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
“... 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
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