Marjorie Thelen - The Hieroglyphic Staircase

“The guard tells me,” said the inspector, “that the director is dead. Is that correct? You were here alone?”

Edmundo broke in. “I saw her when she walked into the Museum. She entered the room, but I heard no shot. She could not have done this horrible deed.”

The inspector turned on Edmundo and glared. “It is not for you to say who is innocent or guilty. It is my job to get the evidence, and the court will decide.”

He pointed to Elena. “Doctora, you will not leave here until I talk to you.”

“And you,” he poked Edmundo in the chest, “will tell me every detail, nothing left out.” He pushed the guard in the direction of the door.

“Open this door.” The inspector shouted loud enough to be heard across a soccer stadium.

The doctor stuck his head out the narrow opening.

“Quiet, inspector. You will wake the dead. And the director is very dead.”

“Let me see.”

“Yes, but I will have to come out because it is extremely narrow in here and when he fell, it was against the door. He is wedged between the toilet and the door. It is most awkward. It appears he killed himself with a revolver to the head. He was a good shot. There’s not much left of his head.”

Dr. Hidalgo squeezed back through the opening. Flecks of red spotted his lab coat.

The inspector narrowed his eyes. “How do you know he killed himself? How do you know someone,” and he turned to look at Elena, “didn’t kill him?”

Dr. Hidalgo shook his head like he had no patience for stupidity. “Inspector, please. The man is wedged in. How could someone kill him then wedge him in? He fell against the door as the gun dropped. He fell on the gun. See for yourself, if you do not believe me.”

He peeled off the latex gloves and dropped them in a plastic bag that he handed to the inspector. “For your investigation. From the visual evidence I place the time of death sometime during the night, but we’ll run tests to place the exact time. Now if you’ll excuse me, my job here is done.” He snapped his bag shut and stalked from the room.

The inspector looked down at the gloves. He shrugged and stuck his head through the door to the restroom. He quickly backed away, his hand pressed against his mouth.

“Edmundo, call my deputy in. He will collect the evidence and prepare our report.”

He fixed his gaze on Elena. “You can imagine, doctora , I am suspicious of everyone. This death, of course, complicates matters more.” He crossed the room to stand before the two of them. His eyes dropped to Dominic’s arm around Elena’s waist.

“ Señor Harte, when did you arrive?”

“Just before you. A guard summoned the doctor to the Museum. I gave him a ride.”

“I see.” His eyes shifted to Elena’s face. “Tell me, doctora , in minute detail what you saw when you arrived.”

Elena told the story, releasing her grip on Dominic and crossing her arms. She related her tale, and her voice turned into an instrument with a knife edge. When she finished she stepped closer to Oliveros, standing almost toe-to-toe with him and said, “I will thank you inspector Oliveros to keep your suspicions to yourself. You have no evidence whatsoever that I was involved in either of these deaths, and I resent your insinuations. It is not only unprofessional, you are displaying a bias that is disgraceful for an officer of the law.”

Oliveros stepped back out of harm’s way because Elena looked like she might throw a punch.

Instead she said, “You know where to find me, if you need any more information. Now if you will excuse me.” She stepped around the inspector and left the room.

Dominic turned to follow then turned back. “Inspector, you are maligning the wrong woman. Be careful.”

Back at doña Carolita’s he accompanied Elena into the house. Over the housekeeper cries of concern, Elena told the horrible story.

Doña Carolita fanned herself. “I don’t know what is happening to us. You have found two dead men in so short a time. If I were you I would leave this terrible place.”

They followed doña Carolita into the kitchen where she bustled about, muttering to herself and banging pots, doing what she did best in a crisis, prepare coffee and serve food.

Over coffee Elena shook her head slowly. “The stakes aren’t high enough.”

Dominic gazed at her, wondering what she meant. He waited while she seemed to sort through the thoughts and events tumbling around her head like so many ping pong balls caught in a lottery machine.

“He couldn’t have killed himself over a few hieroglyphs,” she said. “His behavior has been so odd. I think he was in over his head and didn’t know how to get out. Or maybe he killed himself over some hideous family problem. What would it be that drove him to pull the trigger?”

“I have made a nice tortilla soup with chicken,” said doña Carolita. “Would you like some?”

Elena held up her hand. “Not for me. I can’t eat.”

Dominic rose. “I need to get back to the clinic. I know you won’t be able to rest, but try. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

Doña Carolita drew on her shawl. “I need to pray to the Holy Mother. May I go with you as far as the church? This is so terrible. I don’t know what will become of us, here in our little town that used to be so safe and friendly. The saints have not been kind to us. I will pray they might find favor with us again.”

Dominic dropped doña Carolita at the door of the church that stood on one side of the central plaza. He dodged scooter taxis on his way to the clinic. No line of villagers greeted him this time as everyone was attending to their mid-day meal. He found Corazón in the clinic kitchen accounting for the medicine in the refrigerator. She had already heard what happened.

“That poor soul, that poor girl,” she said. “It is awful.” She paused and her arched, painted-on eyebrows pulled down into a frown. She didn’t meet his eyes. “Do you think she has had anything to do with all this? After all, these evil events have only occurred since she came.”

Dominic stopped handing packages of medicine to Corazón. He stared at her. “You mean, you think Elena has something to do with these deaths?”

Corazón colored under the golden tone of her skin. “People say the ghosts are angry that someone is disturbing the hieroglyphs. That someone is trying to understand their secrets which are not to be understood.”

“But ghosts, Corazón? Surely you don’t believe in these whisperings.”

She looked away. “I only know that it is since she arrived these events have occurred. That’s what people are saying. Nothing else has changed in our small town.”

“But you aren’t saying you think she killed these two people, are you?”

Corazón shook her head. “No, señor Dominic, I don’t say that. I only say that Elena may have disturbed something much, much bigger than she is. Maybe it is better she leaves. Then maybe the ghosts will settle down and leave us alone.”

Dominic thought about what Corazón had said as he helped with the line of people who formed in the late afternoon. He tried to fix his mind on their plight, their complaints and illnesses, the sad stories of their lives, but his mind turned over and over what Corazón had suggested, that Elena somehow was the cause of all of this. That somehow she had started a wheel turning that hadn’t turned in a long time. He wasn’t sure it was ghosts, even though Elena thought she saw one. No, it was possible that she disturbed some kind of crooked operation in which the director had been involved.

Elena had told him of the director’s odd behavior. What if he had gotten involved in something he couldn’t get out of, that had threatened his life, his livelihood, his family, his reputation. Something so bad he couldn’t live any longer.