The Demands of the Dead (6 page)

I put my bags down, sat at the small desk, and started into the papers. Seguridad Publica around Hatuey (the military base where the cops were killed) took regular patrols along the trails and passes all day, sunrise to sunset. Gonzalez and Diaz had left the base promptly at 7am. Patrols were 2 hours long and a pair would do two a day. They were found by the next patrol at 9:45am after not reporting back. Gonzalez had been shot four times. Three in the legs and once in the head. Diaz had been shot eight times. Six in the torso, one in the arm, one in the neck. Seguridad Publica wore kevlar and helmets. The bullets were from two standard-issue american assault rifles, fired from over 70 feet from an elevated position east of the victims. They had been killed at about 8am. Gonzalez had died without firing a shot. Diaz had returned fire, two rounds. The casings were found, the bullets were not. The bullets in the bodies were the standard 5.56mm NATO cartridge accepted by most M-16 variants. This wasn't a sniper attack, just an ambush. Any US-made M-16 could have fired them. Mexico was awash in them. The army used them. Citizens owned them. The anti-Zapatista paramilitaries would have some. The Zapatistas would have them too.

There was a permanent army base at Hatuey but Seguridad Publica officers rotated in and out of service there. Police officers assigned to the base would stay two weeks then move to another station in the state. Gonzalez and Diaz had had all their patrols together at Hatuey. The day they were killed was to have been their last at the base. Both were scheduled to return to Tuxtla after – they would have been here, on this base, by now, in fact.

I took a look at Dr. Mesa's autopsy reports. I could see just by the placement of the bullet holes that this job had been done by a marksman of some skill. The distance was so short, so he wasn't technically a sniper, but he was a good shooter in a real situation. He’d taken aim – not for centre mass, as police were trained to do, but for specific parts of the body, the way snipers were trained.

The killer probably knew the patrol routes and schedules, and might even have known it was Gonzalez and Diaz’s last day.

I got up from the desk. I walked out of my isolated quarters and outside into the main compound of offices and barracks. A late night quiet had fallen on the fenced-in compound. Guards sat at a booth at the gate while cars drove past on the road every few minutes. I looked up. With 300,000 people's lights and smog, Tuxtla threw a blanket of warm, heavy air between its inhabitants and the stars. I was tired but I wanted to move. Chavez found me standing by the gate guards. They saluted him formally.

At the cantina at dinner, about 25 cops ate in a mess hall with room for twice that many. Whatever Chavez's feelings towards me, he was certainly popular on this base. I lost count of the number of back slaps, quips, and look-who's-heres. His appearance at the cantina with me made most of the cops much friendlier than any NYPD would have been with a foreign civilian. Chavez had brought me to eat with the grunts, not the brass, also an interesting choice. Even the best lieutenant I served under would not have done that.

I took my place ahead of him in the food line. He said to me: “I think we might have a hamburger tonight, but the rest of the choices are typical food, I'm afraid.”
Typical
made sense in Spanish, but not in English – he meant Mexican food. I got to the counter and ordered three chicken tamales and a pineapple Jarrito, and was satisfied when he ordered the same.

I ate my tamales silently listening to Chavez talk to his subordinate officers, and got the sense that he was a bit of an exception, like me. From my first day at the academy, the brass tried to groom me in a dozen ways – the Compstat analysis jobs, the fighting seminars, invitations to strategy meetings at One Police Plaza. They wanted to speed me through the ranks and put me on an administrative track. I wanted to close murder cases. I walked the line the best I could, recognizing that I had what most guys would call a good problem, and knowing that eventually I would have to make a decision.

Here was Chavez, a young guy at a high rank, investigating a politically sensitive murder and reporting directly to the Procurador General's office, arriving at headquarters late and eating with the rank and file instead of the Chief and his staff. As the rank and file drifted away, I was left alone with Chavez.

“Was Pablo Gonzalez one of yours?” I asked. His reaction to Gonzalez's body might be explained if the victim was under his command.

“No.”

