CORONEL DANILO GONZALEZ

De cazador a cazado

Al cumplirse los 10 años de la muerte de Pablo Escobar, el oficial de la Policía clave en el operativo que lo dio de baja está siendo investigado por Estados Unidos por narcotráfico.

SEMANA revela su increíble historia.

Fecha: 11/30/2003 -1126

Al cumplirse los 10 años de la muerte de Pablo Escobar, el oficial de la Policía clave en el operativo que lo dio de baja está siendo investigado por Estados Unidos por narcotráfico. SEMANA revela su increíble historia.

Danilo González fue considerado uno de los oficiales más brillantes en la historia de la Policía Nacional. En el grado de mayor, hace 10 años, la DEA le otorgó la más alta distinción por su "abnegada dedicación en la localización del criminal más buscado mundialmente", Pablo Escobar. El reconocimiento fue hecho por Joe Toft, por esa época jefe de la oficina antidrogas norteamericana con sede en Bogotá, quien se hizo famoso por calificar a Colombia como una "narcodemocracia". Ahora esos mismos agentes que distinguieron al oficial por acabar con "el amo de las drogas" lo están investigando por sus relaciones con el cartel del norte del Valle del Cauca. ¿Pero cómo terminó uno de los mejores oficiales de la Policía metido en ese mundo?

En el Bloque de Búsqueda

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Danilo González Gil le dedicó 23 años de su vida a la Policía. Desde que estaba en la Escuela de Cadetes ocupó uno de los primeros puestos de su promoción y sus compañeros de curso afirman que desde entonces se perfilaba como un líder.

Su primera misión como subteniente fue acabar con la delincuencia en Barranquilla. En el grado de mayor fue el jefe antinarcóticos de la dirección de investigaciones judiciales (Dijin) y justamente por su formación en inteligencia fue seleccionado para conformar el primer Cuerpo Elite que tenía como misión coger a Pablo Escobar vivo o muerto.

Fue la primera etapa del llamado Bloque de Búsqueda cuando el gobierno de Virgilio Barco, en su lucha frontal contra el narcotráfico, conformó el grupo con 450 hombres del Ejército y la Policía. Se escogieron también a los 50 mejores hombres de la Fuerza Pública para el trabajo de inteligencia. En ese grupo estaba Danilo González, quien había recibido entrenamiento en Estados Unidos en interceptaciones telefónicas, escaneos, seguimientos y vigilancia.

Con esta formación los hombres del Bloque de Búsqueda iniciaron una persecución sin cuartel contra Pablo Escobar hasta que éste se sintió acorralado y se sometió a la justicia. Esta fue la primera etapa del Bloque de Búsqueda que culminó el 19 de junio de 1991 en el gobierno de César Gaviria cuando el capo fue recluido con sus lugartenientes en la cárcel La Catedral en Envigado.

La mayoría de los hombres del Bloque viajó al exterior a especializarse en criminalística, documentación, balística e inteligencia electrónica. El comandante del Bloque de Búsqueda, coronel Hugo Martínez Poveda, se fue para España. Y para Argentina viajaron los mayores Danilo González y Hugo Aguilar, en misión diplomática.

Muerte sin compasión

Durante el tiempo que permanecieron por fuera del país, los oficiales le seguían la pista a los últimos acontecimientos de La Catedral y cuál no sería su sorpresa cuando se supo la escandalosa forma en que Escobar y sus hombres manejaban el centro carcelario. Los medios de comunicación mostraron 126 fotografías en las que se veía el lujo de la prisión y el licor que se repartía a diestra y siniestra en las constantes rumbas del capo con sus hombres, sus familias y sus amigos. Mientras los colombianos y la opinión pública internacional no salían de su asombro, las autoridades carcelarias insistían en que no pasaba nada y que en el interior del penal se aplicaba un régimen carcelario estricto.

