The Demands of the Dead by Justin Podur

“I'll trade you some information. The killer is one man, military trained, possibly sniper trained, but not from any elite unit because he doesn't know any bushcraft. He wasn't wearing rubber boots and he didn't have a machete, which means he probably wasn't an indigenous Zapatista from Hatuey. And he didn't know the victims well enough to be emotional about them, though he definitely knew them, so I don't think it was a revenge killing. He had access to police and army information, coordinated with the saboteur of Gonzalez's rifle.
    “Even if the killer is from a drug organization, he is working with someone from Public Security. If we find the insider, we find the killer.” Also, there's a little villager somewhere in Hatuey that has seen the killer's face.
    “Unless,” Chavez said, “a rebel or supporter from outside took off his rubber boots, put down his machete, and used what he knew about our patrols to assassinate those boys.”
    “Possible. You find the insider, I'll look for the guerrilla. But now it's your turn to talk. What does Saltillo know that he's not telling us? Why did you ask aggressive questions to your superior officer, Beltran, in my presence? I know you knew Gonzalez, maybe Diaz too. What were they into? What happened between you and Marchese? Who are your informants in the rebel organization?” Besides the French-Mexican journalist who you were photographed with...
    Chavez stood up, kicking his chair away behind him. “Even though this is an interrogation room, Mr. Brown, this is not an interrogation. You told me almost nothing that I didn't already know, so you don't have enough to exchange, for all those questions. Good night.”
     
    At about 2am that morning, I got up to go to the bathroom. We didn't have our own in our quarters. Our bathroom was shared by design with everyone quartered in this hall. Practically, that meant we had our own bathroom, because I didn't think anyone else was quartered in the hall right now. I washed my hands, splashed my face with cold water, and heard two pairs of very quiet footsteps coming in. I rushed out, drying my hands on my shorts, thinking it better to face them in the hallway than the bathroom.
    Their faces weren't visible in the dark, but there were two of them in T-shirts and uniform pants, no weapons I could see, one stocky and short, the other tall and lean. Madero and Escalante. I walked directly toward them. They said nothing. Neither did I.
    No talking. Their plan was probably intimidation, then, and could have been intended for either Chavez or me. The idea would be the same as in interrogation, to leave no visible injuries while sending a message. Back home no one would have tried pulling this on me, their unarmed combat instructor. But I had no reputation here, unfortunately for these poor guys. I sighed.
    “Good evening guys,” I whispered.
    “Your partner is a traitor,” Madero said.
    So they were here for Chavez. But, Chavez being fast asleep, I suppose I would have to do.
    I slowed my breathing, stretched my neck, prepared. My mind started racing, and I didn't try to slow it down or stop it, saving all my will for the violence that approached.
    This was not planned to be an assassination, but a demonstration, an intimidation, a private message between cops. If these were predators, I would not have seen them coming at all. I would have been hit with overwhelming force, probably weapons, before I knew what was happening. Assassinating me – or Chavez for that matter – before our investigation had even really begun would bring more political trouble down on Public Security, on the bosses that these boys answered to.
    I considered them, probably working-class Mexicans, probably following orders, thinking they were about to get the drop on either an arrogant superior officer (Chavez) or an arrogant American (me). Then again, there were two of them, they were used to violence, and they were dangerous. I could tell by the way they