Grave Secrets

“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.

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.