El gobierno se limitó a retirar unos televisores de pantalla gigante, unas tinas y lujosas alfombras. A pesar de la vigilancia del Ejército, se demostró con el tiempo que Escobar seguía siendo el amo y señor de la prisión, que el negocio del narcotráfico se movía como nunca desde sus oficinas montadas en La Catedral y que nadie atravesaba los cinco retenes militares sin su consentimiento.

Eso quedó demostrado el 3 de julio de 1992 cuando ninguna autoridad y mucho menos el gobierno, se dieron cuenta de que el capo y sus hombres, armados hasta los dientes, organizaron el acto de crueldad más horripilante que recuerde el bajo mundo de la mafia. Escobar supo por intermedio de dos de sus hombres 'El Tití' y 'El Chopo', que habían encontrado en una vivienda en Itagüí 20 millones de dólares que los hermanos Moncada y Galeano tenían encaletados.

Fernando 'El Negro' Galeano se presentó frente a Escobar pero el capo no aceptó razones y ordenó acribillarlo, cortarlo en pedacitos y quemarlo en una hoguera. Además dio la orden de matar a Mario Galeano y a William Moncada y a todos sus colaboradores. Más de 15 cuerpos sin vida y con señales de tortura fueron apareciendo en diferentes lugares de la capital antioqueña.

De la matanza se salvaron Rafael, uno de los hermanos Galeano y Rodolfo Ospina Baraya, nieto de la ex senadora fallecida Berta Hernández de Ospina. Los dos hombres atemorizados frente a la venganza de Escobar, decidieron refugiarse en las entrañas del bando enemigo de Escobar, el cartel de Cali, le pidieron protección a los hermanos Rodríguez Orejuela y resolvieron colaborar con la Fiscalía.

La muerte de los 15 hombres del cartel de Medellín fue registrada por las autoridades como un caso más de vendettas entre narcos. Sin embargo fue el más grande golpe que Escobar le propinó al corazón de la mafia antioqueña que sentía por 'El Negro' Galeano un incondicional aprecio. Desde ese mismo día la mitad de la mafia que estaba todavía con Escobar se volvió en contra suya y comenzó lo peor de la guerra.

Aunque el cadáver de Fernando Galeano lo habían desaparecido, una de sus hermanas decidió hablar de frente con Escobar y después de escuchar sin piedad cómo fue asesinado su hermano, salió de La Catedral y buscó a Rodolfo Ospina Baraya, 'El Chapulín', y le contó todo.

Lo que no sabía la mujer era que al otro lado de un espejo que adornaba la pared de la sala de la casa de 'El Chapulín', una cámara de televisión grababa su relato. El video fue entregado al fiscal general de la Nación, Gustavo de Greiff, quien lo puso en conocimiento del gobierno Gaviria y ordenó de inmediato que Pablo Escobar y sus hombres fueran trasladados a una guarnición militar.

Esa noche del 21 de julio de 1992, ante los insistentes rumores de su traslado y de los continuos movimientos alrededor de la cárcel, Escobar decidió fugarse con algunos de sus hombres. Sobornó a un grupo de soldados al mando del sargento Filiberto Joya Abril, quien posteriormente fue condenado a ocho años de prisión por desobediencia, favorecimiento en la fuga de presos y cohecho propio.

A partir de ahí comenzó una nueva 'cacería' en contra del capo y el Bloque de Búsqueda se reactivó con los mismos hombres que 13 meses atrás habían sido designados para otras tareas de inteligencia dentro de la Policía.

Pero esta vez la forma de acción tenía que ser diferente. La Policía sabía que no estaba sola en esta lucha frontal. Ahora Pablo Escobar tenía en su contra no sólo al Bloque de Búsqueda sino al cartel de Cali, al del norte del Valle, a los hermanos Fidel y Carlos Castaño Gil y a la mitad de sus ex aliados en el negocio de la droga que estaban dispuestos a vengar la muerte de los hermanos Moncada y Galeano.

