Gangster Warlords: Drug Dollars, Killing Fields, and the New Politics of Latin America

by Ioan Grillo

  Overall, the feds shot dead more than fifty cartel members, Alvarez claims. Five federal police officers were killed and others were injured, he says. At least three civilians including an eight-month-old-baby died in the crossfire.

  The police officer Ramon had been drafted back to Mexico City after suffering an automobile injury. He was in the federal police headquarters in Mexico City during the battle, but was communicating with officers on the ground. He tells me a different story.

  As the firefights raged, he says, federal police lost more than fifty officers.

  “They got ambushed and couldn’t hold them. It was a total disaster.”

  If the claim is true, it would be the worst single loss for the Mexican security forces in recent history.

  When I visit El Alcalde in 2014, I find a veteran who fought with La Familia. Like many others he later flipped sides to join the vigilantes, and I talk to him at a barricade on the edge of the village. He describes how they ambushed a convoy of federal trucks on the road from Apatzingán, an account that fits in with Ramon’s version. I travel the route and it has several points that would favor ambushes, high ground over a narrow road.

  “We blocked the road on both sides and they were trapped. We had a good position and we just kept shooting. We fired thousands of bullets and grenades. It was a massacre.”

  I went to the Federal Police public relations department and described the testimonies I heard. Officials said they stuck to the number of five casualties.

  However, it makes sense that high casualty levels could have been hidden. Such a loss would have been devastating for the police, the Calderón administration, and the morale of Mexico generally. The losses could have been shifted to other stats. During the administration of Calderón, the security ministry conceded that 384 federal police officers were killed. They also admitted that at least forty-one disappeared.

  When Calderón first launched the offensive, the federales held ceremonies for the fallen troops. But they abandoned these at the end of 2010, precisely around the time of the battle of El Alcalde.

  Such losses would also be an incentive to the federales to make the claim they killed Nazario. The alleged death of the Maddest One took the spotlight off the police casualties. It made a mission that caused so much death appear worthwhile.

  Claiming a kill with no body was audacious. But the government went for it anyway. Security spokesman Alejandro Poiré made the declaration publicly at a press conference on December 10. He said they killed Nazario on December 9, into the second day of the battle. Four days later, President Calderón spoke of the death in an interview on Mexico’s W Radio.

  “Everyone knew about the fiesta, the meeting, the summit, and the principal leader fell,” the president said. “What happened was the severest hit to La Familia.”

  Four years later, he would eat his words.

  CHAPTER 41

  On a dirt road by the village of Holanda, amid wild bushes and twisted trees, are thirty-seven iron crosses painted white. The largest, over six feet tall, is for the Maddest One. “Nazario Moreno González, The Maddest One,” is painted on the horizontal bar. “Born March 8, 1970. Died December 9, 2010.”

  This site, deep into bandit country, is where Nazario and his henchmen fled the federal police but got trapped. Journalist Francisco Castellanos discovered it, visiting under the guard of the cartel itself. I come later when vigilantes are reclaiming the area. It is still a difficult place. As photographer Ross McDonnell and I take pictures, vigilantes watch nervously for cartel thugs.

  In front of the crosses is a shrine lit up by a lantern. At its center is a San Nazario statuette, like that in the Mexican army museum. For the narco cult of Saint Nazario, this was the holiest temple, their Mecca.

  When police first discovered the crosses, they said it was evidence that Nazario was dead, and believed his body was somewhere underneath them. Now we know he wasn’t, the crosses take a different light; they were part of an elaborate hoax to make us believe Nazario was dead.

  One giveaway could be the writing on the crucifixes. While some are adorned with typical narco nicknames, others have Muslim names including Muhammed, Abdul Azim, and Sulaiman. In some messages, a rival cartel had mocked La Familia, calling them Islamic fundamentalists on meth. Were La Familia hitting back at that joke? Or did Nazario, in his flirting with holy war, like making a link to Jihadists?

