Marjorie Thelen: The Hieroglyphic Staircase

Dr. Hidalgo smiled. “ Gracias, señor . I will take your advice.”

Dominic left in the Jeep and drove down a narrow street to the south edge of town where he rented a modest one story home. He unlocked the black iron grilled gate of the entrance to the patio where he parked the Jeep for safekeeping every night.

He wondered about Elena. He worried that she might not be able to sleep, tormented by the day’s events. He was glad she could laugh on their ride together.

As he locked the gate, inspector Oliveros drew up in front and parked his Jeep. Dominic re-opened the gate and waited.

“ Hola, señor Dominic ,” said the inspector. “I am pleased to find you home. May I speak with you?”

“Yes, of course,” Dominic said and opened the gate wide so the inspector could pass inside.

After securing the gate, Dominic led the way though the small garden in front of the house with lantana blooming in bright yellow. The driveway extended to the back of the house and was covered at the end by a roof of corrugated plastic. Fuchsia bougainvillea cascaded down the walls at each side of the house.

The grilled gate to the front of the house was not locked. The housekeeper, Leyla, had not left for the day. She had five children and a husband who did not make enough money at his hotel maintenance job to support them. She was a good cook, which Dominic appreciated since he wasn’t much of a cook himself.

He showed the inspector to the tiny living room and excused himself to find Leyla, who was in the kitchen.

“ Hola, Leyla . Have you left me anything to eat?” He always asked but he knew she would have prepared something for him.

“ Sí, señor, verdura, arroz, frijol y carne ,” she said as she lifted lids on the stove to show him.

“ Gracias .”

He asked her to prepare coffee before she left which she agreeably did and served them. The inspector helped himself to sugar for his coffee. They sat facing each other in heavy dark wood chairs, carved Honduran style with Mayan heads, flowers, and village houses in low relief. Yellow cushions mitigated the hardness of the seat. A carved coffee table matched the chairs and supported a tray of coffee and shortbread cookies of the kind sold in plastic wrap in the small stores that peppered every street in Copan Ruinas.

“Tell me,” said the inspector, “about the child who came to the clinic to fetch the doctor. No one has seen him since the murder. I regret the late hour, but you understand that a murder is very serious for our town. Such things do not happen here. It is bad for the tourist business.”

Dominic leaned back in the chair. “Dr. Hidalgo says the child’s name is Flaco. He lives under the bridge on the road to the Archaeological Park.”

The inspector’s black eyebrows pushed high into his broad forehead. “I know of this band of boys. So it was one of those.”

“Yes, the child was near hysteria when he came running into the clinic.”

“I need to find him. I have not had a chance to question the doctor, but I will see him as soon as we finish.”

So much for Dr. Hidalgo’s restful evening.

“This doctora Palomares. What do you know of her?”

So they came to the main reason for this evening’s visit. Dominic shrugged, wanting to appear as nonchalant as possible. “Like I told you earlier, I first met her last night at the clinic party. This morning I brought her back to town. I tried to help her get through a traumatic experience.”

“I see. She’s very pretty, don’t you agree?”

Dominic smiled inwardly. What was the inspector up to? “She is. And she appears intelligent, honest, bright, and cooperative.”

“I see,” said the inspector. He refused the offer of a second cup of coffee. “I still have much to do before I can go home to my family.”

Dominic showed him to the door and watched the inspector drive off, concerned about the man’s probing questions about Elena. To consider her a suspect was ludicrous. Dominic didn’t know her well, but from his years of pastoral counseling, he knew when someone was lying. Elena wasn’t lying, and he was going to prove it. Something told him he should find Flaco before the inspector did.

Elena arrived at the morgue the next morning, sleep deprived and in bad humor. Even after three cups of doña Carolita’s espresso, she was unable to clear the fog that engulfed her head. After hours of tossing and turning, she had taken the sedative, then had been unable to wake up when the alarm rang at 5:00 A.M.

She had every intention of going to the Archaeological Park early that morning to get the workers back on track. But she hit the alarm so hard it fell off the night stand, and she had gone back to sleep. Doña Carolita had awakened her around seven. The day was off to a bad start. Plus she’d have to identify a dead body. She hoped they had closed his eyes.

They had. The man lay in repose, his wound no longer visible, as he was face up on a metal table on wheels. He didn’t look like the same man. Maybe they had switched the body. But the medical assistant assured her that he was the same and showed her the wound, which had been cleaned. Elena was glad she had passed on breakfast. The assistant seemed particularly fascinated with the wound.

“I have never seen such a wound. I myself cleaned it. Here, look, you can see….”

Elena interrupted him before she became ill, and the smell of formaldehyde in the lab overpowered her. She preferred an archaeological dig with shriveled ancient skeletons, if any.

“Thank you,” she said, “but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Are there papers to sign?”

“Yes. Here they are. Personally, I believe the instrument used was not a steel axe. I think it was axe-like but with a dull blade. An axe with a steel blade would have….”

Elena interrupted him again. “What do you mean? Where would a duller axe come from?”

“From the indios in the villages. They still use the old Mayan style axe made from stone, or it could have come from the Museum. Mayan warriors made good use of axes in warfare.”

She leaned closer and examined the wound, curiosity winning out over queasy stomach. Thoughtfully, she said, “If I come across such a weapon in the Mayan arsenal, I’ll let you know.”

Inspector Oliveros came in as she was signing the forms that said she was sure the dead body was the same man she had discovered yesterday morning at the Temple of Inscriptions.

“Thank you for coming,” said the inspector. “Is there anything more you remember that might help our investigation?”

“No, inspector, I have told you everything I can remember.”

“I have been searching for the little boy that was with the doctor, but I have been unable to find him. His friends have not seen him. Please, if you find him, tell him to come to the police station.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, thinking the last place that young boy would want to be was near the police. Saying goodbye, she left.

A three-wheeled open-air taxi cruised by, the driver honking his horn. She flagged him down for a ride to the Archaeological Park. She was on her way to see the director, a visit she did not relish. She found him in his office at the Museum and entered unannounced, as the receptionist seemed to be on coffee break.

His appearance shocked her. His hair, normally slicked back, fell over his forehead. He wore a ripped T-shirt and tan shorts, the kind with pockets on the legs. They were torn and dirty, like he had been rolling in the dirt, uncharacteristic of his normally fastidious exterior. He was in a state of great agitation, flipping through a large stack of papers on his otherwise immaculate desk.