Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

“Ty-D-Bol called with a job offer.” Galiano.

I lowered my mask.

“Whoa, nice skin tone. Bilious green.”

Walking to the equipment locker for a clean jumpsuit, I realized I was trembling.

Next we did as Galiano had suggested. A pressure hose blasted the sludge into suspension, and the tanker truck evacuated the liquid. Then the pump was reversed, and we began straining 3,500 gallons of liquid through a quarter-inch screen. Mario broke up clumps and plucked out roaches. I examined every fragment and scrap of debris.

Somewhere during that process, Díaz bailed. Though I didn’t see him leave, at one point I glanced up and the pink lenses were gone.

Daylight was fading to dusk as the last of the liquid poured through the screen. The blouse, shoes, socks, undergarments, and plastic bow were bagged beside the equipment locker. A skeleton lay on the white sheet, complete except for the hyoid, one tibia, some hand and foot bones, two vertebrae, and four ribs. The skull and mandible lacked eight of the front teeth.

I’d identified, sorted left from right, and recorded every bone, confirming that we had only one individual, and ascertained what was missing. I’d felt too ill to perform further analysis. Though my brief glance at the skull made me uneasy, I’d decided to say nothing to Galiano until I was certain.

I was inventorying a rib when Díaz reappeared, followed by a man in a beige suit. He had greasy blond hair, a bad complexion, and weighed less than I did.

Díaz and his companion scanned the yard, conferred, then crossed to Galiano.

The new arrival spoke.

“I am here on behalf of the district attorney.” The guy was knobby-joint skinny and looked like a kid in adult clothing.

“And you are?” Galiano removed and folded his shades.

“Dr. Hector Lucas. I am taking possession of the remains found at this site.”

“Like hell you are,” Galiano replied.

Lucas looked at his watch, then at Díaz.

Díaz produced a paper from a zipper case.

“This warrant says he is,” said Díaz. “Pack everything for transport to the central morgue.”

Not a synapse fired in any muscle in Galiano’s body.

Díaz raised the warrant to eye level. Galiano ignored it.

Díaz pressed tinted glasses to nose. Everyone else remained frozen in place. Behind me I heard movement, then the pump cut off.

“Now, Detective.” Díaz’s voice sounded loud in the sudden stillness.

A second went by. Ten. A full minute.

Galiano was still staring when his cell phone shrilled. He clicked on after four rings, never taking his eyes from Díaz.

“Galiano.”

He listened, jaw clenched, then said one thing.

“¡Eso es una mierda!” Bullshit.

Galiano shoved the phone into his pocket and turned to Díaz.

“Be careful, señor. Be very careful,” he hissed with a low, steady venting of air from his diaphragm. “¡No me jodas!” Don’t fuck around with me.

With a jerk of his hand, Galiano gestured me from the body bag. I pushed to my feet and started to step back, reversed myself, knelt next to the skeleton, and peered intently at the skull. Díaz took half a step and started to speak, then bit off whatever he had intended to say and waited until I arose again.

Lucas approached and glanced at the array in the body bag. Satisfied, he pulled gloves from his pocket, tucked the sheet inside, and ran the zipper. Then he stood, a look of uncertainty on his face.

Díaz strode from the yard, returned with two men in gray coveralls, “Morgue del Organismo Judicial” stenciled on their backs. Between them they carried a gurney, legs collapsed beneath.

Under Lucas’s direction, the morgue attendants lifted the pouch by its corners, placed it on the gurney, and disappeared in the direction from which they’d come.

Díaz tried once more to deliver the warrant. Galiano’s arms remained crossed on his chest.

Díaz circled to me, eyes fastidiously avoiding the tank. Sighing, he offered the document.

As I reached to accept the paper, my eyes met Galiano’s. His lower lids crimped, and his chin raised almost imperceptibly. I understood.

Without another word, Díaz and Lucas hurried from the yard.

Galiano looked at his partner. Hernández was already gathering the bagged clothing.

“How much is left in there?” Galiano tipped his head at the tanker truck.

The operator shrugged, waggled a hand. “Ten, maybe twenty gallons.”

“Finish it.”

Nothing else showed up in the screen. I was squeezing the last of the muck through my fingers when Galiano joined me.

“Bad day for the good guys.”

“Isn’t the DA supposed to be a good guy?”

“Stupid little rodent didn’t even think of clothing.”

I felt too ill to reply.

“Does it fit the profile?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“The skeleton. Does it fit the description of one of our missing girls?”

I hesitated, furious with myself for not thoroughly examining the bones, furious with Galiano for allowing them to be taken.

“Yes and no.”

“You’ll know when you’ve examined it.”

“Will I be doing that?”

“I will come out the winner,” he said, gazing at the empty tank.

I wondered who the loser would be.

5

THAT NIGHT I BATHED IN TAHITIAN VANILLA BUBBLES FOR ALMOSTan hour. Then I warmed pizza slices in the microwave and dug an orange soda from the mini-fridge. Snickers and an apple for dessert. Hotel room gourmet.

As I ate, the curtains breathed in and out the window on a halfhearted breeze. The metal pull chain clicked against the frame. Three floors below, traffic honked and rumbled. Overhead, a ceiling fan whirred. On the screen inside my skull, the day’s events shifted in and out of focus like a bad home movie.

After clearing wrappers, one paper plate, one plastic fork, and the empty soda can, I phoned Mateo. He told me that Molly remained comatose.

His words tipped a delicate balance. I was no longer merely exhausted. Suddenly I just wanted to lie on the bed, bury my face in the pillow, and cry. I felt overwhelmed by sorrow and worry for my friend.

Instead, I shifted topics.

Mateo was outraged when I told him about Díaz, and insisted I continue with the case. I agreed but promised to be at his lab on Saturday.

I spent the next twenty minutes jotting on paper a detailed chronology of what had happened at the Paraíso. Then I washed panties in the bathroom sink.

Teeth. Hand cream. Oil of Olay. Sit-ups.

I turned on CNN. A grim-faced commentator moved through soccer, an earthquake, the world market. Locally, a bus had crashed into a ravine, killing seventeen and hospitalizing a score of others.

It was no go. My mind looped from a septic tank, to an intensive care unit, to a well, and back again.

I pictured the skull, slick with human waste. Why hadn’t I done a more thorough exam? Why did I permit people to intimidate me and prevent me from doing what I knew should be done?

I pictured Molly, tubes running from nose, mouth, and arm.

My emotional equilibrium finally collapsed as I was plugging my cell phone into its charger.

In Charlotte, Birdie would be sound asleep. In Charlottesville, Katy would be studying for finals. Or partying with friends. Or washing her hair.

My chest gave a tiny heave.

My daughter was a continent away, and I had no idea what she was doing.

Stop sniveling. You’ve been alone before.

Killing the lights and TV, I slipped between the sheets.

My mind circled the same holding pattern.

In Montreal, it would be close to midnight. Ryan would be…

What?

I had no idea what Ryan would be doing.