  * * *

  Other signs also pointed to Nazario’s death. One was a recording of right-hand man La Tuta addressing a crowd of supporters. The audio was leaked to Mexico’s biggest TV station.

  “God is with [Nazario] in his holy glory,” La Tuta says. “He is with you all, and he knows that he can count on you … Everyone get ready with their guns.”

  To this an old woman cackles out, “What lovely words, profe. This encourages me. Arriba La Familia Michoacana.”

  Decoding this audio gets into the crazed triple bluff of narco political espionage. The police might have leaked the recording, wanting to confirm the kill. But now we know that it was a hoax, it looks like Nazario was pulling the strings all along.

  The appearance of the Saint Nazario statuettes is also tricky to decode. When I reported on them at the time, I emphasized how traffickers had turned their fallen drug lord into a saint after his combat death. Now we know that Nazario had survived, the process of his “canonization” reads differently; he encouraged his own veneration, his megalomania reaching dizzy heights.

  It seems unlikely Nazario actually planned to fake his death. He wouldn’t have wanted the attack on his village, which almost killed him. But he took advantage of the government’s blunder, putting up the crosses and the Tuta ruse.

  Many would view a fake death as an opportunity to escape. Nazario was a multimillionaire from the meth trade; he could have run to the Caribbean and spent his life on a beach sipping daiquiris now that nobody would be after him. But Nazario didn’t see it like that. Most cartel bosses can’t walk away; however much money they have, their horizons are limited. They don’t want to sit in a villa in Italy or a ranch in Australia. They prefer to wallow in the hills of the Sierra Madre, romancing young village girls and being saluted by farmers, a king in a gangster kingdom. Nazario didn’t see his fake death as a chance to escape. He saw it as a chance to turn himself into a deity.

  The first action the ghostly Nazario took was to rename his mob the Knights Templar after the Jerusalem-based crusaders. The name shows how delusional the Maddest One was by this stage. (Operation Delirium …) But it also served a purpose. The concept of the Knights could create a tighter cult. The gunslingers became Templars, sacred soldiers. The red Templar cross became an identifiable graphic in safe houses and on guns, a brand symbol. The Maddest One even made up a coat of arms. Its shield has the face of Saint Nazario in the top left corner, Jesus on the right, a Templar cross on the bottom left, and an ax and mace on the bottom right.

  He also introduced a pocket-size Templar book of codes, listing fifty-three commandments the Knights had to obey. I am reminded of the manuals of the Brazilian commandoes. Like those, the orders were a mixed bag. Some stressed the lifelong commitment of being a Templar.

  “Every officer who has accepted being part of the group the Knights Templar of Michoacán is in it for life and cannot abandon the cause,” says order number four.

  Others play up the pretense of the cartel fighting for a righteous cause.

  “The Knights Templar will establish an ideological battle and defend the values of a society based on ethics,” says order number twelve.

  And others underline how the member’s loved ones were at risk if they messed up.

  “Any knight who betrays the Templars will receive the maximum punishment, their properties will be taken and the same fate will befall their family,” says number fifty-two.

  The Templar concept also allowed the Maddest One to expand his religious-warrior fantasy. He introduced ceremonies with the crusader theme, in which gangsters d
ressed up like knights to initiate new members or promote operatives. A federal police raid netted 120 plastic helmets used for these rites. It wasn’t all fun and fancy dress though. Initiates were made to cut up victims. And in some cases, they were made to eat the victim’s flesh.

  Naturally, this cannibalism has caused revulsion, even making headlines in British tabloids that hardly touch foreign issues. It is sad to sensationalize such depraved behavior. But it was a tragic fact, confirmed by federal police.

  People are often stumped in explaining how the gangsters got so sadistic. It perhaps helps to understand how the violence was institutional. It was not just individuals suddenly acting in evil ways all over Mexico. The cartels armed people and gave them the mission of carrying out terror, which brought out their most devilish behavior. It’s the same way that armies all round the world commit atrocities. But it can be worse when you don’t have a government to install some limits. It is like how African warlord Joseph Kony made child soldiers eat the flesh of their victims.

