The Racketeer

him?”
    “Talk to him. That’s all. There’s no cheating husband or delinquent debtor. I’m not looking for money or revenge or anything bad. I just need to meet this guy and find out more about him.”
    “Fair enough.” Frank uncaps his pen and is ready to take notes. “Tell me about him.”
    “His name is Nathan Cooley. I think he also goes by Nat, too. Thirty years old, single, I think. He’s from a small town called Willow Gap.”
    “I’ve been through Willow Gap.”
    “Last I knew, his mother still lives there, but I’m not sure where Cooley is now. A few years back, he got busted in a meth sting—”
    “What a surprise.”
    “And spent a few years in federal prison. His older brother was killed in a shoot-out with the police.”
    Frank is scribbling away. “And how do you know this guy?”
    “Let’s just say we go way back.”
    “Fair enough.” He knows when to ask questions and when to let them pass. “What am I supposed to do?”
    “Look, Mr. Beebe—”
    “It’s Frank.”
    “Okay, Frank, I doubt there are many black folks in and around Willow Gap. That, plus I’m from Miami, and I have Florida tags on my little foreign car. If I show up and start poking around, asking questions, I probably won’t get too far.”
    “You’d probably get shot.”
    “I’d like to avoid that. So, I figure you can do the job without raising suspicion. I just need his address and phone number if possible. Anything else would be gravy.”
    “Have you tried the phone book?”
    “Yes, and there are quite a few Cooleys around Willow Gap. No Nathan. I wouldn’t get too far making a bunch of cold calls.”
    “Right. Anything else?”
    “That’s it. Pretty simple.”
    “Okay, I charge a hundred bucks an hour, plus expenses. I’ll drive to Willow Gap this afternoon. It’s about an hour from here, way back in the boondocks.”
    “So I’ve heard.”

    The first draft of my letter reads:
    Dear Mr. Cooley:
    My name is Reed Baldwin and I am a documentary filmmaker in Miami. Along with two partners, I own a production company called Skelter Films. We specialize in documentaries dealing with the abuse of power by the federal government
.
    My current project deals with a series of cold-blooded murders carried out by agents of the Drug Enforcement Administration. This topic is very close to me because three years ago my seventeen-year-old nephew was gunned down by two agents in Trenton, New Jersey. He was unarmed and had no criminal record. Of course, an internal investigation showed no fault on the part of the DEA. The lawsuit filed by my family was dismissed
.
    In researching this film, I believe I have uncovered a conspiracy that reaches the highest levels of the DEA. I believe certain agents are encouraged to simply murder drug dealers, or suspected drug dealers. The purpose is twofold: First, such murders obviously stop criminal activity. Second, they avoid lengthy trials and such. The DEA is killing people instead of arresting them
.
    To date, I have uncovered about a dozen of these suspicious killings. I have interviewed several of the families, and they all feel strongly that their loved ones were murdered. This brings me to you: I know the basic facts regarding the death of your brother, Gene, in 2004. There were at least three DEA agents involved in the shooting, and, as always, they claim they acted in self-defense. I believe you were on the scene at the time of the shooting
.
    Please allow me the opportunity to meet, buy you lunch, and discuss this project. I am currently in Washington, D.C., but I can drop things here and drive to southwest Virginia at your convenience. My cell phone number is 305-806-1921
.
    Thank you for your time
.
    Sincerely
,
    M. Reed Baldwin
    The clock slows considerably as the hours pass. I go for a long drive south down Interstate 81 and check out Blacksburg, home of Virginia Tech, then Christiansburg, Radford, Marion, and Pulaski. It’s mountainous terrain and a pretty drive, but I’m not sightseeing. I may need one of these towns in the near future, and so I take notes of truck stops, motels, and fast-food joints near the interstate. The truck traffic is heavy and there are automobiles from dozens of states, so no one notices me. Occasionally, I leave the four-lane and venture deep into the hills, driving through small towns without stopping. I find Ripplemead, population 500, the nearest hamlet to the lakeside cabin where Judge Fawcett and Naomi Clary were