G-Men: Day Of The FBI

Brett
Dr.
English M01A
12 February 2013
G-Men: A Detailed Look into the Day of the FBI
“Banks are an almost irresistible attraction for that element of our society which seeks unearned money.” (J. Edgar Hoover). These famous words from the first Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation were a symbol of the start of America’s war on crime. This quote stood as a direct reference to armed and unarmed bank robberies in the United States. At the front of this ongoing crime war is the Federal Bureau of Investigation, or the FBI for short.
There are nearly fifteen-thousand robberies in the Los Angeles metropolitan area each year, but despite that debatably high number, crime rates are actually dropping at a rapid rate. Los Angeles Crime
The sun hung from the middle of the sky and seemed to almost liquefy the city below. The street reflected the heat like a tanning mirror placed beneath you. A car alarm echoed throughout the wide block before Bank of the West – an average looking bank painted tan with horizontal architecture that swept up the front of the structure. Two bullet holes plastered the echoing car like stickers placed meticulously on a movie set. Steam seeped from the engine block through the cracks of the hood and out into the blistering air, evaporating almost instantly in the blaze. A group of firemen detached the battery and doused the engine of the car with water, sending even more steam once again into the heated air. News reporters stood in front of bulky white vans, ducking the heat under sidewalk trees and overhangs from neighboring buildings. A bulky group of local citizens crowded behind police barriers surrounding the bank in an extensive ring. The barriers held back the murmuring crowd as chatter about what had happened drifted between their ears. An abundance of police officers stood around silently like mutes with sweat dripping from their brows, waiting for the detectives to finish and vacate the scene so they could do the
He was located now in Los Angeles. Patrick and his family had found a home in Newbury Park, about an hour out of Los Angeles where he was located. The Federal Building of Los Angeles was a large, rectangular structure that stood about fifteen stories tall. It was tan, not much different than the bank robbery scene before. It’s floors house all types of government justice department mediums: law figures, language specialists, accountants, and many more diversified duties, including detective and field agents. Patrick’s office was on the twelfth-floor. It was an archetypal looking office space – no special gadgets and gizmos, no tinkering lights and large computer monitors with thousands of numbers and text – just a flat, open office floor with five foot rectangular cubicles and lots of papers and folders – it was nothing like some Hollywood films portrayed. Filing cabinets surrounded the entire enclosure like guards. They held thousands upon thousands of documents containing God knows what. At what seemed like the front of the room was a mural plastered with a dozen black and white mug shots. Many of the faces were grizzled, evil looking men with dead looks in their eyes and sharp pointed brows etching down to a slight grim or maybe frown. There were also some women – benign looking women, some of them. Other’s looked like stereotypical trailer-trash junkies that were without a doubt,