by Reed Hill
“Surely did,” Westgate extended his hand. “Harlan Westgate. Thanks for coming. These boys here were right by the gate when they must have heard us talking. They came in mighty quick.” The tall man shook Westgate’s hand and turned to Brodie.
“Nick Brodie,” he stuck out his hand and shook with the tall newcomer, “we’re down from the Hunt and Ingram area and heard Westgate here. We just happened to be heading right by the campground, so we pulled in.”
“I’m Oliver Lott,” the man tipped his hat subtly. “What are you all doing down this way? You’re pretty far from Hunt?”
“We heard about the riots on the news this morning, so we set out to do a bit of a patrol over in Kerr County and Edwards County when we ran into Sherriff Johnson. He was in a jam over there with some wild hooligans causing trouble in Rocksprings.”
“That so?” Lott shifted his stance a little and looked at Brodie intently. “We’ve have a few problems of our own down here in and around Uvalde this morning.” He stopped himself when he saw the young man get up on his feet with the help of his friend and Mark Simmons. “Which is why we’re here too.” He and Brodie both looked at Westgate, “Tell us what went on here.”
Harlan Westgate swallowed the lump in his throat and looked at Brodie and then Oliver Lott, “Well, my boy over there was camping with the Boy Scouts this past Fourth and came home this morning without his compass. It’s a special one, one that my Daddy gave me when I was a kid, so we all came to go over the camp ground looking for it. We were looking for about an hour and were about ready to give up when a couple of trucks of damn Mexes comes in here waving their guns around, swearing and throwing beer bottles at us,” Westgate pointed to some broken glass by the railroad ties that indicated the parking area. “Anyway, they are hassling us, screaming at us and started putting the guns in our faces. The young ones didn’t take kindly to that – don’t guess any of us did much. It looked like they was about to leave when, Bud muttered something under his breath and the damn Mex shot him. I got on the CB and you answered, Mr. Lott, and we got to talking. A couple of minutes later Mr. Brodie here came on and happened to be right outside the gate.”
“Yes, we heard him,” Lott looked at Brodie. “Neighborly of you all to stop.”
“That’s fine,” Brodie shrugged a bit. “I’d want someone driving by my place to do the same while we’re out here. My wife and my boys and girl would appreciate that I’m sure.”
“Yes indeed,” Lott waved toward his guys. “Me and my guys here are part of group that has kind of spit-balled together this morning, trying to keep an eye on Uvalde County, helping out Sherriff Rincón. We’re watching out for anything happening in the north part of the county, and there are three other groups doing the same in the other parts.”
“That sounds good,” Brodie said. “One of my guys, Mac Harris,” Brodie waved Mac over. “Mac helped Sherriff Johnson put together a crew for the Rocksprings area earlier this morning.”
“We just came from over there about an hour ago.” Mac Harris extended his hand and the two men shook. “Johnson has a crew of about twenty-five now, including his deputy.”
Mark Simmons came over, pulling off the latex gloves he was wearing while he was tending to the boy, “I think he’s going to be fine. Just the same, I would take him to the clinic when you get the chance.”
“Thank you kindly,” Westgate shook Simmons’ hand vigorously. “I sure do appreciate it.”
“It’s good he’s going to be all right,” Lott pulled a business card from the front pocket of his jeans with a ball-point pen and wrote something on the back. “I’m guessing we should try to keep in touch over the next day or two.” He handed the card to Brodie, “That’s my landline and wireless on the front.”
Brodie scanned the card, which read:
Lott Construction,
141 E. Nopal Street
Uvalde, Texas
Oliver Lott – Proprietor
“On the back is the primary shortwave frequency that the Uvalde group is using, and alternative one for daytime and alternative two for night.” Lott looked at Brodie, “I assume you all have access to a shortwave for when the CB just isn’t gonna get it done.”
Mac Harris chimed in, “Yeah, I have a shortwave transceiver in my Tahoe. I have my tech license and fool around a little bit with it.”
“Okay, good. We have a handful of Hams in our group,” Lott pushed back his cutter hat and looked at Harris. “We’ll better be able to keep in touch that way.”
