The Life And Death Of A Mexican Hitman
Falko Ernst writing for International Crisis Group:
Grillo is here to kill.
Why? He can’t express a reason beyond that he’s been given a name and a face. Maybe he doesn’t need to explain any further than that. Maybe he just needs to be able to take orders from the cerro, the hills overlooking Tierra Caliente, the Hot Land, as this Michoacán region is known. Up on the cerro, the crime lords decide life and death for the people below.
Philosophy aside, Grillo kills because he’s paid for it, micha antes, micha después, half before, half after. It’s a performance bonus to complement the base salary of a sicario, or hitman, which is close to nothing.
[ … ]
On the Saturday before he goes to the park, Grillo is given a name and handed a photo showing a face, as usual. Then he spends the night in a safe house, a non-descript shanty on the outskirts of town, one in a warren of grey brick dwellings, unpainted and unfinished. Here, in the domain of the economically crushed, he’s right at home.
Inside, there’s just a bare, stained mattress with no sheets. The next day, he putters around until early evening, staring at the no-paint, no-plaster walls, wasting time on Facebook, uploading a post honouring his santita, his little saint, a death dispenser’s spiritual partner of choice. La Santa Muerte. The Holy Death.
[ … ]
Grillo’s got the face’s photo, but he needs confirmation. So he says the face’s name, when he’s just a few arm’s lengths away. The man turns around, and that seals his fate. Grillo delivers the death sentence with two shots to the face – always two shots. He’s got to be sure.
The face goes down, and Grillo leans over it. It’s part of what he does, his custom. He reenacts it for me later in the dimly lit, dusty track on the way up to his barrio, his neighbourhood in his birthplace of Apatzingán – a town known as La A in local narco-parlance – where we sit by the iron cross erected for another of his victims, struck down in exactly the same way.
There’s no life coming back to this one.
[ … ]
Grillo has a reputation in this part of town. And even if he didn’t, most folks wouldn’t want his type around. The crystal meth has gotten the better of him, his eyes beginning to retreat into his skull, his naturally dark skin fading to an ashen grey, paper-thin, precariously suspended over protruding cheekbones, threatening to rupture at any moment.
[ … ]
“Anywhere else in the world, psychopaths are a problem. But here, they’re an asset”, an adviser to the group tells me. Grillo is valuable to them – a psychopath perhaps, but a useful one.
Not to worry, I’m certain that there are no warlords or killers in any of the good folk coming across the border on a daily basis. As Jeb Bush said, “they come for love.” And I’m certain that there are no war refugees in the crowds either.
As I foretold, the troops at the border aren’t armed because they aren’t under arming orders and do not have border security as their mission. But even if they did, they should never use weapons and the borders should be flung wide open. If you don’t think so, you’re a hater and a racist. As I’m sure you’ve been told many times.

