Kathy Reichs: Grave Secrets

The Civil Patrol system was imposed throughout rural Guatemala. Participation was obligatory. Men lost workdays. Families lost money. The patrols imposed a new set of rules and values in which weapons and force dominated. The system shattered traditional authority patterns and disrupted community life among Mayan peasants.

Ryan popped out a cassette, popped in another. I heard Nordstern’s voice, then my own.

I moved through the pictures. An old man forced to leave his home in Chunimá due to death threats by the Civil Patrol. A Mayan woman with a baby on her back, tears on her cheeks.

I turned the page. Civil Patrollers at Chunimá, guns raised, misty mountains floating behind them. The caption explained that the group’s former leader had assassinated two local men for refusing to serve in the “voluntary” patrol.

I stared at the young men in the photo. They could have been a soccer team. A Scout troop. A high school glee club.

I heard a mechanical version of my voice begin to explain the massacre at Chupan Ya.

“In August 1982, soldiers and civil patrollers entered the village —”

A Civil Patrol had aided the army at Chupan Ya. Together, the soldiers and patrollers had raped women and girls, then shot and macheted them, and torched their homes.

I turned the page.

Xaxaxak, a community in Sololá. Civil Patrollers marched parade style, automatic weapons held diagonally across their chests. Soldiers looked on, some in jungle fatigues, others in uniforms indicating much higher pay grades.

Nordstern had circled the name. My eyes fell on it at the precise moment Nordstern spoke it.

“Under the command of Alejandro Bastos.”

“I don’t know that.”

“Go on.”

“You seem to know more about this than I do.” Rustling. “It’s getting late, Mr. Nordstern. I have work to do.”

“Chupan Ya or the septic tank?”

“Stop! Play that back!”

Ryan hit rewind and replayed the end of the interview.

“Look at this.”

I rotated the book.

Ryan studied the photo, read the caption.

“Alejandro Bastos was in command of the local army post.”

“Nordstern accused Bastos of being responsible for Chupan Ya,” I said.

“Why do you suppose Nordstern circled the weasel next to him?”

Ryan handed the book back and I looked at the circle.

“Jesus Christ.”

26

“ IT’S ANTONIO DÍAZ.” THOUGH THE LENSES WEREN’T PINK, THEREwas no question in my mind.

“And he would be?”

“The DA from hell.”

“The guy who confiscated Patricia Eduardo’s skeleton?”

“Yes.”

Ryan reached for the book. I gave it to him.

“Díaz was in the army.”

“Apparently.”

“With Bastos.”

“One picture is worth a thousand chalupas.”

“The guy Nordstern accused of running the show at Chupan Ya?”

“You heard the tape.”

“Who is Alejandro Bastos?”

“Search me.”

Ryan started to rise.

“Down, boy.”

He dropped back into his chair.

“Díaz served with this Bastos. What the hell does that mean?”

Just what I was asking myself. Were we back to Chupan Ya? Was it just that Díaz was in the army and was now a judge? Was that Nordstern’s concern? Nothing unusual there. Galiano had laid that all out in our conversation at the Gucumatz. The judicial system in Guatemala was full of torturers and murders. Everyone knew that. It wouldn’t be news. Was there a link with the Paraíso? No answers were popping to mind.

“Maybe nothing,” I said, not really believing it.

“Maybe something,” Ryan said.

“Maybe Díaz had reasons for not wanting me on the Eduardo case.”

“Such as?”

“Maybe he thought it was someone else in the Paraíso tank.”

“Who?”

“Someone connected with Chupan Ya.”

“A pregnant teenaged girl?”

He had me there.

“Maybe Díaz wanted me diverted from the Chupan Ya investigation.”

“Why?”

“Maybe he feared revelations about his past.” I was just thinking out loud. “Maybe he feared they’d cost him his job.”

“Didn’t the Paraíso case do just that?”

“What?”

“Divert you from working with Mateo and the team? And the more you investigated Paraíso, the more diverted you would be. If he wanted you diverted, he would not thwart the diversion.”

A sudden terrible thought.

“Jesus!”

“What?”

“Maybe Díaz was behind the attack on Molly and Carlos.”

“Let’s not get jiggy until we have some facts. Do you know anything about this Bastos character?”

I shook my head.

“Why would Nordstern circle Díaz’s picture?”

“You ask good questions, Ryan.”

“About what?”

We both turned. Galiano stood in the doorway.

“Who’s Alejandro Bastos?”

“Army colonel. Went on to become minister of something under Ríos Montt. Died a couple of years ago.”

“Was Bastos involved in the massacres?”

“Up to his eyeballs. That prick was a perfect example of why amnesty was a lousy idea.”

Ryan handed Galiano the picture.

“Hijo de la puta.”

Galiano looked up.

“With Díaz.” This time in English. “Sonovabitch.”

A fly buzzed the window. I watched it and again felt a shared frustration. I wasn’t getting anywhere either.

“What’s up with Specter?” I asked Galiano

“Turns out the ambassador has an airtight alibi for the week surrounding Patricia Eduardo’s disappearance.”

“He and Dominique were at a nunnery renewing their vows.” Ryan.

“An international trade conference in Brussels. Specter gave daily presentations, attended nightly cocktails.”

“Aida Pera would have thought it was neat.” Ryan.

“It’s not her fault.”

Both men looked at me like I’d said Eva Braun wasn’t so bad.

“Specter’s obviously a black-belt sleaze. Pera’s a kid.”

“She’s eighteen.”

“Exactly.”

For several seconds, the only sound came from the fly.

“Patricia Eduardo had to have some contact with the Specter household for Guimauve’s hair to get into her jeans,” I volunteered for no particular reason.

“Maybe the hair transferred from Specter while he was getting into her jeans.” Ryan.

“Eduardo disappeared on October twenty-ninth.” Galiano said.

“She didn’t necessarily die that day.”

“Did you track down Dr. Zuckerman?”

Galiano pulled out the ubiquitous notepad.

“Maria Zuckerman earned an MD at NYU, did a residency in OB/GYN at Johns Hopkins, spent a couple of years in Melbourne, Australia, at some institute of reproductive biology.”

“So she’s no dummy.”

“The good doctor’s on staff at the Hospital Centro Médico. Served as Patricia Eduardo’s direct supervisor for the past two years. I talked to a few of Eduardo’s coworkers. One was aware of Eduardo’s run-in with Zuckerman, but didn’t know the cause. Here’s an interesting sidebar. Seems I’ve already spoken to Dr. Zuckerman.”

Ping!

“Zuckerman runs the Mujeres por Mujeres clinic in Zone One!” I said.

“The very one. She’s going to enjoy my next visit even less than she enjoyed my first one.”

“I’d like to go along.”

“Bus leaves at oh-eight-hundred.”

Poor Mateo. I’d have to call him again.

“Here’s another intriguing sidebar. The coworker thought Patricia was seeing someone behind her boyfriend’s back. An older man.”

When I look back, I recall that meeting as the beginning of the spiral. From then on details multiplied, information proliferated, and our perceptions formed and re-formed like patterns in a kaleidoscope.