The Execution by Dick Wolf

themselves of their own falsehoods.
    “I do not have time to argue the point,” she said.
    He sighed, playing the Mr. Sincerity thing to the hilt. “Look, you and I both know what a difficult situation we are in here. Everyone in this town feels it, myself especially. I’m sure you breeze in from Mexico City with your team of incorruptibles and you look at me and think, ‘Well, there’s another scumbag in the Zetas’ front pocket.’ Am I right?”
    She stared stonily at him and didn’t reply.
    “But I do my best. We all do. I take no money from them, ever, and do my best to offer security to the people of Nuevo Laredo. Sometimes I get up in the morning and hate myself for not being able to do more. But my best is all I have to offer here.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward her. “I want to help you. God knows these monsters are a plague on this city. Nothing would relieve me more than to be rid of them.”
    “Come right to the point, Chief. I have very little time.”
    “The witness is still alive. I know you’re here to interview him. Just let me sit in with you. Perhaps I can add something to his information. Or, if you like, I won’t speak.” He took off his coat, folded it neatly on the counter of the admissions desk, then took off his gun and handed it butt first toward Sergeant Chavez, who stood next to Garza. Then the chief held up his hands. “Harmless as a baby, see?”
    “And, of course, you would like to know what information this dying man might share.”
    “The crime did occur in my jurisdiction, Comandante.”
    Garza frowned. Still, Chief Ramos was a source of potential communication with the Zetas. If she did learn something, it might be fruitful to let them know she was onto them.
    He continued, “There are things I know. Connections I can make. Just let me help you.”
    Garza shrugged, as though the point didn’t matter to her. “All right, Chief. But you will remain silent. Not one word. If you speak, I’ll arrest you on federal charges of witness intimidation. Understood?”
    The chief made like he was locking his lips, then tossing away the key.
    “Lead on, O Comandante,” he said.
     
    THE WITNESS LAY ON THE BED, pale and looking weak. His upper chest and shoulder were now covered with a thick gauze bandage. Tubes connected him to the monitors. He had received two blood transfusions, but it would not be enough. Nor was surgery an option. He had lain out in the plaza too long.
    The young farmhand looked up at Garza. His faraway eyes sparked to something, perhaps her appearance. Her beauty was a useful tool. And this young man had been on his way to America: perhaps he was a born dreamer.
    “What is your name?” she said.
    “Manuel,” he whispered. “Manuel Pastor.”
    “Where are you from, Manuel?”
    “El Salvador.” His breathing was slow and labored and he winced each time he drew in air.
    “They have given you medicine for the pain?” she said.
    The young man—barely more than a boy—nodded. She studied his eyes. He appeared coherent enough for questioning.
    “Do you know why these people did this to you?” she said.
    The boy shook his head. “I paid a coyote to take me to the United States. We were in a truck. The truck stopped. Then some men burst in, dragged us out. I was hit on the head. Next thing I know, I’m lying on a pile of dead bodies in the back of this open truck. I tried to get out, but . . .” He raised his left hand, showing where the zip ties had left their mark on his wrist.
    “Who ran the coyotes? Were they Sinaloa?”
    The boy shrugged. “I don’t know nothing about that. I just paid a man.”
    “So you don’t work for the Zetas or the Sinaloas?”
    The boy looked at her without any apparent comprehension. If the boy was faking, he was doing a hell of a job of it.
    A nurse tried to enter, but Garza asked for another minute. Once they gave this man morphine, his intelligence would be lost, perhaps forever.
    She leaned closer to