Alianza con la mafia

Ante la necesidad de disponer de una infraestructura operativa muy fuerte y de dinero para financiar la guerra contra Escobar, se conformó un servicio de inteligencia paralela. Y se dio una alianza insólita, que no conoció los límites legales, entre los grandes mafiosos del país, los más temibles paramilitares y la Policía.

El cerebro de esta alianza fue el mayor Danilo González, quien coordinaba las reuniones en casas alquiladas y aledañas a la Escuela de Policía Carlos Holguín en Medellín. En esas viviendas se atendían un promedio de 20 informantes diarios y gente del bajo mundo de la mafia que estaba dispuesta a colaborar a cambio de "un buen billete" . En casi todas las reuniones donde se tomaban decisiones de logística sobre información, vehículos, hombres, armas y lugares a dónde actuar, estaban presentes el agente de la DEA Javier Peña, un procurador, un fiscal, Adolfo Paz o 'Don Berna', quien fuera el jefe militar de Fernando 'El Negro' Galeano, y ocasionalmente asistía Carlos Castaño, quien por esa época vivía en El Poblado de Medellín. "Nos reuníamos en una casa a una cuadra de la Escuela en donde vivía 'El Chapulín', quien tenía contacto directo con don Miguel Rodríguez Orejuela y era su vocero para cualquier decisión que se tomara", recuerda un narcotraficante consultado por esta revista.

Las reuniones eran amparadas por el gobierno y contaban con el aval de la alta oficialidad de la Policía. Al fin y al cabo el Estado había conseguido que los principales mafiosos del país pusieran a su servicio todos los métodos de lucha y todo el respaldo económico para ganarle la guerra a su archienemigo Pablo Escobar. "La orden fue impartida desde arriba y nos dijeron: 'si tienen que reunirse con el diablo, háganlo, pero hay que acabar con ese monstruo", le dijo a SEMANA uno de los hombres que perteneció al Bloque de Búsqueda.

Ya con carta abierta, el mayor González comenzó a tener acercamientos directos con Miguel y Gilberto Rodríguez Orejuela del cartel de Cali; y con Hernando Gómez Bustamante, 'Rasguño', Orlando y Arcángel Henao, Wilber Varela, José Santacruz Londoño y Helmer 'Pacho' Herrera del cartel del norte del Valle. Con los hermanos Fidel y Carlos Castaño, por parte de las Autodefensas y con 'Don Berna', el mismo que el pasado 25 de noviembre participó con Mancuso y Castaño en la entrega del Bloque Nutibara de las audefensas en Medellín.

Para financiar la guerra se creó un fondo común inicialmente con cinco millones de dólares y se calcula que la guerra contra Pablo Escobar costó en total cerca de 20 millones de dólares. Quienes participaron en esa alianza secreta recuerdan que 'Pacho' Herrera hizo el mayor aporte económico y la mejor información fue la que suministró un grupo denominado los 'Doce del Patíbulo', quienes en realidad eran narcos de Medellín y conocían a la perfección los negocios y movimientos del capo. Con su colaboración, lograron que la Fiscalía les diera el perdón, olvido e inmunidad por los delitos que confesaron.

Los jefes del cartel de Cali y del norte del Valle también aportaron su granito de arena. Miguel Rodríguez Orejuela no vacilaba en coger el teléfono y llamar al DAS o a la Dijin en donde los altos oficiales pedían el "santo y seña" para verificar realmente si se trataba del jefe del cartel de Cali. "Dígale que es de parte del canario", decía el capo al otro lado de la línea. Hay otros que recuerdan la agilidad de Varela -alias 'Jabón'- con la pistola. En ese entonces él era jefe de seguridad de Orlando Henao llamado 'El patrón de los patrones', temido hasta por los jefes del cartel de Cali.

