Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

Señora Eduardo clapped louder.

“Shoo. Go on. Back with the others.” Buttercup regarded his odd mistress a very long moment, raised then flicked his tail, and strolled from the room.

“I apologize. Buttercup was my daughter’s cat.” Her lower lip trembled. I feared she was on the verge of crying. “Since Patricia is gone, he listens to no one.”

Galiano pocketed his notebook and stood.

Señora Eduardo looked up at him. Tears now glistened on both her cheeks.

“You must find the monster who did this to my Patricia. She was all I had.”

Galiano’s jaw muscles bunched, and the Guernsey eyes grew moist.

“We will, Dona. I give you my promise. We will catch him.”

Señora Eduardo hopped to her feet. Galiano leaned down and took both her hands in his.

“We’ll speak to Dr. Zuckerman. Again, we are so sorry for your loss. Please call if you think of anything else.”

“That was one self-assured stud of a cat.” Galiano finished his Pepsi and slid the can into a plastic holder hanging from the dashboard.

“We each deal with loss in a different way.”

“Wouldn’t want to cross ole Buttercup.”

“Good call on the gray pants.”

“They’ve seen worse.”

“What’s the deal with Señora Eduardo?”

“Rheumatoid arthritis at a young age. Guess she stopped growing.”

We were back in the car heading to police headquarters after a brief stop at a Pollo Campero, the Guatemalan equivalent of KFC.

Galiano’s cell sounded as we turned onto Avenida 6. He clicked on.

“Galiano.”

He listened, then mouthed the name Aida Pera for my benefit.

“What time?”

I took a swig of my Diet Coke.

“Don’t mention our visit. Don’t mention this call.”

Pera said something.

“Encourage her to go out.” Pera said something else.

“Uh huh.”

Another pause.

“We’ll deal with that.”

Galiano disconnected and tossed the phone onto the seat.

“The ambassador is home and horny,” I guessed.

“Dropping in on his honey at nine tonight.”

“That was quick.”

“Probably wants to tell her he’s booked a church.”

“Think you might happen to be in the neighborhood?”

“Never can tell.”

“Why not just haul the bastard in and grill him?”

Galiano snorted. “Ever hear of the Vienna Conventions on diplomatic and consular relations?”

I shook my head.

“It’s a piece of work that severely limits the ability of local authorities to arrest or detain diplomats.”

“Diplomatic immunity.”

“You got it.”

“That’s why New York’s left with its head up its ass on a trillion parking tickets each year.” I finished my Coke. “Can’t immunity be waived for criminal offenses?”

“Immunity can only be waived by the sending state, in this case Canada. If Canada refuses to waive immunity, all Guatemala can do is have Specter PNG’ed.”

“PNG’ed?”

“Have him declared persona non grata and expelled.”

“Guatemalan authorities can’t investigate anyone they want to within their own borders?”

“We can investigate up the wazoo, but we have to have permission from the Canadian government to interrogate a Canadian diplomat.”

“Have you made a formal request?”

“It’s in the works. If we show sufficient cause they might allow us to question Specter in the presence of Canadian officials—”

“Ryan.”

“Ryan, possibly others from the diplomatic staff. But here’s the kicker. Specter would have to agree to the interrogation. He would not be under oath, and evidence given could not be used to prejudice his immunity from eventual prosecution.”

“The sending state decides the fate of its own.”

“You bet.”

Ryan was in the second-floor conference room where I’d first met Antonio Díaz, the unfortunately memorable DA. Books, journals, pamphlets, papers, notebooks, and file folders lay separated into stacks on a table in front of him.

Ryan sat with chin on palm, listening to tapes on a Dictaphone identical to the one Nordstern had used in our interview. At least a dozen cassettes lay to its right. Two lay to its left.

On seeing us, Ryan hit stop and slumped back in his chair.

“Jesus Christ, this is rugged.”

We both waited.

“Our once and future Pulitzer winner spoke to a lot of angry folks.”

“At Chupan Ya?” I asked.

“And other villages the army fucked over. There was a regular Gestapo down here.”

“Find anything to explain why Nordstern was capped?” Galiano rested one haunch on the table edge.

“Maybe. But how the hell do I know what it is?”

I picked up a half dozen cassettes. Each had a name. Many were Mayan. Señora Ch’i’ip’s son. An old man from a village to the west of Chupan Ya.

Some tapes contained multiple interviews. Mateo Reyes shared space with Elena Norvillo and Maria Paiz. T. Brennan was paired with E. Sandoval.

“Who’s E. Sandoval?” I asked.

Galiano shrugged.

“Nordstern must have done the interview right after yours.”

Ryan took a deep breath. I turned to him. He looked drained.

“If you’d like help, I can tell Mateo I can’t get away until tomorrow,” I said.

Ryan looked at me like I’d just told him he’d won the lottery.

“Couldn’t hurt. You know more about this stuff than I do.” He jerked a thumb at a suitcase on the floor below the windows. “I’ll let you paw through Nordstern’s motherload of undies.”

“No, thanks. One dirty shorts run was enough for me.”

Galiano rose.

“I’ve got to plan an evening outing with Hernández.”

Ryan raised his eyebrows.

“Tempe can explain. Off to the war room.”

“What would you like me to do?” I asked.

“Go through the books and papers while I work my way through these interview tapes.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Anything.”

I phoned Mateo. He had no problem with the delay. I asked him about E. Sandoval. He explained that Eugenia Sandoval worked for CEIHS, the Centro de Investigaciones de Historia Social. After hanging up, I told Ryan.

“Guess that makes sense,” he said.

I gathered the books and journals and settled opposite Ryan. Some publications were in Spanish, most in English. I began a list.

The Massacre at El Mazote: A Parable of the Cold War; Massacres in the Jungle, Ixcán, Guatemala, 1975 – 1982; Persecution by Proxy: The Civil Patrols in Guatemala, Robert F. Kennedy Center for Human Rights. Harvest of Violence: The Maya Indians and the Guatemala Crisis; an Americas Watch Report dated August 1986: Civil Patrols in Guatemala.

“Looks like Nordstern was doing his homework.”

“Till he got extra credit.”

“Has anyone talked to the Chicago Tribune ?”

“Seems Nordstern was a freelancer, didn’t actually work for the paper. But the Tribune had commissioned him to do a piece on Clyde Snow and the FAFG.”

“Why the interest in stem cells?”

“Future story?”

“Maybe.”

Two hours later we caught a break.

I was leafing through a photojournal of La Lucha Maya, a collection of full-page color portraits. Thatched-roof houses in Santa Clara. A young boy fishing on Lake Atitlán. A baptismal ceremony in Xeputúl. Men bearing caskets from Chontalá to the cemetery in Chichicastenango.

In the early eighties, under instructions from the local army base, the Civil Patrol executed twenty-seven villagers in Chontalá. A decade later, Clyde Snow exhumed the remains.

Opposite the funeral procession, a photo of young men with automatic weapons. Civil Patrollers in Huehuetenango.