silence, the door opened, and an elderly woman with gray hair peeked out:
"Who are you looking for?"

She was slightly out of breath as she spoke, and after asking her question, her gaze fell on the pistol in Theodore's hand.

Before Theodore could make a move, she let out a scream:
"Robbery!"

As she called out, she backed away, trying to close the door.

Theodore blocked the door with his foot, took out his leather ID holder with his other hand, opened it, and held it out to the old lady:
"FBI!"

"Open the door!"

With that, he flung open the door and squeezed inside.

Bernie followed closely behind.

Neither of them paid any attention to the old lady, and instead entered the apartment according to the positions they had learned in the tactical training course.

The apartment wasn't big, with only a living room and a bedroom, leaving nowhere to hide.

After confirming there was no danger, the two put away their sidearms.

Bernie pulled out his ID:

"FBI Agent Bernie Sullivan."

He pointed to Theodore: "Agent Theodore Dixon Hoover."

The old lady stood in the doorway, watching Bernie warily. Without introducing herself, she went straight to the question:

"What are you going to do?"

Bernie asked her name.

Mildred Anderson.

Bernie turned around and looked at Theodore.

The apartment was very cramped. After he and Bernie entered, the space felt extremely narrow, and it even felt like it was difficult to turn around.

There was a worn-out sofa in the living room, against the wall, with a table in front of it, and in front of the table was a dark, old wooden cabinet.

The bedroom is behind the living room. There is a bed in the bedroom, with three sides against the walls, and a large wardrobe by the door.

These two pieces of furniture almost took up the entire space in the bedroom, leaving only a small open space near the doorway.

Theodore was standing in the bedroom doorway, observing the room. He looked over when he heard the old man's name.

(End of this chapter)