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view those years ago, a stack of papers wasn’t going to distract me from it today.
    I divided the notes into four piles: the state, which I knew only a small amount about, the country, which I knew slightly more, a thick pile on the political situation, and a thin pile on the case itself. At the very end, Hoffman left me a detailed, printed itinerary for me - where I’d be, who I’d see, and when, for the next two weeks.
    On the one hand were government and party officials and power brokers, police and military officers, and US advisors. On the other side were rebels and rebel supporters, their foreign supporters, and the human rights community. Hoffman had pulled strings to get me military access and had given me letters from friends in Amnesty International to get me in with the other side. Somewhere on that side was Walter. Getting both sides to actually talk to me, though, was left to me, not Hoffman.
    I dug through to the case notes. Two police out on a patrol in the Lacondon jungle region. Pablo Gonzalez, 25 years old, from Tuxtla Gutierrez. Hernan Diaz, 24, from Ocosingo. Died of wounds from an automatic rifle at long range. Public security itself was conducting the investigation, but Hoffman predicted that by the time I landed, the office of the Procurador-General (their equivalent of our Federal Attorney General's Office) would be involved as well. Seguridad Publica had removed the bodies and conducted the autopsy. The ballistics were not finished. The police officers were found dead four hours after not reporting in, about sixty hours ago. By my count, it would be seventy-two by the time I got there. There were no witnesses known, but that wasn't necessarily going to slow me down. Forensics and ballistics both looked good, the local police were on the scene, and I wouldn't be surprised if there were witnesses to something . I would hardly be needed at all – it would be resolved in a few days and I would be able to get to finding Walter.
    After passport control, I was lucky enough to not be selected for an additional 'random' check as I went through the green-lighted doorway. My delay at Mexico City's Benito Juarez airport was short – just a few hours at the airport before catching a connecting flight to Tuxtla Gutierrez, where my contact from Seguridad Publica would be waiting. I would get a cup of coffee and put myself in Walter's head and try to think through where he would be. Or so I planned.
     
    As I walked out into the crowded Benito Juarez airport lobby, a young, pretty, red-haired woman in a gray skirt suit turned from idle conversation with a man built like a linebacker who'd skipped a couple of meals: tall, wide, thick arms, thick neck, but a small waist. As their conversation stopped and they focused intently on me, I recognized him, though he had both more muscle and less fat now than I remembered. I'd broken his thumb three years before. I saw the recognition, and the anger, flash across his face.
    “Mark Brown?” The woman asked.
    I nodded.
    “My name is Alexis Kenney, and I believe you know Joe Marchese, also formerly of the NYPD. We are with the office of the political attache at the Embassy here in Mexico City. We're here to take you to your briefing.” Her handshake was firm, and I got the distinct sense that she thought she was here to help me, not the other way around. There would be no coffee right now, and no time to think before flying to Tuxtla either. Whether Hoffman had booked this while I was on the plane, or forgotten to tell me, the right move was to play along.
    Marchese tried, not very hard, to crush my hand, but I pointed my index finger down his wrist and turned his hand up so his thumb faced me. “Ah, nice to see it's healed completely. Sorry about that, again.”
    He smiled and let go, shrugging. “Ancient history,” he said. “Good to see you here, buddy.”
     
    I started teaching unarmed combat seminars as an apprentice to Mr. Manley, but I started teaching cops