Path To Justice
Chapter Three
Zack was grilling brats, peppers, and some zucchini on his deck overlooking the Yaak River while Drury was making a salad in the kitchen. Just as the brats began to split and sizzle, Zack
pulled them off the grill and yelled, “Ready, bring out that salad!”
“I can’t find any Green Goddess dressing.”
Zack shook his head in disgust, and yelled back, “I don’t think they’re making that green goo anymore. If you must have an artery stuffer, there’s a bottle of ranch on the side of the fridge, upper shelf.”
“Okay Detective, what is the game plan for this evening with our tenderfoot off-roaders?”
“Well Drury, how about just popping a few more PBRs, then going down to the Dirty Shame Saloon and listening to music. Let’s just forget the whole thing, probably wasn’t anything.”
“Hey wuss, man up! You know they’re up to something. We can check out the border and set up a few motion cameras.”
“Alright, but I’m not getting paid anymore to get shot at. You better not do anything stupid, as you’re known to do,” retorted Zack.
“Finish your last bite of brat. Let’s grab the motion cameras and head out. We should arrive at the border about an hour earlier than they were there last night,” said Drury.
Forty-five minutes later they were at the border. They veered right around the road barrier on the U.S. side, weaving between the pine trees before coming to a rusted out sign that read, Welcome to Canada. Looking around, they saw multiple sets of footprints. A couple sets looked like hiking boots, and one set like cowboy boots. Several prints led along the footpath to the U.S. barrier about 10 yards away, and other prints led in the opposite direction, towards the Canadian barrier. “Document those prints, get the measuring tape and photograph,” ordered Zack.
“I love it when you talk police to me.”
“While you are doing that Drury, I will walk over to the Canadian barrier and see if there are any recent vehicle tracks.” A couple of minutes later, Zack was at the Canadian barrier. He noticed wide tire tracks of a single vehicle, a vehicle that had taken up the entire width of the logging road. He took photos of the tire tracks, using a discarded Starbuck’s cup as a measuring aid. He decided to keep the cup as it may have been used by one of the bad guys to suck down a latte. Zack wasn’t a big fan of Starbucks. Pay twice as much for some fancy sounding coffee drink, and order snob-infused sizes, a “grande”, a “venti”? This is America, where we still speak English—it’s small, medium and large. Zack mused to himself, What is wrong with the clerk at 7-Eleven? I don’t need some Barista to serve me my coffee.
After Zack had finished getting himself riled up over one of his many pet peeves, he walked over to Drury. Drury said, “We better hurry and set up the motion cameras, they could be coming along in a half hour or so.” They found three suitable trees with branches to shield the camera bodies from the casual onlooker. They put some camouflage netting over each of them for improved concealment. The fixed, wide angle lens, would take digital photos of anything that moves in front of the lens. Wildlife photograph use the lens to capture reclusive predators like wolf, bear, and mountain lion.
They moved their quads back into the woods and set up with binoculars at about 200 yards from the border crossing. Each had different sight lines. They were silent for an hour, each standing in the same position. They were used to this, it was the standard dreary drill for wildlife photography. Drury broke first and walked over to Zack. “It’s more than a half an hour from the time they were here last night. I don’t think they’re coming.”
“It was your idea Drury, bringing me out here. We’re here, let’s give it another hour.”
“Zack, you’re an ornery cuss. You’re making me pay for dragging your ass along on this adventure.” Zack looked at Drury crosswise. “Okay Zack, another hour.” The hour crept by, nothing. They left.
They decided they weren’t going to go to the border every night in the hopes of seeing an exchange in person. A week later, Drury volunteered to exchange out the photo storage chips on the motion cameras to see what they had picked up. Later that afternoon, Drury put the first motion camera’s chip into the adapter for the computer. He began to scroll through the 50 photos. After a deluge of deer pictures, the last four shots were of a group of four men, some distance away, just within the outside range of the camera’s capacity to pick up movement. All four were Latino, one looked to have the same build as the slick Mexican, who had talked to Biker Sue at her real estate office. The first shot showed two of the men walking from the Canadian side, each carrying a duffle bag. The two who were standing with their backs to the U.S. side did not seem to be carrying anything. The time and date stamp on the photo showed it to be about the same time of the evening and exactly one week after Drury saw the two off road vehicles heading toward the border.