When Chavez said nothing else, I stood up. “I am guessing, from your reactions, that you would rather be working on this with a task force from Mexico and not a contractor from the US.”

“The conflict is a Mexican problem. The victims are Mexican. How would you feel if you were assigned a Mexican partner on a homicide in New York?”

I held my palms up. “Lieutenant Chavez. You're right. The victims were Mexican. Surely the patriotic thing would be to catch the killers, regardless of who helps you to do it?”

He paused before standing up too. “Fine,” he said.

Walter would wait – the faster I solved this case, the sooner I could get to finding him. I hit the files again when I got to my quarters, worked late into the night, and got up early. When I returned to the cantina in the morning wearing my only suit jacket, many of the base's cops were already there, and quite a few were in full dress uniform, including Chavez. I ate quickly and Chavez drove us to the funeral in an unmarked white pickup truck from the motor pool.

The roads of Tuxtla roared with honking horns and the engines of motorcycles and run-down American cars. Mexican drivers squeezed their cars into spaces that Americans would never have tried, but Chavez claimed his lane and kept to it. He didn't weave or squeeze past the cars ahead. But nor did he let anyone pass him, or react to other drivers.

Two priests officiated at the standing-room only funeral ceremony. Most of the hundreds of men wore dark suits, while senior officers wore dark dress blues. Chief Saltillo sat in the front row, as did the victims' Base Commander, Beltran.

Saltillo's dress uniform hung slack on his soft body, hiding his un-military figure with clever artifice. Mostly bald, he wore a thin salt-and-pepper moustache that gave him a crafty look, one that complemented his crafty voice and theatrical delivery. Classic brass. A political animal all the way through. I wouldn't fear him in any dark alley, but survival in police departments was about rumor mills, whispers, and memos, and as he spoke, I got a sense that I would not want to battle Saltillo in that world.

“The darkest day an officer faces,” he said with his hands open wide, “ is the day that one of the men under his command is lost. Pablo Gonzalez and Hernan Diaz were killed in the line of duty, and they served their duty with honour until the very end. They made the ultimate sacrifice in protecting the people of this state. We will see to it that justice is done for them.”

Short and careful, flawlessly delivered, completely comfortable in front of a crowd. I knew the type. When they killed Shawn, I went to the Chief of Detectives myself and told him that I would go quietly, that I wouldn't talk to the press or make any trouble. He accepted my resignation with a knowing look like Saltillo had on.

Beltran was much more of a military man, tall and lean, straight-backed and clean-shaven, much lighter-skinned than Saltillo or Chavez. His speech was more stiff, but inflected with anger. Another dangerous man, I thought as he spoke, but in a different way. For all the outward displays of military discipline, Beltran struck me as less predictable and less controlled than his Chief Saltillo.

“... Gonzalez and Diaz were young men in their prime, with promising careers ahead of them. Their murder is a tragedy for this state, and for Mexico, and for all of us here. What they demand of us is that we do not make their deaths be in vain. We must continue this important work that we are doing. We must continue to do our duty and protect public order. Their memory demands no less.”

Given that the Mexican government was fighting a war here, and that these two police were casualties of the war, this funeral had a political importance. Saltillo promised that he would ‘see to it that justice was done’. A platitude, a promise to the families of the deceased, or a threat to the Zapatistas. Beltran’s saying ‘we must continue to protect public order’ may be a plea for continued support for the war.

From my vantage point at Chavez's right, near the back of the church, I studied the crowd looking for reactions. Gonzalez had been married, no kids. Chavez indicated to me where Gonzalez's wife was sitting, with Gonzalez's parents and two younger sisters. They were sitting with Diaz’s girlfriend and mother.

I wondered if the families would tell me anything. I would need to know what leverage might have been used on them before the killing. Gambling debts. Drug habits. One of Hoffman’s reports said the government had once tried to claim, unsuccessfully, that the Zapatistas were drug dealers, and the army presence in Chiapas was for fighting drug trafficking across the Guatemalan border.

