Grave Secrets (11 page)

“Five months,” I said, skipping preliminaries.

He needed no explanation.

“About the time she might have been leveling with Papa.”

“Her own, or the donor of the lucky sperm?”

“Or nondonor.”

“Jealous boyfriend?” I threw out.

“Angry pimp?”

“Psycho stranger? The possibilities are endless. That’s why the world needs detectives.”

“I did some detecting this morning.”

I waited.

“The Eduardos are the proud owners of two boxers and a cat. Lucy Gerardi’s family has a cat and a schnauzer. The De la Aldas are not animal lovers. Nor are the ambassador and his clan.”

“Patricia Eduardo’s boyfriend?”

“A ferret named Julio.”

“Claudia de la Alda’s?”

“Allergies.”

“When will your trace guys be done viewing the samples?”

“Monday.”

“What did the DA have to say?”

I heard Galiano draw a long breath through his nostrils.

“His office will not be releasing the skeleton.”

“Can we have access at the morgue?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The guy really wanted to be my best friend, was devastated he couldn’t discuss the case.”

“Is this typical?”

“I’ve never been stonewalled by a DA, but I’ve never tangled with this one.”

I pointed my thoughts at that for a while.

“What do you think is going on?”

“Either the guy’s got a hard-on for protocol, or someone’s putting the screws to him.”

“Who?”

Galiano didn’t answer.

“The embassy?” I asked.

“What are you doing?” There was a dark guardedness to his voice.

“Now?”

“For the junior prom.”

I could see why Ryan and Galiano had hit it off.

I looked at my watch. Five-forty. A Saturday evening calm had settled over the lab.

“It’s too late to start anything here. I’ll head back to my hotel.”

“I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“For?”

“Caldos.”

I started to object, pictured the gathering of one I’d attend in my room.

What the hell.

“My dress is blue.”

“O.K.” Puzzled.

“I prefer a wrist corsage.”

“Donated by a citizen with a horticultural bent.” Galiano proffered two pansies stapled to a blue rubber band.

“Donated?”

“The band is sold separately.”

“Broccoli?”

“Asparagus.”

“They’re lovely.”

Cars honked and jockeyed as we walked toward the Café Gucumatz. An early evening shower had come and gone, and the air smelled of wet cement, diesel fuel, earth, and flowers. Now and then the soggy maize scent of
tamal
or
chuchito
drifted by as we passed a vendor’s cart.

We shared the sidewalk with throngs of others. Couples heading out for dinner or drinks. Young professionals returning home from work. Shoppers. Saturday-evening strollers. A breeze tossed ties over shoulders and molded skirts to legs and hips. Overhead, palm fronds rose and fell with soft clicking sounds.

The Gucumatz was done in techno-Mayan, with dark wooden beams, plastic flora, and an artificial pond with arching bridge. Murals decorated every wall, most depicting the fifteenth-century Quiché king who’d lent his name to the place. I wondered how Feathered Serpent felt about the implied endorsement, but kept it to myself.

Lighting was by torch and candle, and entering was like passing into a Mayan tomb. As my pupils dilated, a parrot shrilled greetings in Spanish and English. So did a man in white shirt, black pants, and apron.

“Hola, Detective Galiano.
Hello.
¿Cómo está?”

“Muy bien, Señor Velásquez.”

“Such a long time since we’ve seen you.”

An enormous mustache handle-barred over Velásquez’s mouth, plunged south at the sides, then curled back north as though reaching for his nostrils. I thought of an emperor tamarin.

“Working my tail off, señor.”

Velásquez wagged his head in understanding.

“Crime is so terrible today. Everywhere. Everywhere. The citizens of this city are privileged to have you on the job.”

Another sad head shake, then Velásquez took my hand and pressed it to his lips. The facial hair felt like steel wool.

“Bienvenido, señorita.
A friend of Detective Galiano is always a friend of Velásquez.”

Releasing my fingers, he flashed both eyebrows at Galiano and winked theatrically.

“Por favor
. My best table. Come. Come.”

Velásquez led us to his prize pond-side seating, turned and beamed at Galiano. The detective tipped his head toward the restaurant’s interior.

“Sí, señor.
Of course.”

Velásquez hurried us to an alcove constructed around a back corner, and gave Galiano a questioning look. My companion nodded. We entered the cave and sat. Another Groucho display for the great crime fighter, and our host withdrew.

“That was as subtle as a baboon’s ass,” I said.

“I apologize for the
machismo
of my brothers.”

Within seconds a waitress appeared with menus.

“Libation?” Galiano asked me.

Oh, yeah.

“Can’t do it.”

“Oh?”

“Over quota.”

Galiano did not question that.

He ordered a Grey Goose martini neat. I asked for Perrier with lime.

When the drinks arrived, we opened our menus. The lighting had gone from low to nonexistent with our relocation to the underworld, and I could hardly make out the handwritten text. I wondered about Galiano’s motive for the move, but didn’t ask.

“If you haven’t had
caldos,
I recommend it.”

“Caldos
being…?”

“Traditional Mayan stew. Tonight they have duck, beef, and chicken.”

“Chicken.” I closed my menu. I couldn’t read it anyway.

Galiano chose beef.

The waitress brought tortillas. Galiano took one, offered the basket.

“Gracias,”
I said.

“When?” He settled back into his chair.

I’d missed a bridge somewhere.