“What do you think Zack?”
“If the duffle bags you saw the first evening were drugs, then the two duffle bags from the Canada side could be payment for drugs delivered the week before. Down the line distributors often don’t pay for the drugs upfront. Instead, they pay off the “up the chain” wholesaler as they sell the drugs.”
Drury asked, “What happens if the drugs get ripped off before the distributor can pay his wholesaler the money?”
“He will find a way to pay or may lose his life. Only if there is a well-established relationship and the distributor is blameless for losing the drugs, will the cartel sometimes just write off the payments as a cost of doing business. Also, a pattern of timed exchanges isn’t unusual. The instructors at the California Narcotics Officers Association conferences that I attended, said, ‘Drug sales are a business, they’re in it for the money. Scheduled, routine drugs for money exchanges are more efficient.’” Zack continued, “There’s a good chance they’ll have another meet at the same time next week.”
Drury said, “The question is, do we want to be there for it?”
“Are you crazy? These guys aren’t carrying granola bars in their pockets, try guns.”
“Look Zack, we could set up a safe distance away, some 300 yards, and still get good photos with our A-game equipment. You could be on one side of the border and I could set up on the other.”
“No Drury, it’s time to go to the cops with this.”
“Zack, Sheriff Terry is a good guy and writes a decent accident report, but you know ten times more about this stuff than he does.”
“Do you understand what we may be getting into? What happens if one of those guys happens to run across one of us while they are passing contraband back and forth?”
“We’ll just play the stupid, local hick card, out taking pictures of wildlife,” said Drury.
“Well, it may be easy for you to play the stupid hick, because you are one. It’s not so easy for me.”
“Hey, I’ll give you a lesson—we all live in trailers, have an outhouse in the back, drink PBR and never graduated from high school.”
“Well, at least the PBR part is true,” said Zack. “You’re such an adrenaline junkie. Isn’t parachuting out of planes to fight raging forest fires enough for you?”
“Remember Zack it’s the off-season. I need my fix. Humor me.”
“All right, why do I let you talk me into this? I hope your life insurance is paid up and I’m the primary beneficiary.”
“If I had a life insurance policy, you’d be my primary beneficiary. Does that make you feel better Zack?”
“Yeah, a hell of a lot better.”
The next week, they were at the border by 5:00 p.m., some two hours before they expected the weekly visitors. Drury and Zack parked their respective quads close to where each was going to set up, one on either side of the border. It took awhile for them to find locations a few hundred yards out that still had at least a partial sight line to the border crossing. Zack was on the Canadian side, lying prone with his lens resting on a flat rock. He was able to see the crossing area under low lying tree branches. Drury had to climb five feet up a tree on the U.S. side, which afforded him a clear view. He had his lens propped against a tree branch and the trunk of the tree.
They discussed contingency plans if one of them were discovered. Drury suggested, “First, the ‘lucky” one will talk his way out of it, pretending to be alone, just taking photos of wildlife. If a gun comes out, start praying.”
Zack grimaced and said, “What a weak contingency plan. We better be able to B.S. ourselves out of this if the shit hits the fan.”
Drury replied, “Maybe we should have carried guns.”
“And look even more suspicious? We’d be outgunned anyway. We better get back to our locations—if they’re coming, it should be within 40 minutes.”
“Okay Zack, don’t worry, they won’t see us.” “Famous last words,” retorted Zack.
Thirty minutes later they heard the distant sounds of a vehicle approaching from the U.S. side. A minute later a similar sound could be heard from the Canadian side. Drury was first to see the vehicle on the U.S. side, the same Ranger off-road vehicle he had seen before. Just one this time, with two Hispanics inside and a couple of duffle bags. Neither one looked like the slick Mexican guy. Both were stocky with longish hair. Drury moved his camera in line with the expected meeting spot by the rusted out Welcome to Canada sign.