Varela detectaba con facilidad a los hombres que trabajaban para Pablo Escobar, él mismo los capturaba y se los entregaba a la Policía. Y 'Don Berna' y su hermano 'Semilla', tenían la mejor red de informantes en la capital antioqueña y en el Valle de Aburrá. "En inteligencia si usted quiere información de los criminales no recurrimos a los conventos", dijo en tono enérgico a esta revista un oficial que por esa época hacía parte de la cúpula de la Policía y pidió reserva de su nombre.

Paralelamente a las reuniones oficiales en las cercanías de la Escuela de Policía en Medellín, se planeaban crímenes espeluznantes cuya autoría era del grupo autodenominado 'Perseguidos por Pablo Escobar' (Pepes). "Lo de los Pepes se volvió una cultura en Medellín. Mientras Pablo Escobar mataba 15 personas diarias, nosotros eliminábamos a cualquiera que se le arrimara a ese salvaje y le poníamos su letrero", le dijo a SEMANA uno de los hombres que integró el grupo.

"Identificar a los Pepes era imposible, sostuvo otro hombre que perteneció a este grupo. Eramos muchos. Pacho era el hombre rico y daba la liquidez que se requería para que estos trabajos fueran pagados muy bien".

Uno de los hombres cercanos a Escobar que logró salvarse de la venganza de 'Los Pepes' relata que "las amenazas eran directas. Querían acabar con nosotros, las instalaciones, las máquinas, todos los empleados, empezando por los pilotos y, lo más grave, con nuestras familias".

En ese mundo oscuro y tenebroso le tocó sobrevivir al mayor Danilo González . Se hizo 'amigo' de los grandes capos del país para recoger y evaluar información de inteligencia; controlaba la distribución del dinero de las recompensas y respondía por el buen manejo que se le diera a ese dinero. Actuó como un oficial de la Policía, pero al servicio de la 'guerra sucia' de la mafia.

Fue la información que aportó González, con la ayuda de la irregular alianza, que el 3 de diciembre de 1993, hace exactamente 10 años, un grupo de policías llegara hasta una casa en Medellín y, por fin, acabara con el narcoterrorista más odiado y temido, Pablo Escobar Gaviria.

Por ganarse la confianza de los capos y lograr con su ayuda dar de baja a Pablo Escobar, fue merecedor de las más altas distinciones. Pero tal vez su gran error fue conocer demasiado a los bandidos.

Esa alianza con la mafia le sirvió durante los siguientes años de su carrera policial. Cuando ocupaba la dirección de inteligencia del Gaula, el coronel Danilo González recurrió al narcotraficante Víctor Patiño Fómeque para liberar a Juan Carlos, hermano del entonces presidente César Gaviria Trujillo. Con la ayuda de Carlos Castaño mataron al narcotraficante del cartel de Cali José Santacruz Londoño, quien se había fugado de la cárcel. "Era un extraordinario oficial, recuerda un general retirado de la Policía. Asesoró al gobierno ecuatoriano en la lucha contra el secuestro y conocía a la perfección el mundo del narcotráfico. Esa inteligencia de Danilo permitió dar de baja a Gonzalo Rodríguez Gacha, 'El Mexicano'. Fue González quien coordinó que Miguel Rodríguez Orejuela infiltrara la organización de Rodríguez Gacha y diera la información que finalmente llevó a su muerte.

Sin embargo, en la época en que la Policía era dirigida por el general Rosso José Serrano varios oficiales que participaron en la operación que culminó con la muerte de Pablo Escobar fueron retirados. Se consideró que desde el punto de vista moral y ético no era permitido que un oficial que mantuvo relaciones tan cercanas con los miembros de los carteles del Valle, permaneciera en la institución.

Fue entonces cuando a González lo llamaron, le agradecieron sus servicios y le permitieron presentar su renuncia.

González quedó entonces entre la espada y la pared. Tenía enemigos a montones por su lucha contra la mafia de Escobar y ya no tenía una institución que lo protegiera. Así que buscó a sus antiguos 'aliados' los jefes del cartel del norte del Valle.