“That’s a great idea,” Brodie pointed to the card. “What I’d like to do is pass along these frequencies to the Rocksprings group and we can all stay actively talking. Something tells me this thing with the riots is just simmering – we may need each other more if it starts to boil over.”
“Sounds good Mr. Brodie,” Lott said. “We’ve made contact with a group to the south of us in Crystal City that is helping us watch over La Pryor and Batesville. Between us we’ve got about seventy men and a few more coming. ”
Brodie thought about the geography and figured they had a good hundred mile fence from Hunt down to Crystal City. “Well, that’s really something. That ought to help a bunch until the National Guard gets going here.”
“Well, Mr. Brodie,” Oliver Lott tipped his hat and waved his guys back to their vehicles, “I think you might have just a little more faith than I do. I’ve got a bad feeling about all this. You all call us on the short wave if you need anything.”
“Same goes for us,” said Brodie.
“Take care now – watch each other’s backsides,” Lott grinned and climbed into the passenger side of the cab of the big truck, and they were off down the gravel road.
*****
Bergstrom International Airport – South Terminal
Austin, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 11:40 a.m.
Deputy Assistant Director of the FBI, Kevin Margolis got out of the black Chevy sedan at the far edge of the west side parking lot of the South Terminal and put on his black aviator sunglasses. He could see the yellow police tape around the west side entrance of the low concrete building, and eyed police officers milling around the edges of the taped-off area. A quick count yielded roughly two dozen uniformed officers and perhaps ten plain clothes types wearing their badges around necks or visibly on their belts. The other two sedans pulled in next to his, and he waved the three Austin agents over to him.
Burke had been right. The small gray jet packed up and lifted off no more than five minutes after he got on. The flight on the corporate-style plane was fast. It was clear the flight crew had orders to make time if possible and they arrived in the main terminal in about ninety minutes. The Austin field agents were waiting for him in the main terminal lobby holding up a sign with his last name, like a chauffeur looking for some VIP. Margolis lightly shook his head and rubbed his forehead with his pale, soft palm. He needed focus and was a bit muddle-headed from the short nap he’d caught on the plane. The rest of the agents from the other two cars filed over and looked at Margolis, as they adjusted their belts and jackets.
“Okay, let’s head on over. Be strong and follow my lead. We’re here to help, but Ross-Brown was one of us, and she deserves a proper investigation.” Margolis patted the breast pocket of his cheap blue blazer, “Be assertive but don’t cross the line into the asshole range.” He turned and started toward the small gray building, and felt a drip of sweat roll down his back and a few beads forming at his brow line. This Texas heat is enough to kill a guy.
He was gratified and invigorated as the team of agents fell in behind him like a squadron of fighter jets. He strode at the tip of the formation toward the taped area, reaching in his jacket for his badge. He thought he could pull this off if he just played the role correctly. He summoned the confidence of Harrison Ford and walked under the police tape, lifting it above his head casually. A balding uniformed officer with a couple of stripes on his arm held up a hand, “What agency are you with? FBI?”
“That’
s right,” Margolis tried to deepen his voice half an octave lower than normal. “Who’s in charge here?” Margolis held up his badge and bureau identification, and the officer craned his neck sideways a bit trying to examine it. “Lieutenant Jackson from Homicide Division is here,” he pointed in the direction of a small, mustachioed black man in his forties, who stood talking with a young uniformed officer. “He’s over there with Officer Kerns right now.”
“Great. I appreciate the cooperation,” Margolis nodded to the officer and sauntered slowly toward Jackson. Margolis was pleased with how it was going so far. He stopped and looked around, although he had to admit he wasn’t looking for anything in particular. He turned his chin over his shoulder to the gaggle of bureau agents, “Guys, start taking notes of anything that strikes you as odd or out of place.”
When Margolis moved forward, Lt. Jackson spun toward him, taking a step forward. “I’m Eric Jackson, with Austin Homicide Division.” The pock-marked and cheeky detective extended his hand, “Ben Isaacson and I got here a couple of hours ago and are working the case for Austin PD with the help of Jim Lefevre from DPS.”