Zack was feeling an anxiety pit in his stomach, like an unwelcome old acquaintance. The Canadian vehicle was getting closer. Zack got a glimpse of it through the trees, an old, long bed pickup truck, with high clearance, probably had four wheel drive. Either a Chevy or a Ford. He lined his camera lens up with the expected meeting place.
Two men from the U.S. side came into Drury’s viewfinder, each carrying a duffle bag. From the sound of the Ranger’s idling motor, Drury believed they had just left it parked at the barrier that crossed the logging road. One of the men was talking on a cellphone.
Drury thought it must be a satellite phone because there’s no cellphone reception in and around Yaak. A couple of minutes later, two Hispanic men stepped into the clearing from the Canadian side, one of them carrying a duffle bag. Drury started clicking off photos, trying to catch the facial features of the men. He was able to get the two Canadians, who were facing his general direction, as well as one of the Hispanics from the U.S. side, who was looking around the area. They exchanged duffle bags, only meeting for a couple of minutes. It looked like words were exchanged, but Drury was too far away to hear what was said.
Zack was getting good shots of the faces of the two men from the U.S. side, but only saw the backs of the two from the Canadian side. He decided to risk calling out his Barn Owl hoot that he had learned for a bird calling contest in high school. Once you hoot like a barn owl, you never forget, it’s like learning to ride a bike. Zack let out a few loud, low hoots. It had the desired effect, and the two Canadians turned in his direction. Zack got a couple of good facial shots. Drury heard the hoots as well. He thought, What in the hell is a barn owl doing in this region? Their habitat doesn’t extend into northern Montana and Canada.
On the path back to their Ranger, the two Hispanics got within 150 yards of where Drury was set up. At the worst possible time, Drury let out a loud raspy cough. His lungs had been damaged by breathing in fire and he had a tendency to cough, especially when he tightened up from nerves. One of the men yelled out, “Who’s there?” Drury didn’t answer. For one of the first times in his life, he had nothing to say. The man approached Drury’s location and called out, “Show yourself!”
Drury responded with an irritable growl, “Shut the fuck up, you’re scaring the wildlife!” The Hispanic kept walking towards him. Drury got out of the tree, fumbled with his camera a bit, and started walking towards the man. “I’m coming out, your yelling scared away any animals.” They met 50 feet from where Drury had set up. The Hispanic had his hand on a gun stuck in his waistband. “Hey, relax man, it’s just ole Drury, trying to take some pictures of elk and bear.”
“Why are you out here with that fancy camera taking pictures when it’s almost dark?”
“That’s when the animals come out.”
“I thought you locals were all hunters, what are you doing with a camera?”
“What do you think I’m taking photos for? It’s to check where they hang out for next hunting season. How do you like my camera?”
“How do you like my gun, gringo?” as he pulled a gun from his waistband and placed the long black barrel against Drury’s forehead. “It’s not so funny now, wise ass. I’d like to see the photos you’ve been taking.” The Hispanic made the “request” as he continued to point the gun at Drury’s head.
“What’s with the gun, señor?” asked Drury in a deferential voice,
“I’m just mindin’ my own business, trying to get photos of bear.”
“Shut up! I’m the one asking the questions.”
“If you insist amigo, here is the playback button.” The Hispanic took the camera, pushed the button and saw a picture of a wolf, then a couple of grizzly bears, and finally some pronghorn antelopes. Drury said, “I took those a couple of weeks ago in Lamar Valley, Yellowstone. Do you mind putting the gun back in your belt?”
The Hispanic took a long look at Drury and Drury smiled. The Hispanic relaxed, and put his gun back in his waistband. “Big mouth photographer, it’s dangerous out in the woods at night. You never know what type of predator is roaming around.” He walked away.
Drury took a quiet few moments for himself. Blood had left his face and Drury tried to control his shaking. He thought, Maybe Zack was right, he might be too much of an adrenaline junkie for his age. He waited another couple of minutes before he heard the Ranger start up and drive back towards Yaak. Drury then walked to the border and met up with Zack. Drury told him what happened.
Zack’s only comment was, “You dumb shit. You have to do something about the cough.”
