Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

Like many ecozones, the sector follows a diurnal rhythm. Come dark, the vendors and pedestrians clogging its streets yield to cigarette sellers and hookers. The shoeshine boys, taxi drivers, buskers, and preachers vanish from Parque Concordia, and homeless children gather to bed down for the night.

Zone 1 is broken pavement, neon, fumes, and noise. But the quarter also has a grander side. It is home to the Palacio Nacional, the Biblioteca Nacional, the Mercado Central, Parque Central, Parque del Centenario, museums, a cathedral, and a spectacular Moorish post office. Police headquarters is located in an outlandish castle at the intersection of Calle 14 and Avenida 6, one block south of the Iglesia de San Francisco, famous for its carving of the sacred heart and for the banned books discovered in a roof cavity, hidden decades earlier by rebellious clergy.

Ninety minutes later Galiano and I were seated at a battered wooden table in a conference room on the castle’s third floor. With us were his partner, Sergeant-detective Pascual Hernández, and Juan-Carlos Xicay, head of the evidence recovery team that would process the septic tank.

The room was a cheerless gray, last painted about the time the padres were stashing their books. Putty-colored stuffing sprouted from my chair, and I wondered how many nervous, bored, or frightened buttocks had squirmed in that same seat.

A fly buzzed against the room’s single window. I felt empathy, and I shared the insect’s desire for escape. Beyond the window, through filthy blinds, I could see one of the castle’s battlements.

At least there was an upside. I was safe from attack by medieval knights.

Sighing, I shifted for the billionth time, picked up a paper clip, and began tapping the table. We’d been waiting twenty minutes for a representative from the DA’s office. I was hot, tired, and disappointed to be pulled from my FAFG work. And I was not hiding it well.

“Shouldn’t be long.” Galiano looked at his watch.

“Couldn’t I outline the procedure?” I asked. “It may take Señor Xicay some time to line up the equipment.”

Xicay scratched an eyebrow, said nothing. Hernández gestured his powerlessness by raising a hand and dropping it onto the tabletop. He was a heavy man, with black wavy hair that crawled down his neck. His forearms and hands were also layered with dark, wiry hair.

“I’ll check again.” Galiano strode from the room, his gait indicating annoyance.

With whom? I wondered. Me? The tardy DA? Some higher-up?

Almost immediately, I heard Galiano arguing in the corridor. Though the Spanish was rapid fire, and I missed many words, the animosity was clear. I caught my name at least twice.

Moments later the voices stopped, and Galiano rejoined us, followed by a tall, thin man in rose-pink glasses. The man was slightly stooped, with a soft belly that pooched over his belt.

Galiano made introductions.

“Dr. Brennan, may I present Señor Antonio Díaz. Señor Díaz heads up the criminal investigative section of the office of the district attorney.”

I rose and held out a hand. Ignoring it, Díaz crossed to the window and spun toward me. Though colored lenses obscured his eyes, the hostility was palpable

“I have been a prosecutor for almost twenty years, Dr. Brennan. In all that time, I have never required, nor have I requested, outside help in a death investigation.” Though heavily accented, Díaz’s English was precise.

Stunned, I dropped my hand.

“While you may view our forensic doctors as inadequately trained hacks laboring in a Third World medico-legal system, or as mere cogs in an antiquated and ineffective judicial bureaucracy, let me assure you they are professionals who hold themselves to the highest standards.”

I looked to Galiano, cheeks burning with humiliation. Or anger.

“As I explained, Señor Díaz, Dr. Brennan is here at our request.” Galiano’s voice was tempered steel.

“Why exactly are you in Guatemala, Dr. Brennan?” From Díaz.

Anger makes me feisty.

“I’m thinking of opening a spa.”

“Dr. Brennan is here on other business,” Galiano jumped in.

“She is a forensic anthrop—”

“I know who she is,” Díaz cut him off.

“Dr. Brennan has experience with septic tank recovery, and she’s offered to help.”

Offered? How did Galiano come up with “offered”?

“We’d be foolish not to avail ourselves of her expertise.”

Díaz glared at Galiano, his face concrete. Hernández and Xicay said nothing.

“We shall see.” Díaz looked hard at me, then stomped from the room.

Only the fly broke the silence. Galiano spoke first.

“I apologize, Dr. Brennan.”

Anger also goads me to action.

“Can we begin?” I asked.

“I’ll handle Díaz,” Galiano said, pulling out a chair.

“One other thing.”

“Name it.”

“Call me Tempe.”

For the next hour I explained the glories of septic disposal. Galiano and his partner listened closely, interrupting now and then to comment or to ask for clarification. Xicay sat in silence, eyes lowered, face devoid of expression.

“Septic tanks can be made of rock, brick, concrete, or fiberglass, and come in a number of designs. They can be round, square, or rectangular. They can have one, two, or three compartments, separated by partial baffles or by full walls.”

“How do they work?” Galiano.

“Basically, a septic tank is a watertight chamber that acts as an incubator for anaerobic bacteria, fungi, and actinomycetes that digest organic solids that fall to the bottom.”

“Sounds like Galiano’s kitchen.” Hernández.

“What can we expect?” Galiano ignored his partner.

“The digestion process creates heat, and gases bubble to the surface. Those gases combine with particles of grease, soap, oils, hair, and other junk to produce a foamy scum. That’s the first thing we’re going to see when we open the tank.”

“Bring a little sunshine into your day.” Hernández.

“With time, if left undisturbed, a floating semisolid mat can form.”

“Shit pudding.” Hernández was covering his repugnance with macho humor.

“Tanks should be pumped out every two to three years, but if the owners are as lax as you say they are, that isn’t likely to have happened, so we’ll probably encounter this type of sediment.”

“So you’ve got this soup kitchen for microbes. Where does everything go from there?” Galiano asked.

“Once a tank fills to a certain level, the altered waste products flow out through an exit drain to a series of pipes, usually laid out in parallel rows, called a drain field.”

“What kind of pipes?”

“Typically, clay or perforated plastic.”

“This system dates to the Preclassic, so I’m sure we’re talking clay. What goes on there?”

“The drain field rests on a bed of gravel, usually covered by soil and vegetation. While some aerobic breakdown occurs there, the drain field primarly functions as a biological filter.”

“Fine or coarse drip. Now we’re talking Mr. Coffee.”

Hernández was starting to get on my nerves.

“As the final step in treatment, the waste water leaks from the pipes and percolates through the gravel bed. Bacteria, viruses, and other pollutants are absorbed by the soil or taken up by the root systems of the overlying plants.”

“So the grass really is greener over the septic tank.” Galiano.

“And a lot happier. What else do we know about this setup?”

Galiano pulled out a small spiral pad and flipped through his notes.

“The tank is located approximately seven feet from the south wall of the pensión . It’s about ten feet long, five feet wide, and six feet deep, made of concrete, and covered by eight rectangular concrete lids.”