Durante cinco años la opinión pública nunca oyó hablar de él. Sin embargo entre los policías y en el bajo mundo el solo nombre de Danilo González pone a temblar al más corajudo.
En los últimos meses, y como una gran paradoja, el país que lo entrenó, le dio la bendición a sus oscuras alianzas y lo felicitó por haberles entregado a Pablo Escobar, hoy lo ha puesto en su mira. Lo está investigando por sus relaciones con el cartel del norte del Valle y su posible complicidad en el envío de cocaína a ese país. No les será una presa fácil de cazar

Danilo's war

The story of one officer's rise and fall in Colombia's drug wars illustrates the challenges police face.

By DAVID ADAMS, Times Latin America CorrespondentPublished January 3, 2005





BOGOTA, Colombia - On a chilly and overcast day in late March, mourners gathered at a police force chapel in the Colombian capital to bid goodbye to a fallen officer.
The ceremony was short and awkward. Despite Col. Danilo Gonzalez's highly decorated career stretching over two decades, there were no official police honors.
Only a handful of former colleagues turned out for the event. His family was not even allowed to speak.
Gunned down a few days earlier by a hitman, Gonzalez, 50, was once one of Colombia's top police intelligence officers.
He enjoyed unparalleled success in penetrating the drug trafficking underworld, working mostly in secret and often in close collaboration with U.S. law enforcement agents.
But the drug war eventually got the better of him, according to law enforcement officials in both countries. In May, federal prosecutors in New York named Gonzalez in one of the largest drug trafficking indictments in U.S. history.
Behind Gonzalez's fall is the story of how Colombia's war on drugs, backed by billions of U.S. dollars, has plunged this South American nation's ill-equipped and poorly-paid police into a whirlpool of corruption.
Gonzalez spent his career working in the shadows. Details of his police work began to trickle out only after his death, with many unanswered questions. Even today, U.S. and Colombian officials are reluctant to speak publicly about his record.
He tried to meet with U.S. officials to defend his actions.
"Certain circumstances led to what happened," he told one intermediary in a taped conversation. "I am certain that any authority will understand them perfectly."
But he died before he got that chance.
* * *
Born into a large, coffee farming family of modest means, Gonzalez grew up in the Cauca Valley, southwest of the Colombian capital, Bogota.
The valley's industrial-size plantations of sugar cane and neatly ordered plots of tropical fruits give it an innocuous look.
But over the years this verdant landscape has also been the scene of intense criminal activity, accompanied by horrific violence.
The Cauca Valley serves as a major smuggling route for drugs headed to the scrappy western port of Buenaventura, as well as north to the border with Panama.
The youngest of eight brothers and sisters, Gonzalez became the idol - and chief breadwinner - of his family after graduating at the top of his class from police cadet training school in 1977.
A handsome man of moderate height and lean physique, relatives speak of him in adoring tones.
Photos show him happily dancing at family gatherings, where he was always the center of attention.
By contrast, at work he shunned the public spotlight. Unlike the traffickers he is alleged to have associated with, he did not lead a lavish lifestyle. Colleagues describe him as reserved and unfailingly polite.
His life was full of such contradictions. That he ever joined the police was a surprise to the family. His father was a vocal leftist on the local municipal council. He was murdered in a land dispute when Danilo was only 5. The young man took after him, voraciously reading communist literature.
"We were revolutionary dreamers," said his sister, Gladys Gonzalez, a 53-year-old school principal. "We read a lot of Marx and Lenin."
Some of his friends would take up arms against the state, but Gonzalez turned down college and chose instead to join the police. "He wanted to learn how to use a gun," his sister said, believing at the time that he still planned the life of a revolutionary.
To everyone's surprise he returned home from two years of police training in Bogota a staunchly conservative law-and-order advocate.
In his early career he served in various stations around the country, including a stint in Cali, where he is alleged to have made his first contacts in the drug world.