None of the family members spoke at the funeral. We walked five minutes to the cemetery, following pallbearers in military uniform. The cemetery itself was more chaotic, more ostentatious, with larger and more adorned headstones springing up from the ground like trees in a rainforest, than I had ever seen in the US.

In the moments after the service ended, Chavez worked his way through the crowd, no doubt cultivating those who knew who the killer was and could solve the murder for him. I talked to the – tired and wary but helpful – families and got their addresses. I introduced myself to Commander Beltran and arranged to see him on base at Hatuey in two days. Then I worked my way over to Chief Saltillo, and was getting to asking him for an interview that night, when Marchese approached.

“Mark Brown,” he said. “I see you've met the Chief.”

They exchanged smiles. These two knew each other.

“Ah, Chief Saltillo, you know Mr. Marchese, from the Embassy.” But what was he doing here?

“All of us in Seguridad Publica are very grateful for Mr. Marchese and the whole program.” I nodded, not wanting to let on that I didn't know what the program was. Then, when no one said anything more, I made a wild guess. “When we were establishing our computer systems in the NYPD,” I lied, “Joe was a major help.” I actually had no idea what Marchese could do with computers, or much else, but it seemed plausible that what an ex-NYPD man at the US Embassy would be offering to state police in Mexico would be some kind of technology advantage.

“So you know,” Saltillo said. “There are so many more difficulties here, Mr. Brown. Even just getting the information.”

“I'm sure the training programs have been more successful,” I said, hoping that none of my platitudes would strike out completely. “So Joe, did you know Gonzalez and Diaz?”

“Yeah. They were good boys. Both of them. Really responsible, conscientious, hard working. Never complained, always lent a hand, always ready to learn.”

Chavez came over and joined our group. As Saltillo turned towards him, Marchese quietly peeled off. I followed him.

”Did they get along with everyone?”

“You’ve seen their files, right? Flawless records. Good boys. I hope you get those bastards who did this.”

“You think it was the Zapatistas then?”

Marchese looked around nervously at the mention of the name. There were a few small conversations still going at the funeral, but the families were gone and most of the cops had left too. He lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Of course it was the fucking Zapatistas. Listen,” he continued, “I’m only here a day or two longer but take my cell phone number just in case. I’ll be here in Tuxtla and maybe we can go for a beer—just us—before I head home.” He gave me a card that had nothing but a phone number written on it in blue ink.

As Chavez and I walked back to the car, I said: “Marchese was very keen to avoid you.”

Chavez started the car in silence. He turned the radio on and changed the station until he found mariachis. Then he cranked the volume and drove us back to the base.

When we got back we took bag lunches from the mess hall. Cold tamales, and plenty of them.

I had two hours before my meeting with Saltillo. I asked Chavez if I could have Gonzalez and Diaz’s personnel files and any records of when Marchese was at Hatuey. He said he could get the former right away and maybe find some logs on Marchese in an hour. I asked him to leave it all on my desk and went for a walk in Tuxtla.

I found a cybercafe by asking on the street. They gave me a Windows machine in a cubicle for half an hour with no protections against installing my software. I loaded the keys on, wrote a bland and decrypted message to Hoffman saying that I had arrived and all was well, and wrote an encrypted one to Maria.

“Hi honey. All is well here. I ended up dropping in at Uncle's house in the city earlier. They seemed like they were ready for guests, but did we not call ahead to say we were coming? Or maybe they had invited us but I forgot that I had been invited? Miss you, love, Timothy.”

I signed off using the ambassador's first name. Between that and “uncle's house in the city”, I figured her and Hoffman could figure out that I was talking about the embassy. I also took advantage of the role-play to add some affection.

I uninstalled the program and deleted all other signs that I'd been there. If serious computer people got this machine, they would get evidence of what I'd done, maybe even be able to recover the keys, but unless there was a keylogger already installed, they wouldn't get my passphrase. And I wasn't going to be coming back to this cybercafe, much less this computer. I paid in dollars, got pesos back, and went back out into the street.