Margolis shook his hand firmly, “Kevin Margolis, Deputy Assistant Director, FBI. I’m running a Task Force here in Austin as of 1000 hours today for the Director.” Margolis kept his grip on the detective an extra shake or two, looking the shorter man in the eyes.
“I’m pleased to know the FBI is taking this seriously,” Jackson folded his arms across his chest. “Honestly, I was a bit afraid that some bureaucrat from D.C. was going to ride in here and try to take over.”
“We’re here to catch the son-of-a-bitch who did this.” Margolis put his badge away and stood with his hands on his hips. “The full force of the Bureau is behind this investigation.”
“Well, you’re welcome to hang around,” Jackson slapped Margolis on the side of the arm and turned when he heard the glass doors behind him open. “Not sure what you’re going to want to do for the time being, but we’ve secured the crime scene and prints are underway on the inside.” Jackson’s eyes fixed on the tall, gangly older man in the tan cotton sport coat and jeans pacing toward them from the terminal doors. He met Jackson and gave his thin silver mustache a quick smoothing.
“Photography is all but done, and fifty uniforms are sweeping the perimeter,” the older man adjusted the brown cowboy hat and met the gaze of Margolis. “Based on the blood splatter, I think the shot came from the southeast, so I would adjust the sweep team accordingly.” He squared up his hunched posture a bit and extended his hand to Margolis, “I’m Jim Lefevre – special investigator for Texas DPS.”
“Kevin Margolis, Deputy Assistant Director, FBI. I’m here leading a newly formed Task Force for the bureau.”
“Huh,” the tall old detective pushed his hat back a bit and placed his thumb in his belt. “That sounds important. What Unit in the Bureau you with?”
“Intelligence and Planning.”
“All right. Nice to meet you,” the old cowboy turned to Jackson. “The scene indicates a high velocity round, probably long range, so add that to the sweep team’s parameters. Tissue matter and overall spread of the site area would indicate large caliber, consistent with the previous range and velocity markers.”
Jackson glanced at Margolis, “Would you care to see the crime scene Mr. Margolis?”
“Of course.” Margolis turned to the Austin bureau men. “Go ahead and make any observations that seem noteworthy out here, guys. I’m going to accompany Jackson and Lefevre inside.”
Jackson frowned a bit and waved to the group, “Oh, the Austin guys can come in and look too. It’s fine. More eyes the better.” Jackson looked over at Lefevre, “Anything else you may have noticed, Jim?”
“Scene indicates a stationary target, so that extends the potential range we would be looking at as well.” The old detective turned with Jackson and headed toward the doors.
Margolis cursed himself inwardly. Somehow the old cowboy had disarmed him and seemed to reek of being ‘in charge’. “Okay, guys just be careful around the scene.” Margolis said loudly. “We don’t want to ruin any evidence.”
Jackson and Lefevre said nothing, but momentarily glanced over their shoulders at him. After pausing for just a moment, they returned to their conversation and went inside the terminal. Margolis quickened his pace a bit to catch up to the pair of detectives, but his legs seemed fatigued. He wiped at his brow where a bunch of sweat had gathered. The learning curve on this was steep. Margolis bared his teeth a bit. He was going to need to dig deep to keep pace.
*****
Outside San Antonio, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 11:40 a.m.
“Okay, I think this is about as polished as can be expected,” Chase rifled through freshly printed copy that Doyle had produced from a tiny portable printer he had taken from his laptop case. “Nicely done, guys. Go ahead and load it on my tablet if you would, Jeff.”
“You got it, Governor.” Doyle was happy he had become tech savvy in the years he spent in college. It had landed him a job in the computer center at UT while he worked on his Master’s degree, and had always set him apart, especially in the eyes of some of the old dogs around the administration and capital scene. It was never a bad thing to have those in politics thinking you were a smart guy.
“We’re about ten or fifteen minutes from Alamo Park, Governor.” Chief of Staff Lopez put away his wireless and sat slouched in the seat as they rolled through the northeast suburbs.