By the time the Colombian government was confronting its first major drug cartel battle in the early 1990s, Gonzalez was already a major and a rising star in the intelligence field. He was chosen to join an elite police intelligence unit. The target was Pablo Escobar, the most feared capo of the Medellin Cartel.
* * *
To avoid extradition to the United States where he faced drug charges, Escobar had declared war on the state. The Osama bin Laden of his day, Escobar's men targeted politicians, judges and police, terrorizing major cities with car bombs.
In response, the United States sent in its own experts to back up a Colombian police "Bloque de Busqueda," or Search Unit. The U.S. contingent included the military's elite Delta Force, U.S. Navy Seals, as well as a secret U.S. Army spy team.
Gonzalez ran a network of informants for the Search Unit. Colleagues recall him as studious and cool under pressure; his guarded manner inspired confidence and loyalty in his men.
U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration agents recall Gonzalez as a gutsy officer. "He collaborated with us very closely," said Joe Toft, who headed the DEA office in Colombia. "He was definitely one of the best."
It was Gonzalez who made the first big breakthrough against Escobar's organization. Through his contacts he persuaded a group of traffickers - later dubbed "the Dirty Dozen" - to collaborate with police agents against Escobar. Eventually, other traffickers joined them, creating their own vigilante group that operated parallel to the joint U.S.-Colombian manhunt. They were a ruthless mix of paramilitary outlaws, cartel hitmen and white collar drug traffickers who called themselves "Los Pepes," a Spanish acronym for "Persecuted by Pablo Escobar."
U.S. officials were instructed to keep a distance from Los Pepes. The vigilante muscle came in handy, but U.S. rules prohibited the use of lethal force.
But U.S. officials worried that the Colombian police were running joint operations with Los Pepes. Money and information changed hands. Gonzalez was allegedly in the thick of it.
"There's a belief that a lot of money got to him," said Toft. "I think that was probably the turning point for him, unfortunately."
Allowing drug traffickers to have a hand in the manhunt for Escobar cemented the alliance between the police and the rival cartels that would go on to dominate the drug trade for the next decade.
Gonzalez's family defends him, rejecting any suggestion that he was corrupted by narco wealth.
"He did what was asked of him," said his sister, Gladys. "They needed someone to befriend the traffickers and get in-depth information on them. But he never became one of them."
Gonzalez drove a bullet-proof Land Cruiser and lived in a middle-class Bogota apartment with his wife, Luz Marina, and their four children. His brothers and sisters are now mostly retired and living on modest pensions from their careers. But counter-drug agents allege he quietly amassed a fortune in real estate, including several farms, and stashed his money in overseas accounts.
To be sure, it doesn't take much to corrupt a Colombian policeman. Salaries of $100-$200 a month make them especially vulnerable to temptation. Yet they share the burden, and risks, of the drug war with the better trained and equipped military. Before long traffickers were cutting in police officers on drug loads. Drug money flowed through the institution.
When Escobar was gunned down by Colombian police Dec. 2, 1993, Gonzalez was among several intelligence officers showered with awards.
"Because of your selfless dedication and willing sacrifices, the world's most sought-after criminal was located and killed," reads his DEA commendation. The certificate came complete with an autographed fingerprint of Escobar at the bottom.
* * *
Gonzalez was further rewarded with what one U.S. official described as "advanced investigative training."
After the fall of Escobar, Washington pressured the Colombian government to go after the Cali cartel. A new police chief had taken the helm in Colombia, Gen. Jose Serrano. He was considered a tough antidrug warrior.
Serrano is credited over the years with ridding the police of 8,000 crooked cops. But even Serrano couldn't afford to let Gonzalez go. Serrano needed him to pursue the Cali drug lords. No one had his infiltration skills.