The next morning over coffee at the Yaak River Tavern, Zack told Drury, “There’s no next step to this self-initiated, reckless, civilian investigation. The fantasy is over. You’re lucky you didn’t end up with a few bullet holes in your carcass.”
“We can’t stop now.”
“Yes, we can Drury. I’m going to call the Director of the California Narcotics Officers Association and see if he has any ideas about whom to call about this. The accountant type did say he was from San Diego. By the way Drury, the only smart thing you did in all of this, was to delete the border crossing photos from your camera when the Hispanic called out. If you hadn’t, you would’ve been done.”
“It was a tough thing for me to do, delete the photos on the off chance he might want to see them. But I had confidence in you buddy, that you had taken the necessary shots, and you did.”
“Hello Jorge, this is Zack Reynolds, I used to be with Bakersfield PD. I attended a few of your CNOA conferences, four or five years back.”
“I remember your name Zack. What are you up to now?”
“I retired a couple of years ago and took what was left of my pension, after my ex-wife got ahold of it, to Yaak, located in the far northwest corner of Montana. Around Yaak there used to be only a few unruly bears and a couple of dopers to worry about, but that has changed. It looks like there is a drug smuggling operation into Canada, run by Mexicans and a white accountant out of San Diego.” Zack filled Jorge in on the entire story. Zack asked Jorge if he had any ideas about who to talk to about this.
“Well, do you remember Nick Drummond from the California Attorney General’s Office? He was the guy who lectured on money laundering and financial investigations at a few of the conferences.”
“Yeah, a big guy, in his early fifties, grumpy and sarcastic.”
“That’s him. He’s heading up a joint local, state, and federal money laundering task force in San Diego.”
Zack said, “I think I still have a copy of the Money Laundering
Manual he passed out, with his phone number in it.” “He had this mantra, ‘Follow the money,’” said Jorge.
“Good idea Jorge, I’ll give him a call. Even though I would love to see you, don’t bother to come to Yaak. We don’t need anymore people up here. Good-bye.”
Path To Justice
Chapter Three
Zack was grilling brats, peppers, and some zucchini on his deck overlooking the Yaak River while Drury was making a salad in the kitchen. Just as the brats began to split and sizzle, Zack
pulled them off the grill and yelled, “Ready, bring out that salad!”
“I can’t find any Green Goddess dressing.”
Zack shook his head in disgust, and yelled back, “I don’t think they’re making that green goo anymore. If you must have an artery stuffer, there’s a bottle of ranch on the side of the fridge, upper shelf.”
“Okay Detective, what is the game plan for this evening with our tenderfoot off-roaders?”
“Well Drury, how about just popping a few more PBRs, then going down to the Dirty Shame Saloon and listening to music. Let’s just forget the whole thing, probably wasn’t anything.”
“Hey wuss, man up! You know they’re up to something. We can check out the border and set up a few motion cameras.”
“Alright, but I’m not getting paid anymore to get shot at. You better not do anything stupid, as you’re known to do,” retorted Zack.
“Finish your last bite of brat. Let’s grab the motion cameras and head out. We should arrive at the border about an hour earlier than they were there last night,” said Drury.
Forty-five minutes later they were at the border. They veered right around the road barrier on the U.S. side, weaving between the pine trees before coming to a rusted out sign that read, Welcome to Canada. Looking around, they saw multiple sets of footprints. A couple sets looked like hiking boots, and one set like cowboy boots. Several prints led along the footpath to the U.S. barrier about 10 yards away, and other prints led in the opposite direction, towards the Canadian barrier. “Document those prints, get the measuring tape and photograph,” ordered Zack.
“I love it when you talk police to me.”
“While you are doing that Drury, I will walk over to the Canadian barrier and see if there are any recent vehicle tracks.” A couple of minutes later, Zack was at the Canadian barrier. He noticed wide tire tracks of a single vehicle, a vehicle that had taken up the entire width of the logging road. He took photos of the tire tracks, using a discarded Starbuck’s cup as a measuring aid. He decided to keep the cup as it may have been used by one of the bad guys to suck down a latte. Zack wasn’t a big fan of Starbucks. Pay twice as much for some fancy sounding coffee drink, and order snob-infused sizes, a “grande”, a “venti”? This is America, where we still speak English—it’s small, medium and large. Zack mused to himself, What is wrong with the clerk at 7-Eleven? I don’t need some Barista to serve me my coffee.
