Grave Secrets

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.