WILD BILL ON THE TRAIL TO MIAMI

 Before there was an Alligator Alley most traffic from the Southeast Florida used US 41, the Tamiami Trail. And sometimes folks, for any number of reasons, used it to try to outrun us. Go barreling down 41 with us in hot pursuit seeing who either blew an engine, ran out of gas, or wrecked first.

It wasn't unknown for a NPD or CCSO cruiser to chase a culprit all the way to Krome Avenue (Highway 29) in Miami where they were greeted by an FHP roadblock. That's if they could get by the most formidable obstacle in their path: Dep. O.B. "Bill" McCrea, stationed at Everglades City. Bill owned the South Trail. And if he was on duty, no one got by him.

One evening, after midnight, I was on the east Trail, just beyond Boat Haven. I heard a rumbling engine sound coming up beside me. It was a new Mach 1 Mustang being piloted by a young rascal in a Marine uniform. He looked over at me, smiled, and insolently flipped his cigarette at my open driver's window. Then he burned rubber and took off like Uncle Dudd when he got caught in the Widder's bedroom. Bap, zoom, gone.

Well, I couldn't have that so I showered down on the Dodge 440. The car wasn't sickly by any means. A local FHP Trooper, Ed Crawford, had souped his up until it ran over 140 mph. But in mine it was boys versus men racing the Mustang, which  was soon a diminishing  dot on the highway ahead. Time to call for reinforcements. Radioed Dispatch to call the CCSO and see if Bill was on duty. 

Soon he was on our channel with his distinctive voice, flat, deep, and loud. Had to be. Bill drove at horrendous speeds with one hand on the wheel and the windows rolled down.  He had to talk loud to overcome the wind rushing by in the background.

I explained to Bill the situation. He said, "I'll be waitin'."

About twenty minutes later Bill radioed a short message, "He's here when you want him."

I hurried on down to the Everglades substation in the old Courthouse. I passed the Mach I parked beside 41, steam wisping from under the hood.

The Marine was handcuffed to an oak chair, shivering like a dog passing walnut shells. "Heeee shot at me," he whimpered, "shot my new car."

"My car was parked aside the road," Bill drawled, "in plain view with the lights flashin'. You didn't slow down so I had to get your attention."  And that's Bill had done. Stood out in the middle of US 41, cranked a round into his Winchester Model 94, put one right into the radiator of the speeding Mach 1.

Remembering back, at the time we didn't even think that was such an unusual thing to do.