Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

Not good, Brennan. What interest could SICA have in me?

“Could it wait a few minutes?”

His dead gaze gave me the answer.

3

SERGEANT-DETECTIVE GALIANO TOOK THE CHAIR RELUCTANTLYvacated by Ollie Nordstern, crossed ankle over knee, and impaled me with a stare.

“What is this about, Detective?” I forced my voice steady, scenes from Midnight Express rolling through my head.

Galiano’s eyes held me like a bug on a pin.

“We at the National Civil Police are aware of your activities, Dr. Brennan.”

I said nothing, lowered hands to lap, leaving two sweaty palm prints on the plastic blotter.

“I am largely responsible for that.” A small oscillating fan ruffled a half dozen hairs on the crown of his head. Otherwise, the man was motionless.

“You are.”

“Yes.”

“Why is that?”

“Part of my youth was spent in Canada, and I still follow the news up there. Your exploits do not go unnoticed.”

“My exploits?”

“The press loves you.”

“The press loves to sell papers.” He may have heard my irritation. “Why have you come to see me, Detective Galiano?”

Galiano withdrew a brown envelope from his pocket and placed it in front of me. Hand-printed on the outside was a police or coroner dossier number. I looked at but did not reach for it.

“Take a look.” Galiano resumed his seat.

The envelope contained a series of five-by-seven color photographs. The first showed a bundle on an autopsy table, liquid oozing from the edges to form a brown puddle on the perforated stainless steel.

The second showed the bundle untangled into a pair of jeans, the lower end of a long bone protruding from one ragged cuff. The third featured a watch, and what were probably pocket contents: a comb, an elastic hair binder, two coins. The last photo was a close-up of a tibia and two metatarsals.

I looked at Galiano.

“That was discovered yesterday.”

I studied the skeletal elements. Though everything was stained a deep chocolate brown, I could see flesh clinging to the bones.

“A week ago toilets began backing up at the Pensión Paraíso, a small hotel in Zone One. Though the place ain’t the Ritz, guests grumbled, and the owners went poking in the septic tank. They found the Levi’s blocking the exit drain.”

“When was the system last inspected?”

“Seems the owners are a bit lax on upkeep. But minor maintenance was done last August, so the body probably went in after that.”

I agreed but said nothing.

“The victim may be a young woman.”

“I couldn’t possibly express an opinion based on these photographs.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

We stared at each other in the stuffy heat of the room. Galiano’s eyes were extraordinary, brown with a luminous red cast, like amber caught in sunlight. The lashes might have landed him a Maybelline contract, had he been of the female gender.

“Over the past ten months, four young women have gone missing in this city. The families are frantic. We suspect the disappearances may be linked.”

Down the corridor, a phone sounded.

“If so, the situation is urgent.”

“Lots of people go missing in Guatemala City.”

I pictured Parque Concordia, where orphans gathered each night to sniff glue and sleep. I remembered stories of children being rounded up and killed. In 1990, witnesses reported armed men snatching eight street kids. Their bodies were found a few days later.

“This is different.” Galiano’s voice brought me back. “These four young women stand out. They don’t fit the usual pattern.”

“What does this have to do with me?” I had a pretty good idea.

“I described your work to my superiors, told them you were in Guatemala.”

“May I ask how you knew that?”

“Let’s just say SICA is kept apprised of foreign nationals entering Guatemala to dig up our dead.”

“I see.”

Galiano pointed at the photos. “I’ve been authorized to request your help.”

“I have other commitments.”

“Excavation is finished at Chupan Ya.”

“Analysis is just beginning.”

“Señor Reyes has agreed to the loan of your services.”

First the reporter, now this. Mateo had been busy since our return to the city.

“Señor Reyes can examine these bones for you.”

“Señor Reyes’s experience and training don’t compare to yours.”

It was true. While Mateo and his team had worked on hundreds of massacre victims, they’d had little involvement with recent homicide cases.

“You coauthored an article on septic tank burial.”

Galiano had done his homework.

Three years back, a small-time drug dealer was busted in Montreal for supplying product to the wrong buyer. Not fancying a long separation from his medicine chest, the man offered the story of an associate floating in a septic tank. The provincial police turned to my boss, Dr. Pierre LaManche, and LaManche turned to me. I learned more than I ever wanted to know about human waste disposal, and LaManche and I spent days directing the recovery. We’d written an article for the Journal of Forensic Sciences.

“This is a local problem,” I said. “It should be handled by local experts.”

The fan hummed. Galiano’s cowlick did pliés and pirouettes.

“Ever hear of a man named André Specter?”

I shook my head.

“He’s the Canadian ambassador to Guatemala.”

The name rang a very distant bell.

“Specter’s daughter, Chantale, is one of those missing.”

“Why isn’t this being handled through diplomatic channels?”

“Specter has demanded absolute discretion.”

“Sometimes publicity can be helpful.”

“There are”—Galiano groped for a word—“extenuating circumstances.”

I waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. Outside, a truck door slammed.

“If there’s a Canadian link, liaison between jurisdictions will be useful.”

“And I’ve spent time in septic tanks.”

“A rare claim. And you’ve done cases for Canadian External Affairs.”

“Yes.” He really had done his homework.

It was then Galiano played his trump card.

“My department has taken the liberty of contacting your ministry in Quebec, requesting permission to engage you as special consultant.”

A second item emerged from Galiano’s pocket, this one a fax with a familiar fleur-de-lis logo. The paper came across the desk.

M. Serge Martineau, Ministère de la Sécurité Publique, and Dr. Pierre LaManche, Chef de Service, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale, had granted permission, pending agreement on my part, for my temporary assignment to the Special Crimes Investigative Unit of the Guatemala National Civil Police.

My bosses in Montreal were part of the ambush. There would be no end run around this.

I looked up at Galiano.

“You have a reputation for finding the truth, Dr. Brennan.” The Maybelline eyes were relentless. “Parents are in agony not knowing the truth about their missing kids.”

I thought of Katy and knew the fear I’d experience should my daughter disappear, the absolute terror that would grip me should she vanish in a place with unknown language, laws, and procedures, peopled by unfamiliar authorities who might or might not exert genuine effort to find her.

“All right, Detective. I’m listening.”

Zone 1 is the oldest part of Guatemala City, a claustrophobic hive of rundown shops, cheap hotels, bus terminals, and car parks, with a sprinkling of modern chain outlets. Wimpy’s and McDonald’s share the narrow streets with German delis, sports bars, Chinese restaurants, shoe stores, cinemas, electrical shops, strip joints, and taverns.