After Zack had finished getting himself riled up over one of his many pet peeves, he walked over to Drury. Drury said, “We better hurry and set up the motion cameras, they could be coming along in a half hour or so.” They found three suitable trees with branches to shield the camera bodies from the casual onlooker. They put some camouflage netting over each of them for improved concealment. The fixed, wide angle lens, would take digital photos of anything that moves in front of the lens. Wildlife photograph use the lens to capture reclusive predators like wolf, bear, and mountain lion.
They moved their quads back into the woods and set up with binoculars at about 200 yards from the border crossing. Each had different sight lines. They were silent for an hour, each standing in the same position. They were used to this, it was the standard dreary drill for wildlife photography. Drury broke first and walked over to Zack. “It’s more than a half an hour from the time they were here last night. I don’t think they’re coming.”
“It was your idea Drury, bringing me out here. We’re here, let’s give it another hour.”
“Zack, you’re an ornery cuss. You’re making me pay for dragging your ass along on this adventure.” Zack looked at Drury crosswise. “Okay Zack, another hour.” The hour crept by, nothing. They left.
They decided they weren’t going to go to the border every night in the hopes of seeing an exchange in person. A week later, Drury volunteered to exchange out the photo storage chips on the motion cameras to see what they had picked up. Later that afternoon, Drury put the first motion camera’s chip into the adapter for the computer. He began to scroll through the 50 photos. After a deluge of deer pictures, the last four shots were of a group of four men, some distance away, just within the outside range of the camera’s capacity to pick up movement. All four were Latino, one looked to have the same build as the slick Mexican, who had talked to Biker Sue at her real estate office. The first shot showed two of the men walking from the Canadian side, each carrying a duffle bag. The two who were standing with their backs to the U.S. side did not seem to be carrying anything. The time and date stamp on the photo showed it to be about the same time of the evening and exactly one week after Drury saw the two off road vehicles heading toward the border.
“What do you think Zack?”
“If the duffle bags you saw the first evening were drugs, then the two duffle bags from the Canada side could be payment for drugs delivered the week before. Down the line distributors often don’t pay for the drugs upfront. Instead, they pay off the “up the chain” wholesaler as they sell the drugs.”
Drury asked, “What happens if the drugs get ripped off before the distributor can pay his wholesaler the money?”
“He will find a way to pay or may lose his life. Only if there is a well-established relationship and the distributor is blameless for losing the drugs, will the cartel sometimes just write off the payments as a cost of doing business. Also, a pattern of timed exchanges isn’t unusual. The instructors at the California Narcotics Officers Association conferences that I attended, said, ‘Drug sales are a business, they’re in it for the money. Scheduled, routine drugs for money exchanges are more efficient.’” Zack continued, “There’s a good chance they’ll have another meet at the same time next week.”
Drury said, “The question is, do we want to be there for it?”
“Are you crazy? These guys aren’t carrying granola bars in their pockets, try guns.”
“Look Zack, we could set up a safe distance away, some 300 yards, and still get good photos with our A-game equipment. You could be on one side of the border and I could set up on the other.”
“No Drury, it’s time to go to the cops with this.”
“Zack, Sheriff Terry is a good guy and writes a decent accident report, but you know ten times more about this stuff than he does.”
“Do you understand what we may be getting into? What happens if one of those guys happens to run across one of us while they are passing contraband back and forth?”
“We’ll just play the stupid, local hick card, out taking pictures of wildlife,” said Drury.
“Well, it may be easy for you to play the stupid hick, because you are one. It’s not so easy for me.”
“Hey, I’ll give you a lesson—we all live in trailers, have an outhouse in the back, drink PBR and never graduated from high school.”
