The Demands of the Dead by Justin Podur Read Free Book Online Page A

and returned a minute later with a stack of photocopied papers. “Now you have the same material we have,” he said. “I'll get you for dinner in an hour.”
    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