  The name Knights Templar confuses many observers who wonder why flesh-eating meth traffickers would call themselves after warrior monks. It is also odd as Nazario was evangelical. To add to the confusion, the Knights Templar put up banners welcoming Pope Benedict XVI in 2012 when he visited the Mexican state of Guanajuato, which borders Michoacán.

  “We want peace in Guanajuato. Don’t think about starting violence with the arrival of his Holiness Benedict XVI. You’ve been warned,” said one banner hanging from a bridge. The pontiff could rest assured that Nazario and his mob guaranteed his security.

  However, it is not worth getting too caught up in trying to decipher the contradictions of Nazario’s religion. Even he regards himself as nuts, the Maddest One. But however confused, his unholy ideology helped in controlling his cartel.

  The myth of Saint Nazario and his Knights Templar spread through song. Mexico’s trafficking heartlands feed an industry of bands that cheer on gangsters. Unlike many musicians who struggle to make their living, the drug balladeers have an effective business model. They charge traffickers per ballad and can make big money playing their private parties (which can mean putting up with days of drug-induced debauchery).

  Bands wrote dozens of songs about Nazario, La Tuta, Kike Plancarte, and their head-chopping henchmen. But the real anthem of the Knights Templar was performed by a California-based band called the BuKnas de Culiacan. Like all narco songs it was banned on Mexican radio. But it went viral on YouTube, alongside photos of the Templar coat of arms and dead policemen. The song salutes the mix of modern and ancient in the cartel.1

  They combine horses with new trucks,

  Swords and shields with Kalashnikovs and bulletproof jackets,

  The men are sturdy,

  They are from Michoacán,

  They were La Familia,

  But now they are called,

  The Knights Templar,

  Their fights are like crusades,

  From catapults and grenade launchers,

  From the little boars (50 caliber bullets),

  Trucks that are 4 by 4 and armored,

  They say they were like monks,

  And today they are guerrillas,

  They have their temples and their camps,

  They are brave bastards,

  But if you betray them,

  Or do stupid things,

  They are like the inquisition.

  (Chorus)

  They are under the command

  Of the most wanted,

  The one that they say was murdered,

  The story is another legend,

  The legacy of the macho goes on

  The madman that was converted

  To a Knight Templar.

  The Templars’ musical connections also gained media attention when it was exposed that a local diva was in fact the daughter of Templar boss Kike Plancarte. Melissa Plancarte was known as the Barbie as she resembles a Barbie doll. She doesn’t sing drug ballads, but croons a style called grupera—a Mexican poppy country music dominated by glamorous women. Melissa scored a moderate hit with a song called “Yo soy así” (“I’m Like This”), in which she rides a horse dressed in slinky clothes and argues with a boyfriend besides a waterfall.

  When local newspapers outed her for having a cartel father, they showed a photo of her dressed in Templar colors. In the picture, she wears a super-tight dress with a red cross covering her breasts while brushing her hair back and pouting her lips. For people who had lost family members and suffered kidnappings at the hands of the Templars it was too much to bear. Comments splattered social media calling for her head.

  “A career built on the suffering and pain of working and innocent people,” said a Facebook message.

  “You are pretty but it is shame you have no brain. He who lives by the gun dies by the gun and you are as guilty as your father to allow the abuse and do nothing,” said another.

  Children of drug traffickers have long moaned that they get punished for the sins of the fathers. Perhaps they have a point. You don’t choose for your dad to be a mass-murdering capo. But in any case, in show business, no publicity hurts too much. The Barbie Grupera was invited to speak on top Spanish language TV shows from Univision to CNN Español about her tribulations, boosting her online video views from thousands to millions.

  The rebranding of his cartel as the Knights Templar gave Nazario a chance to kick out those he hated. Only his most loyal followers were allowed to join the new gang. The rest stayed in La Familia, which the Knights Templar declared war on and drove out of Michoacán.

