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

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