Grave Secrets (31 page)

“Will you be seeing Mr. Specter in the near future?”

“It’s hard to make plans. André calls when he’s able to get free.”

And you wait by the phone. Bastard.

“Does he usually come here?” Galiano asked.

“If my cousin isn’t home.” Her nose was now as red as her eyes, and she’d begun to sniffle. “Sometimes we go out.”

I dug in my purse and handed her a tissue.

Galiano handed her a card.

“Call me when you hear from him.”

“Has André done something illegal?”

Galiano ignored her question.

“When he phones, agree to see him. Call me. And don’t tell Specter.”

Pera opened her mouth to object.

“Do it, Señorita Pera. Do it and save yourself a great deal of grief.”

Galiano rose. Ryan and I did the same. Pera followed us to the door.

As we filed out she said one last thing.

“It’s hard, you know. It’s not like in the movies.”

“No,” I agreed. “It’s not.”

The sky was overcast when we left Pera’s apartment. Anxious to begin going through Nordstern’s belongings, Ryan peeled off and took a taxi to police headquarters.

It was raining by the time Galiano and I arrived at the Eduardo home. While not as luxurious as Chez Specter or Chez Gerardi, the house was comfortable and well tended, what a Realtor might call cozy.

When Señora Eduardo opened the door one phrase stuck in my brain: ET, phone home. Our hostess had a wrinkled pie face dominated by the largest eyes I’d ever seen on a human being. Her arms and legs were scrawny, her fingers curved and knobby. She stood about four feet tall.

Señora Eduardo led us to a parlor filled with way too much floral-upholstered furniture, and indicated that we should sit. She boosted herself into a straight-back wooden chair, wrapped one ankle around the other, and made a sign of the cross. Tears glistened in the enormous eyes.

As I settled into an overstuffed armchair, I wondered if the woman had a chromosomal abnormality. I also wondered how she had produced a daughter as attractive as Patricia.

Galiano introduced me to our hostess, expressed sympathy for her loss. Señora Eduardo crossed herself again, took a deep breath.

“Have you made an arrest?” she asked in a thin, wavery voice.

“We’re working on it,” Galiano said.

Señora Eduardo’s left eyelid did a slo-mo blink. The right lid followed a half beat behind.

“Did your daughter ever speak of a man named André Specter?”

“No.”

“Miguel Gutiérrez?”

“No. Who are these men?”

“You are sure?”

Señora Eduardo reprocessed the names. Or pretended to.

“Absolutely certain. What do these men have to do with my daughter?” One tear escaped and slithered down her cheek. She swiped it away with a jerky motion.

“I just wanted to check.”

“Are they suspects?”

“Not in your daughter’s death.”

“Whose?”

“Miguel Gutiérrez has confessed to the murder of a young woman named Claudia de la Alda.”

“You think he might also have killed Patricia?”

Whatever the señora’s physical condition, it clearly did not affect her intelligence.

“No.”

“And Specter?” Another tear. Another swipe.

“Never mind Specter.”

“Who is he?”

Or her tenacity.

“If your daughter didn’t speak of him, it isn’t relevant. What is this new information you have?”

The huge eyes narrowed. I detected a flicker of distrust.

“I remembered the name of Patricia’s supervisor at the hospital.”

“The one with whom she argued?”

She nodded and did the eyelid thing.

Galiano pulled out a notebook.

“Zuckerman.”

A tiny ping.

“First name?” Galiano asked.

“Doctor.”

“Gender?”

“Doctor.”

“Do you know why they fought?”

“Patricia never elaborated.”

At that moment Buttercup joined us, went directly to Galiano, and began rubbing back and forth on his pants leg. Señora Eduardo slid from her chair and clapped at the cat. He arched, then turned and performed another figure eight around Galiano’s ankles.

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.

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.