"The feeling was that if we were going to go after Cali, we had to use Danilo Gonzalez," said Col. Oscar Naranjo, who was Serrano's right-hand man and now heads Colombia's Judicial Police. Naranjo knew Gonzalez well. They had studied together at the police academy. "He knew them better than anyone. He had gone inside their entrails. The information he had was amazing."
Only Gonzalez knew the code names and cell phone numbers of the main cartel bosses. The traffickers trusted him. His unique ability to move in both worlds gave him a power and influence unrivaled within the police. Prefering to stay in the shadows, he was happy to let his chiefs take the public credit for his work.
Dealing with traffickers wasn't Gonzalez's only expertise. He also turned his skills to kidnapping, a favorite fundraising device for Colombia's left-wing guerrilla armies. Once again, Gonzalez was ideally equipped. Through his early leftist activism in the Cauca Valley, he had gotten to know like-minded radicals who - unlike Gonzalez - had gone on to take up arms against the state.
Promoted to a key position as head of intelligence for the police antikidnapping unit, Gonzalez exploited those contacts to negotiate ransoms. As part of his work negotiating the release of kidnap victims, Gonzalez - and some of his superiors - allegedly collected part of the reward money.
He never discussed his work, said his sister, Gladys. She recalled that during occasional visits to his hometown of Buga, Gonzalez seemed withdrawn and obsessed with his job. "I'd hardly see him. I had to move the computer into his room, and I'd bring him coffee. He would lock himself away for days. Sometimes he went off to the hills and came back covered in mud."
Officials at the U.S. Embassy heard stories of reward money ending up in the wrong pockets, but lacked proof to confront officials. On one occasion U.S. Ambassador Myles Frechette raised it with Serrano, the police chief. He says he was brushed off.
But concern about corruption was offset by a number of high profile Colombian police operations that earned Serrano a reputation as the "World's Top Policeman."
In 1996 a largely unknown leftist gang kidnapped Juan Carlos Gaviria, the brother of Colombia's president, Cesar Gaviria. Police successfully secured his release in only three months, without paying a ransom.
"How did they do it, who knows?" said Frechette. "Their speed was really impressive. They clearly had penetration in a lot of places, penetration that made some of us very uncomfortable."
In fact, Gonzalez helped crack the case. Authorities suspected the kidnapping was the work of a little known gang called the "Gegas," according to Naranjo, head of police intelligence at the time. Gonzalez knew all about the Gegas from his left-wing contacts. After locating the group's head, he arranged Gaviria's release.
Also, in January that year a major Cali cartel drug trafficker, Jose Santacruz, escaped from jail, causing deep embarrassment to the Colombian government. Four months later the Cali drug boss died in what officials described as a shootout with police. Police chief Serrano proudly took the credit.
In fact, DEA officials say Santacruz was captured by one of Gonzalez's paramilitary pals, and delivered to the police. He was allegedly executed after being tortured into revealing where he kept his drug money hidden. While the government took the credit, Gonzalez was reportedly allowed to divide the $2-million reward with his paramilitary friends.
But by 1998 Gonzalez's underworld connections were a source of division within the police. The United States was pressing for better results in the war on drugs. The Clinton administration was promoting Plan Colombia, a $1.3-billion all-out effort to wipe about the drug trade. For Congress to go along with that level of spending there had to be zero tolerance for corruption.
Gen. Serrano's rivals within the police also wanted Gonzalez out. Some were outraged by his methods. They spoke in hushed tones about his associations with traffickers and paramilitaries. Agents at the DEA had also opened an investigation targeting Gonzalez and the North Valley Cartel.
A few months later Gonzalez quietly retired.
But, even out of uniform, Gonzalez wielded enormous authority. Active duty policemen continued to call upon his services, as did the drug traffickers.
Pedro Juan Moreno, one of Colombia's most vocal critics of police corruption and a close friend of then presidential candidate Alvaro Uribe, recalls receiving a unexpected visit from Gonzalez. Moreno had filed accusations against Gen. Leonardo Gallego - the head of the Anti-Narcotics Police and a longtime drug war ally of the United States - alleging misuse of funds and corruption.
