Grave Secrets (9 page)

I knew what he was thinking. Teeth are often destroyed to hamper identification. That was not the case here. I shook my head.

“Incisors have only one root. When the soft tissue decomposes, there’s nothing to hold them. Most likely, hers just fell out.”

“And went where?”

“They could have filtered through the septic system. Or they could still be wedged in the tank.”

“Would they be useful?”

“Sure. These features are only suggestive.” I waved a hand at the photo.

“So who’s the stranger in the septic tank?”

“Female, probably late teens, possibly Mongoloid ancestry.”

I could sense neurons firing behind the Guernsey eyes.

“Most Guatemalans would have Mongoloid traits?”

“Many would,” I agreed.

“And mighty few Canadians.”

“Native peoples, Asian immigrants, their descendants.”

Galiano said nothing for a long time. Then, “Odds are we’re not looking at Chantale Specter.”

I was about to answer when Hernández rolled his dolly into the room. The large boxes had been replaced by two trash bags and a black canvas case.

“Where the hell have you been?” Galiano asked his partner.

“Assholes didn’t want to loan out their precious light. Acted like it’s the crown jewels.” Hernández’s voice sounded like a jammed garbage disposal. “Where do you want this stuff?”

Galiano indicated two folding tables by the right-hand wall. Hernández offloaded his cargo, then parked the dolly by the remaining boxes.

“Next stuff gets moved, it won’t be me.” Pulling a swatch of yellow from his pocket, he wiped his face. “Goddamn stuff ’s heavy.”

Hernández shoved the hankie into his back pocket. I watched a corner of yellow swatch storm from the room.

“Let’s have a look at the photos,” Galiano said to me. “Most are from the families. One from the embassy.”

I followed, though I had no need to see the display. I’d worked serial homicides, and knew exactly what was there. Faces: hostile, happy, puzzled, sleepy. Young or old, male or female, stylish or frumpy, pretty or homely, each caught at a moment in time, oblivious to future calamity.

My first glance made me think of Ted Bundy and his taste in victims. All four women had long straight hair, parted down the crown. There the resemblance ended.

Claudia de la Alda was not blessed with beauty. She was an angular young woman with a broad nose and wide-set eyes no larger than olives. In each of three snapshots, she wore a black skirt and a pastel blouse, buttoned to the chin. A silver crucifix rested on her ample chest.

Lucy Gerardi had shiny black hair, blue eyes, a delicate nose and chin. A school portrait showed her in a bright blue blazer and starched white blouse. In a home pic she wore a yellow sundress, and held a schnauzer in her lap. A gold cross nestled in the hollow at the base of her throat.

Though the oldest of the four, Patricia Eduardo didn’t look a day over fifteen. One Kodak moment captured her fiercely erect atop an Appaloosa, eyes shiny black under a derby brim, one hand on the reins, one on her knee. In another she stood beside the horse, staring solemnly at the lens. Like the others, she wore a cross and no makeup.

While De la Alda, Gerardi, and Eduardo seemed to be operating under the influence of Our Lady the Chaste, Chantale Specter looked like a member of the Church of the Lewd. In her mug shot, the ambassador’s daughter sported a midriff tank and skin-tight jeans. Her blonde hair was streaked, her makeup vampire black.

In stark contrast was the portrait submitted through official embassy channels. Chantale posed between Mommy and Daddy on a Queen Anne couch. She wore pumps, hose, and a white cotton dress. No booking number, no streaking, no Bela Lugosi eyes.

Looking from face to face, I felt something go hollow in my chest. Was it possible that all four women were dead? Had we dredged one of them from the Paraíso tank? Was a psychopath on the prowl in Guatemala City? Was he already planning his next kill? Would more photos find their way to this display?

“Doesn’t look like someone who’d hawk ass for drugs.” Galiano was looking at the Specter portrait.

“None of them does.”

“Anyone fit your profile?”

“They all do. Chantale Specter doesn’t work for race, but that’s always iffy. I’d feel more confident if I could take measurements and run them through a data bank. Even then, race can be a tough call.”

Behind me, the large detective transferred boxes to the dolly.

“What about timing?” I asked.

“Claudia de la Alda was LSA in July. The septic tank was serviced in August.”

