Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

“Who determines manner?”

“The judge. DA.”

Galiano observed a couple being seated on the far side of the room. Then he turned his chair slightly, leaned in, and lowered his voice.

“Are you aware that many of those who were involved in atrocities remain in command of the military?”

He spoke in a voice that sent goose bumps crawling up my arms.

“Do you know that many of those performing investigative work today were or are direct participants in extrajudicial executions?”

“Are?”

His eyes held steady on mine.

“The police?”

Not a flicker.

“How can that be?”

“Although nominally under the jurisdiction of the Interior Ministry, the police here remain effectively under army control. The criminal justice system is permeated by fear.”

“Who’s afraid?”

Another visual sweep. Not a movement was going unnoticed. When Galiano turned back to me his face was a harder version of the one it had been.

“Everyone’s afraid. Witnesses and relatives won’t swear out complaints, won’t testify for fear of retribution. When evidence leads to the army, a prosecutor or judge has to worry about what will happen to his family.”

“Aren’t monitors watching out for human rights violations?” My voice was barely above a whisper. Galiano was getting to me.

He blew air through his lips, glanced over my shoulder.

“More monitors have been killed or disappeared in Guatemala than anywhere else on the planet. That’s not my stat, it’s official.”

I’d read that in a recent Human Rights Watch .

“And we’re not talking ancient history. All but four of those murders have taken place since the civilian government was established in eighty-six.”

I felt a tingle of fear in the pit of my stomach.

“What is your point?”

“Death investigation here ain’t day care work.” His eyes were dark with bitterness. “Produce an autopsy finding or a police report that implicates the wrong people, life’s no longer clean and easy. Reporting results can be hazardous if the recipient of your report happens to be affiliated with the bad guys even though he’s holding a prosecutorial office.”

“Meaning?”

He started to say something, then his eyes backed away.

The tingle coalesced into a cold, hard knot.

9

IT WAS MY DAY FOR FLOWERS. BACK IN MY ROOM I FOUND ANarrangement the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. The card was classic Ryan.

Tanks for the memories. Bone jour.

AR

I laughed for the first time in over a week.

After showering, I studied myself in the bathroom mirror, much as I would a stranger on the street. What I saw was a middle-aged woman with a delicate nose and cheekbones, starburst wrinkling at the corners of the eyes, jawline holding firm. Chicken pox scar above the left brow. Asymmetric dimples.

I brushed bangs from my forehead and did a two-handed tuck behind my ears. My hair was fine, blonde turned brown now galloping toward gray. I’d always coveted my younger sister’s thick blonde hair. Sprays and volumizing gels never entered Harry’s thoughts, while I’d spent thousands on mousse alone.

For a moment I stared directly at myself. Tired green eyes stared back, each underbrushed with pale violet. A new furrow winged down at the inner edge of my left eyebrow. Lighting? I shifted to my right, back a half step. The line was real. Great. One week in Guatemala and I’d aged a decade.

Or was it worry over Galiano’s warning? Was it a warning? I squeezed Crest onto the toothbrush, began on my upper molars.

What was the point of the conversation in the Gucumatz? Just a prompt to be alert? To be careful where I went and with whom? Walking back we’d talked mostly about the septic tank case. Galiano had little to report.

A visit to the Zone 1 family planning or APROFAM clinic had produced zilch. Ditto for a private clinic, Mujeres por Mujeres. Though reluctant, the doctor on call, Maria Zuckerman, had agreed to check her patient database. She found two Eduardos, Margarita and Clara, both in their thirties. No Lucy Gerardi, Claudia de la Alda, or Chantale Specter. If any of the missing women had made an appointment or been examined by a doctor, she’d done so using a false name.

Big surprise.

Galiano also learned that nonappearances at the clinic raised no flags. Many patients booked, then failed to show up. Some came once or twice, then vanished. Many were in the age range of the lady in the tank. Many were pregnant. With no picture or descriptive information, Dr. Zuckerman refused to allow her staff to be “bothered” with questioning.

Galiano had requested a list of everyone who’d phoned or been seen over the past year. As expected, Zuckerman had refused, citing patient confidentiality. Galiano intended to pursue a court order when more descriptors were available.

I swished and spat, feeling another wave of guilt. If I’d done a better prelim at the tank, we’d have more descriptors.

I’d asked Galiano about the attack on Carlos and Molly. He’d heard about the shooting, but knew little since the investigation was being handled in Sololá. He’d promised to find out what he could.

I pumped cream onto my palm and spread it over my face.

We’d also talked about Andrew Ryan. I’d told Galiano about Ryan’s work with the SQ. He’d shared new tales from their bad-boy years together.

As he was leaving, Galiano told me that his partner would be visiting the Eduardos and De la Aldas in the morning, and he’d be calling on the Gerardis and Specters. Given the discovery at the Paraíso, they felt Sunday visits were warranted. I asked to be included.

Wouldn’t be dangerous, I argued, and an outsider’s eye might even be useful. Though skeptical, he agreed.

I clicked off the light, opened the windows as far as they would go, set the alarm, and climbed into bed.

It seemed hours that I listened to traffic and hotel noises and watched the curtains fill and deflate. I finally fell asleep with my head under the pillow. I dreamed of Ryan and Galiano partying in the Maritimes.

Galiano picked me up at eight. Same greeting. Same shades.

Over a quick breakfast, he told me he intended to put pressure on Mario Gerardi, Lucy’s older brother.

“Why Mario?” I asked.

“Bad vibes.”

“Groovy.” I hadn’t heard about vibes since the Beach Boys faded.

“Something about the kid bothers me.”

“His socks?”

“Sometimes you go with your gut.”

I couldn’t disagree with that.

“What does Mario do?”

“As little as he can.”

“Is he a student?”

“Physics degree, Princeton.” Galiano scooped the last of his eggs and beans onto a tortilla.

“So the boy’s no dummy. What’s he doing now?”

“Probably working out alternatives to Planck’s Constant.”

“Detective Galiano knows quantum theory. Impressive.”

“Mario is rich, good-looking, a regular Gatsby with the ladies.”

“Detective Galiano knows literature. Next category. How about ‘Why doesn’t Bat like young Mario?’”

“It’s his socks.”

“Curious that Lucy and Chantale Specter disappeared at virtually the same time.”

“More than curious.”

Ignoring my protest, Galiano snatched and paid the check, then we headed toward Zone 10.

Creeping with the slowly moving log jam on Avenida la Reforma, we sat for a full ten minutes by the Botanical Gardens of San Carlos University. In my mind’s eye I saw Lucy Gerardi walking down that sidewalk, long dark hair framing her face. I wondered about that day.

Why did she go to the gardens? To meet someone? To study? To dream girl dreams she’d never realize?