Gonzalez asked to see Moreno over dinner and tried to persuade him to drop the allegations. "He was very sure of himself," said Moreno. "He was still the king."
* * *
A tall, fresh-faced cop noted for his openness, Col. Naranjo was clearly torn by what he calls Gonzalez's "ambiguity."
"He was a brave man," Naranjo said in a two hour interview. "But he was too weak personally when it came time to decide which world he belonged in."
His sister Gladys speculates that after witnessing so much police corruption, he may have had a hard time figuring out "who were the good guys and who were the bad guys."
Either way, when the net finally began to close in on the North Valley cartel, Gonzalez was caught on the wrong side. By 1999 the cartel was shipping as much as half of the cocaine headed for the United States, in coordination with major Mexican traffickers. An indictment would later accuse the cartel of smuggling more than 1-million pounds of cocaine, worth a staggering $10-billion.
Sensing their days were numbered, the cartel bosses were looking to get out of the business and cash in their assets. So, one by one they approached U.S. law enforcement agents to explore cooperation deals in return for reduced jail time. Mutual suspicion over who would be the next to turn set off a bloody vendetta between the potential snitches in the valley. Hundreds died. Eventually, Gonzalez realized that the time had come to make his own pitch for survival. Early in 2003 he contacted a Colombian fashion photographer in Miami, Baruch Vega, who had worked for years as a U.S. government informant.
Gonzalez offered to mediate the surrender of the entire cartel. "There's a lot of people willing to cooperate with information," he told Vega, who tape-recorded their conversations.
During hours of discussions, Gonzalez admitted to knowing "every drug trafficker, almost without exception," but he insisted he had an explanation. "In one or another form I received information from them," he said.
He claimed that since leaving the police he had dedicated himself to raising cattle and had never been directly involved in drug trafficking. He was willing to meet with U.S. officials and discuss surrender terms. "If there's something that has to be resolved I am willing to do it," he said. "Otherwise I can never live in peace."
But Gonzalez's world was caving in. A new, deeper purge within the police force had removed some of his key allies, including Gallego, the antinarcotics chief.
A number of corrupt prosecutors in the cartel's pay were exposed and fired. Gonzalez had nowhere left to turn for protection. In January, he called Naranjo, his old friend and now Colombia's top drug cop. "He said he was talking to the DEA," Naranjo recalled, "but they were being very tough."
The Justice Department was already putting the finishing touches on an indictment in New York naming Gonzalez an an "enforcer" for the North Valley cartel, accusing him of drug trafficking and money laundering, as well as bribery of government officials, kidnapping, torture and murder.
The week before he was gunned down, his sister Gladys was attending an education conference in Bogota. They sat down for drinks. It was the last time she would see him alive.
He'd never looked so down, she recalls. He was sad and distant. She told him to get out of Colombia.
Gladys figured she'd pick up the newspaper any day and read that her brother had surrendered to the DEA. It wasn't fair, but it was the only way to save himself, she thought.
But Gonzalez never made it to the U.S. Embassy.
On the morning of March 25, he was in his lawyers' office in Bogota arranging the last details of his surrender when he was summoned downstairs.
Someone needed to see him urgently. At the bottom of the stairs he was confronted by a lone gunman who fired several shots.
Before Gonzalez could reach for the pistol in his belt, he was down. The assassin pumped several extra rounds into his prostrate body.
The killer was allegedly another retired police captain, Pedro "Pretty Boy" Pineda, alias "Pispis," according to a police investigation.
A former colleague of Gonzalez in the early 1990s in the Medellin Search Bloc, Pineda had also later gone to work for the cartel.
News of Gonzalez's murder came as no surprise to Naranjo. But who ordered it was harder to say."Everyone killed him," he said.