Chapter 7 – A Visit to the DEA
In the apartment hallway, Leonard and Sheldon returned triumphantly—but since the two weaklings genuinely couldn't lift a TV between them, Ron had to step in. After collecting a $20 labor fee, he effortlessly carried the TV up the stairs with one hand.
"Ron," Sheldon called out.
"What?"
"You… you hit him, didn't you?" Sheldon asked.
Ron grinned smugly. "Nope. I just had a calm and reasonable conversation with him—just like you would. The difference is, I'm more persuasive."
Sheldon: Yeah, right.
"But I saw him come down with a face full of bruises."
"Maybe he tripped in the hallway?" Ron shrugged.
Leonard subtly rolled his eyes. Honestly, seeing that jerk get a beatdown felt great—but now there was a new, powerful rival in the house, and that took all the joy out of it.
Ron seemed to read his mind. "Relax, I'm not interested in my new roommate."
"Uh? I didn't say anything," Leonard stammered.
Ron gave him a wink. "You didn't have to. I get it."
When they returned the TV to the apartment, Raj and Howard were already there. Penny, feeling generous, offered to treat everyone to dinner.
However, while she was saying that, her eyes never left Ron—making him start to question if moving in with Penny might have been a mistake.
For the sake of Leonard's romantic future, Ron politely declined the offer. Also, let's be real: there was no way to fit six people into one car. And if they took two, Penny would almost certainly ride with him.
As Ron pondered the philosophical dilemma of whether to "accept" or "accept" Penny's possible late-night sneak attack, reality gave him a break:
Nothing happened that night.
---
The next morning, Ron arrived at the DEA office lobby, feeling entirely unexcited.
As a responsible federal agent, he certainly wasn't going to put all his hopes in Toretto and his "friends."
The DEA, short for Drug Enforcement Administration, might sound like an old-school agency, but it's actually relatively young. It was only formed in July 1973, after President Nixon signed the infamous War on Drugs legislation. Like the FBI, it falls under the jurisdiction of the Department of Justice.
In terms of bureaucratic hierarchy, the DEA ranks below the FBI. Unless the case specifically involves drugs, most Americans barely think about the DEA—it's like the FBI's little brother.
On the other hand, Ron's own agency—the IRS, or Internal Revenue Service—has a much longer history. It was originally created during the Civil War, under President Abraham Lincoln, and falls under the Treasury Department.
Besides the IRS and FBI, there's also the CIA—the Central Intelligence Agency—under the jurisdiction of the Pentagon. Practically every shady American operation abroad has the CIA's fingerprints all over it. Together with the FBI and IRS, the CIA completes the trifecta of America's top intelligence agencies.
---
"Excuse me, miss. Could you tell me which one is Detective Hank?"
After flashing his ID to enter the DEA building, Ron turned on his charm, aiming a flirtatious smile at the matronly officer at the reception desk.
"Hank Schrader. If I'm not mistaken, he should be one of your assistant supervisors."
Ron had only caught the name from a TV broadcast the night before. He knew the man worked for the DEA, but beyond that, he was flying blind.
Unfortunately, Ron's usual charisma seemed ineffective against middle-aged women—she didn't even bother looking up.
"Second floor, corner office," she replied curtly. "There are already two FBI agents in there with him. Strange… seems like everyone wants to see him today."
Ron didn't respond. He simply strode upstairs and pushed the office door open without knocking.
"Hi there. Looks like I'm just in time, right?"
Inside, two FBI agents were seated on one side of the room, facing a stocky, short man—presumably Detective Hank.
One of the FBI agents frowned. "You should've knocked first. Who are you with?"
"I'm with myself," Ron replied, flashing his badge. "Ron, Special Task Force Leader, IRS. Just here to ask Detective Hank a few questions."
"Right now─"
"Of course, go ahead," Ron continued casually. "You all keep chatting—I'll just listen in."
He plopped himself down comfortably… right in Hank's office chair. The three men shot him irritated glares, but none of them said anything.
They couldn't afford to.
In theory, the FBI, DEA, and IRS are equals. In practice, however, there are subtle hierarchies. Both the FBI and DEA fall under the Department of Justice and often struggle with tight budgets. Their funding requests typically go through the Treasury.
The IRS, meanwhile, is the Treasury's golden child. One's a biological son, the others are adopted. Guess who gets preferential treatment?
And then there's the CIA—a whole different beast altogether. Its budget comes from military spending and, due to the covert nature of its operations, it also has access to… alternative funding sources. According to an unnamed Pentagon official, the CIA is practically a revenue-generating department.
Back to Hank—who ignored Ron entirely and continued his report:
"I identified myself, ordered the suspect to raise his hands, and face me. That's when I realized it was Tuco Salamanca. He had a gunshot wound to the abdomen."
"Wait—he was already shot when you arrived?" Ron's curiosity was instantly piqued.
Hank glanced at his superior, got a confirming nod, and continued, "Yes. I gave him another verbal command to raise his hands. Instead, he bolted toward the vehicle and opened fire. He was using an M16 assault rifle.
"I returned fire while seeking cover. He kept spraying bullets, but when he stopped to reload, I took the shot and killed him."
"Smart move," Ron said, clapping his hands—completely ignoring the sour looks on the FBI agents' faces. He then stood up and smoothly took the seat of the younger agent.
"I just realized something—you said you didn't recognize him until he turned around. Which means… Tuco wasn't your intended target, was he?"
Ron had picked up on a crucial detail.
"You're right," Hank admitted. "I was actually tracking a low-level dealer named Jesse. Got to him by tracing a license plate…"
Ron wasn't interested in the backstory and interrupted bluntly, "That's not what I asked. I want to know why you were investigating that license plate. Was it because of this?"
He tossed a small evidence bag with blue powder onto Hank's desk. The detective's face immediately went stiff with discomfort.
"No… I came across that lead while following up on a… personal matter."
"A personal matter? What kind?"
Hank hesitated. "My brother-in-law. My wife's sister's husband. He's been missing. Diagnosed with lung cancer. He… used to buy weed from that lowlife."
It wasn't easy for Hank to say all that aloud, and Ron could understand why. Still, that wasn't what he cared about. His interest remained fixed on the origin of the mysterious blue powder.
"Well, let's put that aside for now. I hope your brother-in-law makes it through his cancer," Ron said, somewhat sincerely. "Back to the case—accidental or not, you ended up killing a drug dealer. So what's the connection between him and the street punk?"