“Last seen alive doesn’t equate to date of death.”

“No,” Galiano agreed.

“If she is dead.”

“Patricia Eduardo vanished in October, Gerardi and Specter in January.”

“Anyone LSA wearing jeans and a pink floral blouse?”

“Not according to witness accounts.” He indicated a stack of folders. “The files are there.”

“First, I’d like to take a look at the clothes,” I said.

Galiano followed me to the table, watched as I lowered the evidence bags to the floor, pulled a plastic sheet from my pack, and spread it across the tabletop.

“I need water,” I said, lifting the first bag.

Galiano shot me a questioning look.

“To clean labels.”

He spoke to one of the detectives.

Pulling on latex gloves, I untied the knot, reached in, and began extracting filthy clothing. A stench filled the room as I disentangled and spread each garment.

Detective Hair Oil brought water.

“Jesus Christ, smells like sewer slime.”

“Now why do you suppose that would be?” I asked as he left, closing the door behind him.

Jeans. Shirt. Mint-green bra. Mint-green panties with tiny red roses. Navy-blue socks. Penny loafers.

A cold prickle. My sister and I got penny loafers the fall I entered the fifth grade.

Slowly, a scarecrow took shape, headless, handless, flat and damp. When the bags were empty, I began a close inspection of each item.

The jeans were navy blue and bore no logo. Though the material was in good condition, the garment had separated into individual components.

I checked the pockets. Empty, as expected. I dunked the tag, scrubbed gently. The lettering was faded beyond legibility. The pant legs were rolled, but I estimated the size as similar to mine, a woman’s six or eight. Galiano recorded everything in his spiral pad.

The blouse had no identifying labels. For now I left it buttoned.

“Stab wounds?” Galiano asked as I inspected one of several defects in the fabric.

“Irregular shapes, ragged edges,” I said. “They’re just rips.”

The bra was a 34B, the panties size 5. No brand name was visible on either.

“Weird how the jeans are falling apart but everything else is almost perfect.” Galiano.

“Natural fibers. Here today, gone tomorrow.”

He waited for me to go on.

“The jeans were probably sewn with cotton thread. But the lady had a definite fondness for synthetics.”

“Princess Polyester.”

“They may not make the best-dressed lists, but polyesters and acrylics are decomp friendly.”

“Longer lasting through chemistry.”

Sludge oozed onto the plastic as I unrolled the right jeans leg. Aside from dead roaches, I spotted nothing.

I unrolled the left.

“Luma Lite?” I asked.

What had been grudgingly lent was an alternate light source that caused fingerprints, hairs, fibers, semen, and drug stains to fluoresce brightly.

Galiano dug a black box and two sets of tinted goggles from the case Hernández had brought. While he found an outlet and turned off the overheads, I slipped on the plastic glasses. Then I flipped the switch and moved the Luma Lite over the clothing. The beam picked up nothing until I came to the unrolled hem of the left pant leg. Filaments flared like sparklers on the Fourth of July.

“What the hell is that?” I could feel Galiano’s breath on my arm.

I held the beam on the cuff, and stepped back.

“¡Puchica!”
Wow!

He squinted at the jeans a full minute, then straightened.

“Hair?”

“Possibly.”

“Human or animal?”

“That’s one for your trace guys. But I’d start asking about family pets.”

“Son of a bitch.”

I dug a handful of plastic vials from my pack, labeled one, tweezed up the filaments, and sealed them inside. Then I rescanned every inch of clothing. No more fireworks.

“Lights?”

Galiano removed his goggles and hit the switch.

After marking the remaining vials with date, time, and location, I scraped muck into each, capped, taped, and initialed. Right sock, exterior. Right sock, interior. Left sock. Right pants cuff. Left pants cuff. Right shoe, interior. Right shoe, sole. Ten minutes later I was ready for the blouse.

“Overheads, please?”

Galiano killed the lights.

The buttons were standard-issue plastic. One by one, I hit them with the Luma Lite. No prints.

“O.K.”

The room lit up as I slipped each button through its hole, peeled back the fabric, and exposed the blouse’s interior.

The object was so small it almost escaped my notice, tangled in the recess of the right underarm seam.