They passed Worther’s Wonderland resort and Doyle noticed the people out playing putt-putt golf and milling around the stage-shows and restaurant. He guessed that not everyone had dropped everything since the border riots started. I wonder how many of those folks realize there is a war raging a couple hundred miles from their fun day out.
“What’s the status on security?” Doyle shifted in his seat, put the portable printer away into the laptop briefcase and pulled out a computer cable and plugged it into his laptop.
“I’ve confirmed the double police presence with SAPD, but I haven’t heard anything about the mounted units,” Lopez straightened his white shirt a bit and patted down his thin black hair. “They told me that they will have two perimeters for the area, one that will be nearby, around the front doors and the main lawn area of the complex. The second one will focus on a wider radius around the walking trails to the sides and ends of the complex. They cancelled all tours for a couple of hours. They have shut down the main building, front entrance and lawn to the public starting at eleven o’clock, so the building and main grounds should be clear. The podium will be setup for us right at the door.”
“Okay.” Governor Chase re-buttoned the top button of his blue silk shirt and tightened up his tie. “What about our Ranger unit?”
“They’d like us at the inner perimeter flanking the Governor,” Lopez said.
“I’d recommend they stay close, but remain out of camera shot.” Doyle jiggered the cable and got the file downloading onto the tablet. “I think the optics would be better with the Governor against a clean backdrop of the structure.”
“Well, I’d like them fairly close, in case….they….need to move fast.” Lopez struggled to find the words he needed to make the point no one wanted to hear. “They are here for security after all.”
The Ranger in the front seat chimed in, “We’ll do whatever the Governor wants. You just say the word.” His companion doing the driving nodded deliberately.
“I appreciate that Billy.” The Governor smoothed his tie and shirt. “You guys stay close, maybe ten feet away on either side. You brief the guys in the other car, if you would.”
As the beefy Ranger nodded and gave a little tip of his hat, Lopez’s wireless buzzed again with an incoming call. Doyle was a bit thankful that his had been relatively quiet on the trip. That was the peril of the top job for the Governor in many ways – Lopez was a slave to the handheld wherever he went.
“Yes…okay….really? Damn…It’s good we were here.” Lop
ez was taking in a lot of information it appeared. He put his hand over the wireless looking at Chase and Doyle, “You’re going to want to hear this. I’ll put it on speaker.” He pressed a button on his phone and held it out among the three men, “Okay, Steve, back up from the beginning. Steve works in my office with Jeff. You’re on speaker here with the Governor and me.” By ‘Steve’, Lopez probably meant Steve Watkins, a media coordinator who was a year or two out of college. Doyle winced a bit at the association with such a junior staffer – the reprisals had begun over his little rebellion already. Jose “Joe” Lopez could sure be a spiteful son-of-a-bitch.
“Hello, Governor. We’ve had a turn of events here at the mansion while you all were away.”
“Yes, go ahead.” The Governor leaned in toward the wireless. “What’s happened?”
“Well, about fifteen minutes ago about a dozen black sedans and four or five black windowless vans with FBI markings on them appeared in front of the residence, sir. We only had maybe six or eight Rangers who met them at the door. All of the feds had sidearms sir, and we could see there were a bunch of guys out on the street by the vans who looked like black clad ninjas with ‘FBI’ on their vests. In all, there were about twenty men in dark suits and probably forty of the guys in black riot gear and machine guns.”
“Holy Christ…” Lopez muttered.
“Go ahead, Steve,” the Governor said. “What happened? Is everyone okay?”
There was a little bit of a pause. The air felt very heavy in the car, and Doyle loosened his collar as Steve continued, “The U.S. Attorney was here at the mansion again. He said he wanted to speak with you, Governor. We were forced to tell them that you all weren’t here. There was quite a bit of shouting and they made some threats. Jenny Perez and Marv Diaz got hauled off in handcuffs because they wouldn’t say where you were. Someone finally mentioned the speech at the Alamo and most of them hauled out of here after that.”
