Playboy Magazine South Africa November 2013 November 2013 | Page 83

Uniformed cops milling about. In Puerto Rico,
Jiménez explains, local officers, the police who
work for him, handle all crimes except murder.
Homicides are the province of the state police.
Captain Rafael Rosa Córdova. Plainclothes
brown suit, standing outside a small, singlestory home where earlier this morning a junkie
son robbed and killed his father. Córdova and
Jiménez embrace. Been too long, they both say.
If there were a Law & Order: Puerto Rico,
Captain Córdova would be its Jerry Orbach.
Hangdog, seen-it-all homicide investigator.
Dark, heavy-lidded eyes that dart like a
basilisk’s. Deep, husky voice; probably speaks
English, just not to me. Commissioner Jiménez
interprets. “Unlike previous published reports,
my investigation shows me that Camacho was
not the target of this attack. From what we’ve
learned so far it was a simple robbery.”
So the rumors that Macho was bankrolling the
drug dealer who died in the car with him are false?
Córdova, sad smile. “The other man in the
car was the intended victim. The shooters had
no idea that Héctor Camacho was sitting in the
car with him.” He adds that Adrián Moreno, the
other man, had a sheet: drugs, a weapons charge.
Macho did not – at least not in Puerto Rico.
“From what we understand, Macho and the other
man were just having a few drinks together.”
And probably a snort. I ask if the assailants
were after money or drugs. “When the shooting
began the perpetrators had no idea that Macho
was sitting in that car. Macho took the very
first shot. He was just in the wrong place at the
wrong time.”
And so it goes for half an hour or so. Small
talk about the neighborhood where the
shooting occurred, the early news reports
that had two suspects in custody. False alarm,
Córdova says. He admits that the police know
what kind of car the murderers drove, though
he won’t tell me the model. This implies
there are witnesses. And yes, he says, his
investigation has narrowed to two suspects.
“I am a professional,” the captain tells me
before I depart. “I put the same amount of
energy into any homicide investigation, no
matter the victim. That said, I do feel bad. Héctor
Camacho was beloved here on the island. I am
not unaware of that.”
Now he gives his old partner Jiménez a half
smile and clamps a hand on my shoulder. My
invitation to leave. “It’s an open case right now,”
Córdova says. “But yes, we’re going to get them.”
As we walk back down the hill I tell
Commissioner Jiménez that I sense there is
pressure – on the state police in general, Captain
Córdova in particular – to wrap this up.
“If you spoke Spanish you would have been
able to read between the lines,” Jiménez says.
“That last thing he said? I took it to mean that
there is going to be an arrest in this case soon.”
In fact, two months later several members of
Macho’s family phoned me. A teenager, I was
told, had been taken into custody in Puerto

“Da mn streets,” Machito
says. “I told him to
stay the hell off the
streets. I’d say, ‘You’re
old now. You have
granddaughters. Change
your life around, Pops.’
He’d just smile and say,
‘Everything’s good. I’m
the Macho Man.’



NOEMBER 2013

Rico and charged with the shooting. The killings
had been, as the captain had predicted, over one
of Moreno’s drug feuds. I felt then as I felt the day
Commissioner Jiménez and I walked down that
hill in Guaynabo. Macho. Wrong place at the
wrong time. Probably inevitable. Still prosaic.
Jiménez and I had driven away from Córdova’s
crime scene lost in our own thoughts, until the
commissioner broke the silence. “Such a damn
waste,” he said.
The Bronx. St Raymond’s Cemetery. Cold,
gray, overcast. Sad. Thousands of mourners. Old
pugs, bent noses, cauliflower ears. Kids hawking
Macho T-shirts from the trunk of a Chevy beater.
Flowers, tons of flowers. Macho’s younger
brother, Félix, organizing the procession. Keeping
his stooped and keening mother, María, upright.
She won’t leave the grave. Has to be dragged
away.
Couple of NYPD uniforms off to the side.
Crowd control. So young. One says, “So this guy
was a famous boxer, huh?”
I nod.
“Before my time. What was he, like, known for?”
“It’s Macho time,” I say and turn to leave.