“Well, at least the PBR part is true,” said Zack. “You’re such an adrenaline junkie. Isn’t parachuting out of planes to fight raging forest fires enough for you?”
“Remember Zack it’s the off-season. I need my fix. Humor me.”
“All right, why do I let you talk me into this? I hope your life insurance is paid up and I’m the primary beneficiary.”
“If I had a life insurance policy, you’d be my primary beneficiary. Does that make you feel better Zack?”
“Yeah, a hell of a lot better.”
The next week, they were at the border by 5:00 p.m., some two hours before they expected the weekly visitors. Drury and Zack parked their respective quads close to where each was going to set up, one on either side of the border. It took awhile for them to find locations a few hundred yards out that still had at least a partial sight line to the border crossing. Zack was on the Canadian side, lying prone with his lens resting on a flat rock. He was able to see the crossing area under low lying tree branches. Drury had to climb five feet up a tree on the U.S. side, which afforded him a clear view. He had his lens propped against a tree branch and the trunk of the tree.
They discussed contingency plans if one of them were discovered. Drury suggested, “First, the ‘lucky” one will talk his way out of it, pretending to be alone, just taking photos of wildlife. If a gun comes out, start praying.”
Zack grimaced and said, “What a weak contingency plan. We better be able to B.S. ourselves out of this if the shit hits the fan.”
Drury replied, “Maybe we should have carried guns.”
“And look even more suspicious? We’d be outgunned anyway. We better get back to our locations—if they’re coming, it should be within 40 minutes.”
“Okay Zack, don’t worry, they won’t see us.” “Famous last words,” retorted Zack.
Thirty minutes later they heard the distant sounds of a vehicle approaching from the U.S. side. A minute later a similar sound could be heard from the Canadian side. Drury was first to see the vehicle on the U.S. side, the same Ranger off-road vehicle he had seen before. Just one this time, with two Hispanics inside and a couple of duffle bags. Neither one looked like the slick Mexican guy. Both were stocky with longish hair. Drury moved his camera in line with the expected meeting spot by the rusted out Welcome to Canada sign.
Zack was feeling an anxiety pit in his stomach, like an unwelcome old acquaintance. The Canadian vehicle was getting closer. Zack got a glimpse of it through the trees, an old, long bed pickup truck, with high clearance, probably had four wheel drive. Either a Chevy or a Ford. He lined his camera lens up with the expected meeting place.
Two men from the U.S. side came into Drury’s viewfinder, each carrying a duffle bag. From the sound of the Ranger’s idling motor, Drury believed they had just left it parked at the barrier that crossed the logging road. One of the men was talking on a cellphone.
Drury thought it must be a satellite phone because there’s no cellphone reception in and around Yaak. A couple of minutes later, two Hispanic men stepped into the clearing from the Canadian side, one of them carrying a duffle bag. Drury started clicking off photos, trying to catch the facial features of the men. He was able to get the two Canadians, who were facing his general direction, as well as one of the Hispanics from the U.S. side, who was looking around the area. They exchanged duffle bags, only meeting for a couple of minutes. It looked like words were exchanged, but Drury was too far away to hear what was said.
Zack was getting good shots of the faces of the two men from the U.S. side, but only saw the backs of the two from the Canadian side. He decided to risk calling out his Barn Owl hoot that he had learned for a bird calling contest in high school. Once you hoot like a barn owl, you never forget, it’s like learning to ride a bike. Zack let out a few loud, low hoots. It had the desired effect, and the two Canadians turned in his direction. Zack got a couple of good facial shots. Drury heard the hoots as well. He thought, What in the hell is a barn owl doing in this region? Their habitat doesn’t extend into northern Montana and Canada.
On the path back to their Ranger, the two Hispanics got within 150 yards of where Drury was set up. At the worst possible time, Drury let out a loud raspy cough. His lungs had been damaged by breathing in fire and he had a tendency to cough, especially when he tightened up from nerves. One of the men yelled out, “Who’s there?” Drury didn’t answer. For one of the first times in his life, he had nothing to say. The man approached Drury’s location and called out, “Show yourself!”