“When?” I repeated his question.

“When did you burn your allotment?”

I made the connection, but had no intention of discussing my love affair with alcohol.

“A few years back.”

“Friend of Bill Wilson?”

“I’m not a joiner.”

“A lot of people rely on AA.”

“It’s a wonderful program.” I reached for my glass. The bubbles made soft fizzing sounds as the ice settled. “Was there something you wanted to tell me about the case?”

“Yes.”

He smiled, sipped his martini.

“You have a daughter, correct?”

“Yes.”

“I have a son. He’s seventeen.”

I said nothing.

“Alejandro, but he prefers Al.”

Galiano continued, unconcerned by the lack of feedback.

“Bright kid. He’ll start college next year. Probably ship him up to Canada.”

“St-F.X.?” I hoped to blow a hole in his unassailable self-confidence.

Galiano grinned.

“That’s where you scored the Bat tidbit.”

So he
had
caught my use of his nickname at headquarters.

“Who?” he asked.

“Andrew Ryan.”

“Ay, Dios.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

“What the hell’s Ryan up to these days?”

“He’s a detective with the provincial police.”

“Using his Spanish?”

“Ryan speaks Spanish?”

Galiano nodded. “We used to discuss passing members of the opposite sex and no one knew what we were saying.”

“Commenting on their intelligence, no doubt.”

“Sewing skills.”

I drilled him with a look.

“It was a different time.”

The waitress arrived, and we both set to seasoning stew. Then we ate in silence, Galiano’s eyes roving the restaurant. Had someone been watching, they’d have thought us a couple grown bored with each other. Finally, “How well do you understand the Guatemalan justice system?”

“Obviously, I’m an outsider.”

“You know you’re not working in Kansas here.”

Jesus. This guy was just like Ryan.

“I know about the torture and assassination, Detective Galiano. That’s why I’m in Guatemala.”

Galiano took a bite of stew, pointed his fork at mine.

“It’s better hot.”

I resumed eating, waited for him to go on. He didn’t. Across from our catacomb, an old woman cooked tortillas on a comal. I watched her toss dough, lay it on the flat clay pan, and place it over the fire. Over and over her hands moved through the motions, her face a wooden mask.

“Tell me how the system works.” It came out sharper than I intended, but Galiano’s evasiveness was starting to irritate.

“We don’t have jury trials in Guatemala. Criminal matters are investigated by judges of the first instance,
primera instancia,
occasionally by magistrates appointed by the Supreme Court. These judges, you’d call them DAs, are supposed to seek both exculpatory and incriminating evidence.”

“Meaning they act as both defense and prosecution.”

“Exactly. Once the investigating judge decides that there’s a case against an accused, he passes the matter on to a sentencing judge.”

“Who has the power to order an autopsy?” I asked.

“The judge of the first instance. An autopsy is mandatory in a violent or suspicious death. But if cause can be determined by external exam, there’s no Y incision.”

“Who’s in charge of the morgues?”

“They’re directly under the authority of the president of the Supreme Court.”

“So forensic doctors really work for the courts.”

“Or for the national social security institute, the Instituto Guatemalteco de Seguridad Social, IGSS. But yes, forensic doctors are under the authority of the judiciary. It’s not like Brazil, for example, where the state-run medico-legal institutes work for the police. Here forensic doctors have very little interaction with the police.”

“How many are there?”

“Around thirty. Seven or eight work at the judicial morgue here in G City, the rest are spread out across the country.”

“Are they well trained?”

He ticked points off on his fingers. It took only three.

“You must be a Guatemalan citizen by birth, a medical doctor, and a member of the medico-legal association.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Hell, USAC doesn’t even have a residency program in forensic medicine.” He referred to the University of San Carlos, Guatemala’s only public university.

“Frankly, I don’t know why anyone does it. The status is zip and the pay sucks. Have you been to the G City morgue?”

I shook my head.

“It’s like something out of the dark ages.”

He used a torn tortilla to sponge sauce, then pushed his bowl aside.

“Are forensic doctors full-time employees?”

“Some are. Some work for the courts just to supplement their earnings. Especially in rural areas.”

Galiano’s eyes darted left as the waitress entered. She cleared dishes, asked about dessert and coffee, left.

“What’s the drill when a body is found?”

“You’ll love this. Until about ten years ago, stiffs were collected by the fire department. They’d arrive on scene, examine the body, take pics, then call it in. Central dispatch would notify the police, and we’d notify the judge. Police investigators would then gather evidence and take statements. Eventually the judge would show up, release the body, and the firemen would take it to the morgue. Today police vehicles are used for transport.”

“Why the policy change?”

“Fireman Friendly and his colleagues were helping themselves to money and jewelry.”

“So forensic doctors don’t usually go to the scene?”

“No.”

“Why Lucas?”

“Díaz probably gave him no choice.”

The coffee arrived, and we sipped in silence for a few moments. When I looked out at the old woman, Galiano’s eyes followed mine.

“Here’s something else you’ll find appalling. In Guatemala, forensic doctors are only required to determine cause, not manner.”

Galiano referred to the four terms used to categorize the circumstances of death: homicide, suicide, accident, natural. A body is found in a lake, and an autopsy determines that sufficient water filled the lungs to have halted breathing. Cause of death is drowning. But did the deceased fall, jump, or was he pushed? Those are issues of manner.

“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.”