In January 2024, over a year ago now, I had my first direct interaction with Alpine Police Chief Daryl Losoya. I wasn’t investigating corruption or misconduct—I was simply passing through town during the early morning hours and noticed a large law enforcement presence. Like any responsible local journalist, I called to find out what was happening so I could inform the public.
But what I encountered initially wasn’t transparency. It was obstruction.
The dispatcher who answered the phone was rude, dismissive, and hung up on me multiple times. I wasn’t asking for a comment. I wasn’t demanding answers. I was simply trying to leave a message for someone who could speak to the situation. Still, I was treated like an annoyance—and at one point, even threatened with being labeled as harassing just for calling back after being cut off.
Had the story ended there, it would have been just another example of poor communication between law enforcement and the press—unfortunately all too common in small towns and big cities alike.
But what happened next was anything but common.
The phone rang again. It was the same dispatcher—but this time, his tone was completely different.
“Chief Losoya wants to talk to you,” he said, “but first he wanted me to talk to you.”
And then he apologized. Sincerely. Directly. Without defensiveness. That conversation was followed by a call from Chief Losoya himself, who provided the information I had originally requested.
I didn’t write about that experience at the time—not because it wasn’t newsworthy, but because Losoya’s leadership had already turned the moment into an internal teaching opportunity. He handled it. Quietly. Decisively. Professionally.
That experience stuck with me—not because of how it started, but because of how it ended.
In the time since, I’ve continued covering Alpine and have reached out to Losoya on several occasions. In one case, I even gave him the benefit of the doubt when his version of events differed from others—because he had already proven to me that he owns mistakes and communicates honestly.
Compare that with Jeff Davis County, where accountability is rare, and basic professionalism is often treated like an inconvenience. That said, even in broken systems, there are people who shine. Priscilla Muñoz, a former dispatcher in Jeff Davis County, is one of them. She consistently conducted herself with grace and courtesy, even when surrounded by dysfunction.
What separates the good departments from the bad ones isn’t whether mistakes happen—it’s how those mistakes are handled. Losoya and his leadership team have also been upfront about personnel issues. When community complaints circulated about a particular officer, they didn’t hide. They told me the concerns had been addressed, the officer had been coached, and improvements were being made.
I chose not to amplify gossip because the department was already doing the work. They weren’t defensive. They were transparent. And that’s what real leadership looks like.
We live in a time when trust in institutions is eroding fast—sometimes for good reason. But when I see a police chief who welcomes accountability, who encourages humility, and who leads with a commitment to building—not tearing down—community trust, I believe that should be acknowledged.
It’s what the great publisher Amon Carter understood: journalism isn’t just about exposing what’s wrong. It’s also about celebrating when people in power do right.
Chief Daryl Losoya did right. And Alpine is better for it.
