The Murder of a Fed

Dee could hear the Hispanic station blaring Mexican music. As he eased up to Victor’s car just behind the open window, he glanced all around the parking lot, simultaneously easing his pistol from its holster. Within seconds, Victor Garza heard a click, then before he could move, felt the hard barrel of a 357 Smith & Wesson pressing hard against the side of his head.
   “Make one move, and you’re dead!” Dee said as he pressed the barrel harder against Victor’s head. Dee removed the barrel momentarily, just long enough to get into the back seat of the Bonneville, then placed the barrel against the back of Victor’s head again.
   Victor choked on his cigarette, then started to speak. He was interrupted by the barrel of Dee’s pistol being pushed harder at the base of his skull.
   “Don’t say one damn word,” Dee said. “Drive out of the parking lot.”
   “Where?” Victor asked.
   “Just drive,” Dee said. Pulling away from the parking lot, Victor said, “I have very little money mon, you can have it all.”
   “I don’t want your money,” Dee said. “I want your ass. Turn left here and get on the Interstate. Drive north.”
   “You one crazy Gringo, mon,” Victor said. “What the hell you want?”
   Dee pushed the barrel of the Smith & Wesson again. “Drive north on the Interstate, I’ll ask the questions.”
   Victor did exactly as he was told. He drove out onto Interstate 35, and headed north.
   “Does the name Dave Whitson mean anything to you?” Dee asked. “Or how about Jimmy Rutledge?”
   Victor did not answer.
   “When was the last time you were in San Antonio?”
   “I have never been to San Antonio,” Victor said.
   Keeping the pistol firmly against Victor head, Dee said, “Yeah, just like you don’t know Dave Whitson.”
   “Where we going, mon?” Victor asked again.
   “Just keep driving,” Dee said. “You’re doing fine.”
                                #
Just north of Laredo, on Interstate 35, Customs and Immigrations have a checkpoint manned by border patrol officers. Four lanes of traffic filter through the checkpoint twenty four hours a day. Dogs, sniffing for drugs, circle vehicles as they approach each officer. Border Patrol officers peer into each and every vehicle, asking all passengers if they are U.S. citizens.
   As Victor approached the checkpoint, Dee instructed him. “Get in the far right lane and stay there.”
   Victor eased the Bonneville up to the Border Patrol officer. Dee pulled his badge out just as the officer kneeled to look inside the vehicle.
   “Officer, my name is Dee Bolin,” Dee said, as he peered out at the officer. “I am a special agent for the U.S. Treasury Department. I have a gentleman here I need to interrogate. Could you assist me?”
   “You bet,” the officer said as he pointed ahead and to the right of all four lanes. “Pull over there out of the way. I’ll send someone right out.”
   Within minutes, two officers were standing beside the vehicle. Prior to removing the pistol from Victor’s head, Dee switched hands with the revolver, extending his right hand out over the front seat. “Kill the engine and place the keys in my hand, and do it very carefully,” Dee said. As Dee exited the vehicle, he glanced at the two Border Patrol officers. “Gentleman, I’m an agent with the Treasury Department. I need to take this man inside and have a chat with him. Would that create any problems?”
   “No sir,” a big tall Texan replied.
   “Thanks,” Dee said. “Would you mind cuffing him, and taking him inside and keep a close eye on him? I want to check his car.”
   “No problem,” the officer said, as he removed a set of handcuffs from his belt and at the same time motioned for Victor to exit the vehicle.
   Victor got out of the car and stood up straight. He spat at Dee’s feet as the officer placed the handcuffs on him. Dee smiled.