Two squads covered the homes of Williams's father, outside of Willis, and of the rest of his family, near Tomball. But the hours dragged on that Saturday with no sight of their man.
Eventually, as Easter Sunday dawned and family obligations loomed, Baker cut back to just four officers. He and a buddy took the watch at Willis.
Nothing much happened that Sunday, just more long hours bored to death in a car in the deep woods. Williams's father left once to pick up some supplies, but returned alone after an uneventful shopping trip.
"I said, 'We gotta call this off,' but [my colleague] told me I would kick myself if I did and Gary later showed up," Baker says.
Finally, at six that Sunday evening, the father drove off again. Trailing him on the deserted one-lane country roads ("You basically let him get out of sight for a while and then catch up and hope to God no one has gotten in or out of the car while you can't see him," Baker says), they followed him to a Shoney's Restaurant in Conroe.
"My partner grabbed eyesight of the vehicle and said, 'There's Daddy.' I looked over and I couldn't believe it. I said, 'Bro, that ain't Daddy, that's Gary.' "
Baker called "as many local backup units as I could," telling them to come in quietly so as not to set off a shootout in the crowded parking lot. Luckily for the officers, Williams and his father went into the restaurant for a leisurely lunch, allowing the pursuers to map out a plan to box in the car when the pair tried to leave.
And that's what they did. "It happened so quick I didn't have time to think," Baker says. "My partner had his M-16 out, and I had steel-toed boots that I crashed into the car door as loud as I could to startle them, and I just said, 'It's over, Gary, it's finally over.' "
The expected blaze of glory degenerated into a more pathetic scene. "He just started bawling like a baby," Baker says. "Then he said, 'You're so lucky I don't have a gun, because I would have shot you for sure.' Then he had a heart attack."
Just as Baker knew all about Williams, Williams had heard all about Baker from his family. "We were in the ambulance, and he's got restraints on, but he lunges at me and says, 'Just shoot me, Baker, just shoot me.' I said, 'Come on Gary, you know I'm not going to do that.' He got belligerent; then he started confessing to everything. He said he had robbed four banks in Phoenix while I was looking for him. He said he had come back to his family for one last visit before going out in a blaze of glory somewhere in a shootout because he knew if he went back to prison it would be for life."
His arrest came just days before he was to be named one of the Marshals Service's Top 15 fugitives, a move that no doubt would have given him pleasure.
After all the hours trying to put himself in Williams's shoes, Baker couldn't resist talking with him. "I stayed up all night rapping with Gary -- he's the most educated criminal I ever met, in terms of how the whole justice system was set up. He was a clever guy, and he thought he'd never be caught."
Williams stayed in a Conroe hospital for a couple of weeks. Eventually his family called Baker, asking to be allowed to make a bedside visit. "Normally that's not allowed, but I decided to let them. They knew I could've filed charges on them for hindering my case. In fact the Dad, when he called, he asked, 'Am I going to jail?' I just said no, I want to put this all behind me. The Dad was an old guy anyway.
"I like to think we have rules of engagement, and I hated to prey on and use the family like I did, but I knew they weren't being straight," he says. "But I also didn't feel it was worth government time and money to prosecute them for basically sticking up for a brother or a son."
Baker saw Williams one last time, when he escorted his prison ambulance to the federal medical facility in Fort Worth.
"We got there and unloaded him and I just said, 'Good luck, Gary.' He looked stone cold at me and just turned away without a word," Baker says. "That's the last I saw of him."
"The day I got him in custody, I thought I'd want to be throwing confetti, but instead you're just drained," he says. "With Gary, everyone knew how much it meant to me, so they had a little shindig when I went to work the next day. But it wasn't really a celebration for me. You realize it's done, and you realize you have to move on and put it behind you."
For now, after all the hours, all the tension, all the obsession, Gary Williams is fast becoming just another war story for Baker. While it may be a while before he gets caught up in another case like he was caught up in this one, his fascination with Williams has pretty much faded.
In fact, as he was being interviewed about the case, he had to admit that he had no idea whether Williams was still alive.
He isn't. He died June 3, a prisoner in a hospital in Fort Worth.
E-mail Richard Connelly at rich_connelly@houstonpress.com.
