Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

I quietly left the room.

8

BABY BUILDING IS A COMPLEX OPERATION, RUN WITH MILITARYprecision. The chromosomes form command central, with squads of grunt genes taking orders from control genes, which answer to more control genes higher up the chain.

At first the embryo is an undifferentiated mass. An order is issued.

Vertebrate!

Segmented bones form around a spinal cord, jointed limbs with five digits each. A skull. A real jaw.

The embryo is a perch. A wood frog. A gecko.

The double-helix generals up the ante.

Mammal!

Homeothermy, viviparity, heterodonty.

The embryo is a platypus. A kangaroo. A snow leopard. Elvis.

The generals push harder.

Primate!

Opposable thumbs—3-D vision.

Harder.

Homo sapiens!

Gray matter to die for. Bipedality.

The human skeleton begins to ossify around the seventh week. Between the ninth and twelfth, tiny tooth buds appear.

I identified four cranial elements in the crime scene photos.

The sphenoid is a butterfly-shaped bone that contributes to the orbits and to the cranial base. The large wings arise during the eighth fetal week, the small pair follows a week later.

Using the scope and a calibrating grid, I measured length and breadth. Using the ABFO ruler for scale, I calculated actual size. Greater wing: fifteen by seven millimeters. Lesser wing: six by five millimeters.

The temporal bone also comes with some assembly required. The flat portion forming the temple and the most lateral part of the cheekbone appears during the eighth fetal week. This one measured ten by eighteen millimeters.

The tympanic ring begins life at approximately week nine, grows to three bony slivers during the next twenty-one days. The slivers join to form a ring around week sixteen. Just before baby checks out of the uterine hotel, the ring attaches to the ear opening

That first puzzling speck I’d seen in the pelvic photo was a tiny tympanic ring. Though lines of fusion were still evident, the three segments were firmly attached. The ABFO ruler indicated I was viewing the ring dead on. I measured diameter, corrected, added the figure to my list. Eight millimeters.

I turned my attention to the vial.

A miniature half jaw, with sockets that would never hold teeth. Twenty-five millimeters.

One collarbone. Twenty-one millimeters.

Moving through tables in the fetal osteology book, I checked each measurement. Sphenoid greater wing. Sphenoid lesser wing. Temporal squamous. Tympanic ring. Mandible. Clavicle.

According to Fazekas and Kósa, the girl in the tank had been five months pregnant.

I closed my eyes. The baby had been six to nine inches long and weighed around eight ounces when its mother was killed. It could blink, grasp, make sucking motions. It had eyelashes and fingerprints, could hear and recognize Mom’s voice. If it was a girl, she had six million eggs in her tiny ovaries.

I was feeling overwhelmed by sadness when Elena called out from the doorway.

“There’s a call for you.”

I didn’t want to talk to anyone.

“A Detective Galiano. You can take it in Mateo’s office.”

I thanked Elena, resealed the evidence in its vial, and climbed back to the second floor.

“Five months,” I said, skipping preliminaries.

He needed no explanation.

“About the time she might have been leveling with Papa.”

“Her own, or the donor of the lucky sperm?”

“Or nondonor.”

“Jealous boyfriend?” I threw out.

“Angry pimp?”

“Psycho stranger? The possibilities are endless. That’s why the world needs detectives.”

“I did some detecting this morning.”

I waited.

“The Eduardos are the proud owners of two boxers and a cat. Lucy Gerardi’s family has a cat and a schnauzer. The De la Aldas are not animal lovers. Nor are the ambassador and his clan.”

“Patricia Eduardo’s boyfriend?”

“A ferret named Julio.”

“Claudia de la Alda’s?”

“Allergies.”

“When will your trace guys be done viewing the samples?”

“Monday.”

“What did the DA have to say?”

I heard Galiano draw a long breath through his nostrils.

“His office will not be releasing the skeleton.”

“Can we have access at the morgue?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The guy really wanted to be my best friend, was devastated he couldn’t discuss the case.”

“Is this typical?”

“I’ve never been stonewalled by a DA, but I’ve never tangled with this one.”

I pointed my thoughts at that for a while.

“What do you think is going on?”

“Either the guy’s got a hard-on for protocol, or someone’s putting the screws to him.”

“Who?”

Galiano didn’t answer.

“The embassy?” I asked.

“What are you doing?” There was a dark guardedness to his voice.

“Now?”

“For the junior prom.”

I could see why Ryan and Galiano had hit it off.

I looked at my watch. Five-forty. A Saturday evening calm had settled over the lab.

“It’s too late to start anything here. I’ll head back to my hotel.”

“I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“For?”

“Caldos.”

I started to object, pictured the gathering of one I’d attend in my room.

What the hell.

“My dress is blue.”

“O.K.” Puzzled.

“I prefer a wrist corsage.”

“Donated by a citizen with a horticultural bent.” Galiano proffered two pansies stapled to a blue rubber band.

“Donated?”

“The band is sold separately.”

“Broccoli?”

“Asparagus.”

“They’re lovely.”

Cars honked and jockeyed as we walked toward the Café Gucumatz. An early evening shower had come and gone, and the air smelled of wet cement, diesel fuel, earth, and flowers. Now and then the soggy maize scent of tamal or chuchito drifted by as we passed a vendor’s cart.

We shared the sidewalk with throngs of others. Couples heading out for dinner or drinks. Young professionals returning home from work. Shoppers. Saturday-evening strollers. A breeze tossed ties over shoulders and molded skirts to legs and hips. Overhead, palm fronds rose and fell with soft clicking sounds.

The Gucumatz was done in techno-Mayan, with dark wooden beams, plastic flora, and an artificial pond with arching bridge. Murals decorated every wall, most depicting the fifteenth-century Quiché king who’d lent his name to the place. I wondered how Feathered Serpent felt about the implied endorsement, but kept it to myself.

Lighting was by torch and candle, and entering was like passing into a Mayan tomb. As my pupils dilated, a parrot shrilled greetings in Spanish and English. So did a man in white shirt, black pants, and apron.

“Hola, Detective Galiano. Hello. ¿Cómo está?”

“Muy bien, Señor Velásquez.”

“Such a long time since we’ve seen you.”

An enormous mustache handle-barred over Velásquez’s mouth, plunged south at the sides, then curled back north as though reaching for his nostrils. I thought of an emperor tamarin.

“Working my tail off, señor.”

Velásquez wagged his head in understanding.

“Crime is so terrible today. Everywhere. Everywhere. The citizens of this city are privileged to have you on the job.”

Another sad head shake, then Velásquez took my hand and pressed it to his lips. The facial hair felt like steel wool.

“Bienvenido, señorita. A friend of Detective Galiano is always a friend of Velásquez.”

Releasing my fingers, he flashed both eyebrows at Galiano and winked theatrically.

“Por favor . My best table. Come. Come.”