Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

The chambers were brimming with a hideous dark liquid topped by a layer of organic scum. A million cockroaches scuttled across the gelatinous mass.

Galiano and Hernández joined me.

“Cerote.” Hernández backhanded his mouth.

Galiano said nothing.

Swallowing hard, I began to dictate. Date. Time. Location. Persons present.

The bucket rattled, dropped again. Serrated teeth bit into the ground, swung free, returned. A second concrete lid appeared, was displaced. A third. A fifth. The odor of putrefaction overpowered the smell of damp earth.

As items were revealed, I dictated description and location. Xicay shot pictures

By mid-morning eight concrete lids lay in a heap, and the tank was fully exposed. I’d spotted an arm bone lodged against the entrance drain on the west side, fabric in the southeast corner, and a blue plastic object and several hand bones embedded in the scum.

“Cue the truck?” Galiano asked when I’d finished my last entry.

“Have it driven into position. But first I have to remove what’s visible and search the top layer.”

Turning to Xicay, I indicated that I was ready for a body bag. Then I crossed to the equipment locker and dug out the respirator mask and heavy rubber gloves. Using duct tape, I sealed the top of the boots to the legs of my jumpsuit.

“How?” asked Galiano when I returned to the tank.

I pulled the gloves to my elbows and handed him the duct tape.

“Dios mío.” Hernández.

“Need help?” Galiano asked without enthusiasm as he sealed the gloves to my sleeves.

I looked at his suit, tie, and crisp white shirt.

“You’re underdressed.”

“Shout when you need me.” Hernández walked to the equipment locker, removed his jacket, and draped it over the open lid. Though the day wasn’t hot, his shirt was damp against his chest. I could see the outline of a sleeveless T-shirt through the thin cotton.

Galiano and I circled to the west end of the tank.

Señor Serano watched from the sofa, rat eyes bright and intent. His wife sucked on a strand of hair.

Xicay’s assistant joined us, body bag in hand. I asked his name. Mario Colom. I told Mario to lay the bag on the ground behind me, opened and lined with a clean white sheet. Then I told him to glove and mask.

Handing Galiano my Dictaphone, I secured my own mask over my face. When I squatted and leaned into the tank, my stomach went into a granny knot. I tasted bile and felt a tremor below my tongue.

Breathing shallowly, I plunged in a hand and drew the arm bone from the decomposing waste. Two roaches scuttled up my glove. Inside the rubber, I felt furtive legs, feathery antennae. My arm jerked and I let out a squeal. Behind me, Galiano shifted.

Stop it, Brennan. You’re gloved.

Swallowing, I flicked the insects, watched them right themselves and scurry away.

Swallowing again, I curled my fingers and slid the ulna through them. Muck peeled off its surface and dropped to the ground in slimy globs. I laid the bone on the sheet.

Working my way around the tank, I collected everything I could see. Xicay shot stills. When I’d finished, the ulna, two hand bones, one foot bone, three ribs, and the bow from a pair of glasses lay on the sheet.

After instructing Mario, I returned to the southeast corner and began working my way down the south side of the tank, systematically palpating every millimeter of floating scum as far out as I could reach. Opposite me, Mario mirrored my efforts.

In forty minutes we’d searched the entire top layer. Two ribs and one kneecap had been added to the sheet.

The sun was straight up in the sky when Mario and I finished. Consensus: no one wanted lunch. Xicay went for the vacuum truck, and in moments it pulled through the opening in the back fence.

As the operator arranged equipment, I glanced over my shoulder at Díaz. The DA maintained his vigil, lenses pink diamonds in the mottled sunlight. He did not approach.

Five minutes later Xicay shouted.

“Ready?”

“Go.”

Another motor sputtered to life. I heard sucking, saw bubbles in the murky, black liquid.

Galiano stood at my side, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the tank. Hernández observed from the safety of the locker. The Seranos watched from their couch, faces the color of oatmeal.

Slowly, the liquid subsided. One inch, three, seven.

Approximately two feet from the tank’s bottom, a layer of sludge appeared, its surface lumpy with debris. The pump fell silent and the operator looked at me.

I showed Mario how to work a long-handled net. Scoop by scoop, he dredged muck and laid muddy globs at my feet. I swabbed and untangled the booty from each.

A floral shirt containing ribs, vertebrae, a sternum. Foot bones inside socks inside shoes. Femora. A humerus. A radius. A pelvis. Every bone was covered with putrid tissue and organic waste.

Fighting back nausea, I scraped and arranged everything on the sheet. Xicay recorded the process on film. Feeling too ill for close inspection, I simply entered the bones into a skeletal inventory. I would conduct a full evaluation after cleaning.

When Mario had netted what he could, I walked to the edge of the tank and sat. Galiano came up behind me.

“You’re going in there?” It wasn’t really a question.

I nodded.

“Can’t we just blast the remaining crap with a pressure hose and suck everything up?”

I pushed aside my mask to speak.

“After I find the skull.”

I repositioned the mask, rolled to my stomach, and lowered myself over the side. My soles hit the muck with a soft slap. Slime crept up my shins. Odor enveloped me.

Moving felt like slogging through exactly what it was, a stew of human feces and microbial dung. I felt more tremors under my tongue, again tasted bile.

At the southeast corner, I reached up and Mario handed me a long, slender pole. Breathing as shallowly as possible, I began a systematic survey of the tank, inching sideways, probing, inching, probing. Four sets of eyes followed my progress.

On the fourth sweep, I tapped something lodged in the same drain that had held the jeans. Handing up the pole, I swallowed, took a deep breath, and slid my hands into the muck.

The object was roughly the size and shape of a volleyball. It rested on the tanks’ bottom, its top one foot below the surface of the sludge. Despite the queasiness, my pulse ratcheted up a notch.

Gingerly, I explored my find, gloved fingers reading the anatomical Braille.

Ovoid globe. Hollows separated by a tented bridge. Rigid bands winging outward beside an oblong aperture.

The skull!

Careful, Brennan.

Ignoring my roiling innards, I bent at the waist, grasped the brain case in both hands, and tugged. The muck refused to yield its booty.

Frustrated, I scooped away handfuls of slime. When I could see a patch of parietal, I rewrapped my fingers around the cranium and applied alternating pressure.

Nothing budged.

Damn!

Barely resisting the urge to yank, I continued the gentle twisting motion. Clockwise. Counterclockwise. Clockwise. Inside my jumpsuit, I felt hot perspiration roll down my sides.

Two more twists. The seal broke, and the skull shifted.

I cleared what path the sludge would allow, repositioned my fingers, and teased the skull upward. It rose slowly, emerged with a soft sucking sound. Heart thudding, I cradled it in both hands. Slick brown goo filled the orbits and coated the features.

But I saw enough.

Wordlessly, I handed the skull to Mario, accepted his gloved hand, and climbed from the tank. Mario placed the skull on the body bag, and picked up the first of the two pressure tanks. After spraying me with bleach solution, he sprayed me again with clear water.