Drury responded with an irritable growl, “Shut the fuck up, you’re scaring the wildlife!” The Hispanic kept walking towards him. Drury got out of the tree, fumbled with his camera a bit, and started walking towards the man. “I’m coming out, your yelling scared away any animals.” They met 50 feet from where Drury had set up. The Hispanic had his hand on a gun stuck in his waistband. “Hey, relax man, it’s just ole Drury, trying to take some pictures of elk and bear.”
“Why are you out here with that fancy camera taking pictures when it’s almost dark?”
“That’s when the animals come out.”
“I thought you locals were all hunters, what are you doing with a camera?”
“What do you think I’m taking photos for? It’s to check where they hang out for next hunting season. How do you like my camera?”
“How do you like my gun, gringo?” as he pulled a gun from his waistband and placed the long black barrel against Drury’s forehead. “It’s not so funny now, wise ass. I’d like to see the photos you’ve been taking.” The Hispanic made the “request” as he continued to point the gun at Drury’s head.
“What’s with the gun, señor?” asked Drury in a deferential voice,
“I’m just mindin’ my own business, trying to get photos of bear.”
“Shut up! I’m the one asking the questions.”
“If you insist amigo, here is the playback button.” The Hispanic took the camera, pushed the button and saw a picture of a wolf, then a couple of grizzly bears, and finally some pronghorn antelopes. Drury said, “I took those a couple of weeks ago in Lamar Valley, Yellowstone. Do you mind putting the gun back in your belt?”
The Hispanic took a long look at Drury and Drury smiled. The Hispanic relaxed, and put his gun back in his waistband. “Big mouth photographer, it’s dangerous out in the woods at night. You never know what type of predator is roaming around.” He walked away.
Drury took a quiet few moments for himself. Blood had left his face and Drury tried to control his shaking. He thought, Maybe Zack was right, he might be too much of an adrenaline junkie for his age. He waited another couple of minutes before he heard the Ranger start up and drive back towards Yaak. Drury then walked to the border and met up with Zack. Drury told him what happened.
Zack’s only comment was, “You dumb shit. You have to do something about the cough.”
The next morning over coffee at the Yaak River Tavern, Zack told Drury, “There’s no next step to this self-initiated, reckless, civilian investigation. The fantasy is over. You’re lucky you didn’t end up with a few bullet holes in your carcass.”
“We can’t stop now.”
“Yes, we can Drury. I’m going to call the Director of the California Narcotics Officers Association and see if he has any ideas about whom to call about this. The accountant type did say he was from San Diego. By the way Drury, the only smart thing you did in all of this, was to delete the border crossing photos from your camera when the Hispanic called out. If you hadn’t, you would’ve been done.”
“It was a tough thing for me to do, delete the photos on the off chance he might want to see them. But I had confidence in you buddy, that you had taken the necessary shots, and you did.”
“Hello Jorge, this is Zack Reynolds, I used to be with Bakersfield PD. I attended a few of your CNOA conferences, four or five years back.”
“I remember your name Zack. What are you up to now?”
“I retired a couple of years ago and took what was left of my pension, after my ex-wife got ahold of it, to Yaak, located in the far northwest corner of Montana. Around Yaak there used to be only a few unruly bears and a couple of dopers to worry about, but that has changed. It looks like there is a drug smuggling operation into Canada, run by Mexicans and a white accountant out of San Diego.” Zack filled Jorge in on the entire story. Zack asked Jorge if he had any ideas about who to talk to about this.
“Well, do you remember Nick Drummond from the California Attorney General’s Office? He was the guy who lectured on money laundering and financial investigations at a few of the conferences.”
“Yeah, a big guy, in his early fifties, grumpy and sarcastic.”
“That’s him. He’s heading up a joint local, state, and federal money laundering task force in San Diego.”
Zack said, “I think I still have a copy of the Money Laundering
Manual he passed out, with his phone number in it.” “He had this mantra, ‘Follow the money,’” said Jorge.
“Good idea Jorge, I’ll give him a call. Even though I would love to see you, don’t bother to come to Yaak. We don’t need anymore people up here. Good-bye.”