“This is our guy,” the FBI SWAT team commander said, indicating me to the hundred officers dressed in camo fatigues before him. “He’s one of us. Don’t shoot him.”. We were assembled at 4:00 a.m. in the Alachua Police Department parking lot, the early-morning darkness broken only by the pole-mounted floodlights shining down upon us. A large oak tree spread shadows over the scene that seemed to swallow pockets of the troops assembled, shifting with the whims of the wind. A natural earth berm blocked any view of the group by cars cruising past on State Road 441.