  This creates confusion and some reports have mistakenly said that the Knights Templar were a splinter from La Familia. Really, the Templars were the core of the cartel, and those who stayed with the name Familia were the splinter. Among them was Nazario’s old rival Monkey Mendez.

  In his later testimony, Mendez claims he broke with Nazario because the Maddest One’s thugs were extorting and kidnapping. Arrested Templars claimed the opposite and said they forced the Monkey out because his men were out of control. It’s most likely that both sides committed atrocities, but Nazario was jealous about sharing power and wanted an excuse to turn on his old comrade.

  The Templar gunmen rapidly exterminated the Monkey’s henchmen, leaving a pile of bodies outside Morelia. The Monkey fled Michoacán, only to be arrested by federal police in the quiet city of Aguas Calientes in June 2011.

  The remnants of La Familia were pushed into the neighboring Guerrero and the State of Mexico next to the capital. They continue to cause trouble there to this day, burrowing deeper into North America’s biggest metropolis.

  CHAPTER 42

  The lumps of iron ore lie abandoned in such titanic piles that they look like a metallic lunar landscape in the green hills. Soldiers shut down the mine here outside Aguililla as it belonged to the Knights Templar. But once they had confiscated the hundreds of tons of raw metal nobody knew what to do with it so they have left it to reflect the scorching sunlight.

  Next to the heaps of ore, I find a disgruntled mine contractor. Rolando Chavarria normally rents his truck to haul iron from the mine to the city, but he has been out of work since the soldiers put up clausurado signs. He squats under a tarp, cooking beans and tortillas.

  “It is good the government fights crime but what about us?” Chavarria asks over his boiling pots. “We need some income. I am going to starve to death if they don’t get this mine open again soon.”

  He is not alone. When they government finally cracked down on Templar mining in 2014, they shuttered more than a hundred pits in Michoacán. This took away six thousand direct jobs, according to the miners’ union. In total, security forces confiscated a mind-numbing seven hundred thousand tons of minerals, leaving heaps like the one in Aguillilla throughout these mountains.

  The amount of ore shows the Templars moved into the iron industry on an immense scale. But it was only one of various businesses they diversified into. They also hacked th
eir way into limes, avocadoes, cattle, construction, and real estate. In fact, it became hard to run any business in the Hot Land without the Templars wanting a piece.

  While Nazario always had his hands in different rackets, evidence indicates that the Knights Templar really took over the Michoacán economy from 2011 onward. American drug agents like to say that cartel diversification proves the war on drugs is working. As the feds hit Nazario’s network in the U.S., including operations Coronado, Delirium, and another called Knight Stalker (versus the Knights Templar), they bit into the cartel’s finances. Calderón’s military crackdown also put the cartel on costly war footing. The gangsters could have been forced to look for extra funds.

  But other evidence challenges this assertion. The Justice Department’s 2013 “National Drug Threat Assessment” concludes Mexican meth was more abundant than ever. “Price and purity data and increased methamphetamine flow across the Southwest Border indicate rising domestic availability, most of which is the result of high levels of methamphetamine production in Mexico,” it said. This glut had caused prices to drop, it said, but only because Mexican cartels were so productive; if anything they were victims of their own success.

  Nazario could have expanded his business portfolio because of pure greed. Like in legal corporations, the drive is to get bigger and bigger, swallowing smaller entities and breaking into new markets. Nazario and his lieutenants kept on wanting bigger mansions and more cars and recruited more people who had to be paid. The Knights Templar diversified because it could, and the government seemed incapable of stopping it.

  The Knights Templar’s first step into its new businesses was extortion. This had begun several years back when Nazario rallied residents to help them fight the Zetas. Many people began paying voluntarily, as the Apatzingán businessmen Alvarez describes; they believed that they should pay Nazario because the Zetas were worse. The mass graves the Zetas left in northeast Mexico were good propaganda to make this case.