Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

Velásquez led us to his prize pond-side seating, turned and beamed at Galiano. The detective tipped his head toward the restaurant’s interior.

“Sí, señor. Of course.”

Velásquez hurried us to an alcove constructed around a back corner, and gave Galiano a questioning look. My companion nodded. We entered the cave and sat. Another Groucho display for the great crime fighter, and our host withdrew.

“That was as subtle as a baboon’s ass,” I said.

“I apologize for the machismo of my brothers.”

Within seconds a waitress appeared with menus.

“Libation?” Galiano asked me.

Oh, yeah.

“Can’t do it.”

“Oh?”

“Over quota.”

Galiano did not question that.

He ordered a Grey Goose martini neat. I asked for Perrier with lime.

When the drinks arrived, we opened our menus. The lighting had gone from low to nonexistent with our relocation to the underworld, and I could hardly make out the handwritten text. I wondered about Galiano’s motive for the move, but didn’t ask.

“If you haven’t had caldos, I recommend it.”

“Caldos being…?”

“Traditional Mayan stew. Tonight they have duck, beef, and chicken.”

“Chicken.” I closed my menu. I couldn’t read it anyway.

Galiano chose beef.

The waitress brought tortillas. Galiano took one, offered the basket.

“Gracias,” I said.

“When?” He settled back into his chair.

I’d missed a bridge somewhere.

“When?” I repeated his question.

“When did you burn your allotment?”

I made the connection, but had no intention of discussing my love affair with alcohol.

“A few years back.”

“Friend of Bill Wilson?”

“I’m not a joiner.”

“A lot of people rely on AA.”

“It’s a wonderful program.” I reached for my glass. The bubbles made soft fizzing sounds as the ice settled. “Was there something you wanted to tell me about the case?”

“Yes.”

He smiled, sipped his martini.

“You have a daughter, correct?”

“Yes.”

“I have a son. He’s seventeen.”

I said nothing.

“Alejandro, but he prefers Al.”

Galiano continued, unconcerned by the lack of feedback.

“Bright kid. He’ll start college next year. Probably ship him up to Canada.”

“St-F.X.?” I hoped to blow a hole in his unassailable self-confidence.

Galiano grinned.

“That’s where you scored the Bat tidbit.”

So he had caught my use of his nickname at headquarters.

“Who?” he asked.

“Andrew Ryan.”

“Ay, Dios.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

“What the hell’s Ryan up to these days?”

“He’s a detective with the provincial police.”

“Using his Spanish?”

“Ryan speaks Spanish?”

Galiano nodded. “We used to discuss passing members of the opposite sex and no one knew what we were saying.”

“Commenting on their intelligence, no doubt.”

“Sewing skills.”

I drilled him with a look.

“It was a different time.”

The waitress arrived, and we both set to seasoning stew. Then we ate in silence, Galiano’s eyes roving the restaurant. Had someone been watching, they’d have thought us a couple grown bored with each other. Finally, “How well do you understand the Guatemalan justice system?”

“Obviously, I’m an outsider.”

“You know you’re not working in Kansas here.”

Jesus. This guy was just like Ryan.

“I know about the torture and assassination, Detective Galiano. That’s why I’m in Guatemala.”

Galiano took a bite of stew, pointed his fork at mine.

“It’s better hot.”

I resumed eating, waited for him to go on. He didn’t. Across from our catacomb, an old woman cooked tortillas on a comal. I watched her toss dough, lay it on the flat clay pan, and place it over the fire. Over and over her hands moved through the motions, her face a wooden mask.

“Tell me how the system works.” It came out sharper than I intended, but Galiano’s evasiveness was starting to irritate.

“We don’t have jury trials in Guatemala. Criminal matters are investigated by judges of the first instance, primera instancia, occasionally by magistrates appointed by the Supreme Court. These judges, you’d call them DAs, are supposed to seek both exculpatory and incriminating evidence.”

“Meaning they act as both defense and prosecution.”

“Exactly. Once the investigating judge decides that there’s a case against an accused, he passes the matter on to a sentencing judge.”

“Who has the power to order an autopsy?” I asked.

“The judge of the first instance. An autopsy is mandatory in a violent or suspicious death. But if cause can be determined by external exam, there’s no Y incision.”

“Who’s in charge of the morgues?”

“They’re directly under the authority of the president of the Supreme Court.”

“So forensic doctors really work for the courts.”

“Or for the national social security institute, the Instituto Guatemalteco de Seguridad Social, IGSS. But yes, forensic doctors are under the authority of the judiciary. It’s not like Brazil, for example, where the state-run medico-legal institutes work for the police. Here forensic doctors have very little interaction with the police.”

“How many are there?”

“Around thirty. Seven or eight work at the judicial morgue here in G City, the rest are spread out across the country.”

“Are they well trained?”

He ticked points off on his fingers. It took only three.

“You must be a Guatemalan citizen by birth, a medical doctor, and a member of the medico-legal association.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Hell, USAC doesn’t even have a residency program in forensic medicine.” He referred to the University of San Carlos, Guatemala’s only public university.

“Frankly, I don’t know why anyone does it. The status is zip and the pay sucks. Have you been to the G City morgue?”

I shook my head.

“It’s like something out of the dark ages.”

He used a torn tortilla to sponge sauce, then pushed his bowl aside.

“Are forensic doctors full-time employees?”

“Some are. Some work for the courts just to supplement their earnings. Especially in rural areas.”

Galiano’s eyes darted left as the waitress entered. She cleared dishes, asked about dessert and coffee, left.

“What’s the drill when a body is found?”

“You’ll love this. Until about ten years ago, stiffs were collected by the fire department. They’d arrive on scene, examine the body, take pics, then call it in. Central dispatch would notify the police, and we’d notify the judge. Police investigators would then gather evidence and take statements. Eventually the judge would show up, release the body, and the firemen would take it to the morgue. Today police vehicles are used for transport.”

“Why the policy change?”

“Fireman Friendly and his colleagues were helping themselves to money and jewelry.”

“So forensic doctors don’t usually go to the scene?”

“No.”

“Why Lucas?”

“Díaz probably gave him no choice.”

The coffee arrived, and we sipped in silence for a few moments. When I looked out at the old woman, Galiano’s eyes followed mine.

“Here’s something else you’ll find appalling. In Guatemala, forensic doctors are only required to determine cause, not manner.”

Galiano referred to the four terms used to categorize the circumstances of death: homicide, suicide, accident, natural. A body is found in a lake, and an autopsy determines that sufficient water filled the lungs to have halted breathing. Cause of death is drowning. But did the deceased fall, jump, or was he pushed? Those are issues of manner.