I grabbed my magnifier.

Oh, no.

I took a deep breath, steadied my hands, and eased the sleeve inside out.

Another lay five inches down the sleeve.

I found another, an inch below the first.

“Sonovabitch.”

“What?” Galiano was staring at me.

I went straight to the scene photos, dumped envelopes until I found the right set. Racing through the stack I pulled out the pelvic close-up and magnified the mysterious specks.

Dear God.

Barely breathing, I examined every inch of pelvic bone, then worked my way through the other shots. I spotted seven in all.

Anger rushed through my body. And sorrow. And every emotion I’d felt in the grave at Chupan Ya.

“I don’t know who she is,” I said. “But I may know why she died.”

“
I’M LISTENING,” GALIANO SAID

“She was pregnant.”

“Pregnant?”

I held out the first pelvic photo.

“That speck is a fragment of fetal skull.”

I shifted prints.

“So is that. And there are fetal bones in the blouse.”

“Show me.”

Returning to the table, I indicated three fingernail-sized fragments.

“¡Hijo de la puta!”
Sonovabitch.

I was startled by his vehemence, and didn’t respond.

“How pregnant?”

“I’m not sure. I’d like to scope these, then check a reference.”

“Sonovafuckingbitch.”

“Yeah.”

Through the closed door I heard male voices, then laughter. The squad room banter seemed a callous intrusion.

“So who the hell is she?” Galiano’s voice sounded a step lower than normal.

“A teenager with a terrifying secret.”

“And Daddy wasn’t looking to be a family man.”

“Maybe Daddy already was one.”

“Or the pregnancy could be coincidence.”

“Could be. If this is a serial killer, his victims could be random.”

The voices in the corridor receded, fell silent.

“Time for another visit with the innkeeper and his wife.” Galiano.

“It wouldn’t hurt to check out women’s clinics and family planning centers in the neighborhood. She might have sought an abortion.”

“This is Guatemala.”

“Prenatal care.”

“Right.”

“Better get pictures before I collect these.” I waved at the blouse.

Xicay arrived in minutes. I handed him my ABFO ruler and pointed out the bones. As Xicay filmed, Galiano shifted gears.

“What about size?”

“Size?”

“How big was she?”

“The clothing suggests average to petite. Muscle attachments are slight. What we call gracile.”

I flipped through the photos until I came to the leg bones.

“I could estimate stature with the femur using the ruler for scale. But it would only be a ballpark guess. Do you know heights for the four MPs?”

“Should be in their files. If not, I’ll find out.”

“Got it,” Xicay said.

Taking two more vials from my pack, I marked one and added the words
Fetal Remains.
Then I tweezed the bones from the armpit and sleeve, sealed the vials, and initialed the labels.

“Standard shots of the clothing?” Xicay asked.

I nodded.

Watching him move around the table, I had a sudden thought.

“Where are the tibia and foot bones that were in the jeans?” I asked Galiano.

“Díaz dropped paper on those, too.”

“And left the jeans.”

“The guy wouldn’t know evidence if it pissed on his shoe.”

“What’s your take on Lucas?”

“The good doctor didn’t look thrilled with his assignment.”

“I got the same impression. Think Díaz is putting the screws to him?”

“I’m meeting with Mr. DA this afternoon.” He unfolded and slipped on his shades. “I intend to stress the importance of candor.”

An hour later I drove through the gates at FAFG headquarters. Ollie Nordstern stood on the front porch, one shoulder propped against a post, jaw working a wad of gum.

I considered reversing, but he was on me like a shark on a blood slick.

“Dr. Brennan. The woman that tops my list.”

I dug my pack from the back of my rented Access.

“Let me get that for you.”

“Something has come up, Mr. Nordstern.” I slung a strap over one shoulder, slammed the door, and headed past him toward the house. “I won’t have time for an interview today.”

“Perhaps I could sweet-talk you into a few minutes.”

Perhaps you could drown in a spittoon.

“Not today.”

Elena Norvillo sat at one of several computers clustered in what was once the Mena family parlor. Her hair was hidden under a blue scarf knotted at the nape of her neck.

“Buenos días, Elena.”

“Buenos días,”
she answered, never taking her eyes from the screen.