Grave Secrets

The hotel interior was exactly as promised by its exterior. Threadbare carpet with yellowed plastic runner, linoleum-covered counter, wooden grid for keys and letters, cracked plaster walls. The air smelled of mold, dust, and years of cigarette smoke and sweat.

I followed Galiano across a deserted lobby, down a narrow corridor, and out a rear door to a yard that saw little sunlight and even less care. Ceramic pots with withered vegetation. Rusted kitchen chairs with split vinyl seats. Plastic lawn furniture, green with mold. An upended wheelbarrow. Bare earth. A lone tree.

An upholstered sofa missing one leg leaned against the back of the pension, and shards of plaster, fallen bricks, dead leaves, cellophane wrappers, and aluminum pop-tops littered its foundation. The bright yellow backhoe was the only spot of color in the dreary setting. Beside the shovel I could see freshly turned soil, and the concrete lid removed, then hastily replaced by Señor Serano and his son.

I took account of those present. Juan-Carlos Xicay was conversing with a man in a dark blue jumpsuit identical to his own. A driver sat behind the wheel of the backhoe. A uniformed policeman guarded the back entrance to the property. Antonio Díaz hovered alone on its far side, rose-tinted glasses hiding his eyes.

I smiled and raised a hand. The DA did not reply, did not look away.

Happy day.

Pascual Hernández stood with a wiry, rat-faced man wearing sandals, jeans, and a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt. A sturdy woman flanked the rat, plastic bracelets on her wrists, breasts hanging heavy inside an embroidered black dress.

Galiano and I crossed to his partner, and Hernández introduced the innkeepers. Up close I noticed that Señora Serano had one brown eye and one blue one, giving her face an odd, unbalanced look. When she gazed at me I found it hard to decide into which eye I should look.

I also noticed that Señora Serano’s lower lip was swollen and cracked, and I wondered if the rat had struck her.

“And these folks are going to be as helpful as Scouts at a jamboree.” Hernández drilled the rat with a look. “Even with the hard stuff.”

“I have no secrets.” Serano held his hands palms up, fingers splayed. He was so agitated I could barely follow the Spanish. “I know nothing.”

“You just happen to have a body in your tank.”

“I don’t know how it got there.” Serano’s eyes flicked from face to face.

Galiano turned the shades on Serano.

“What else don’t you know, señor?”

“Nada.” Nothing. The rat eyes darted like a sparrow seeking a safe perch.

Galiano drew a bored breath. “I have no time for games, Señor Serano. But take this to the bank.” He tapped a finger on the big blue “C” in Cowboys. “When we’re finished here, you and I are gonna have a real heart-to-heart.”

Serano shook his head but said nothing.

The Darth Vader lenses shifted to the backhoe.

“All set?” Galiano shouted.

Xicay spoke to the driver, gave a thumbs-up. He pointed to me, then to a jumble of equipment near the uniformed guard. A zipping gesture on his chest indicated that I should suit up. I raised my thumb.

Galiano turned back to the Seranos.

“Your job today is to do nothing,” he said levelly. “You will do it seated there.” He jabbed a finger at the lopsided sofa. “And you will do it without comment.”

Galiano made a circular gesture in the air above his head.

“Vámonos.”

I hurried to the equipment locker. Behind me, the backhoe rumbled to life.

As I pulled on a Tyvek jumpsuit and knee-high rubber boots, the driver shifted gears and maneuvered into position. Metal squawked, the bucket dropped with a thunk, scraped the ground, scooped the exposed lid, swung left, and laid it aside. The smell of wet soil drifted on the morning air.

Digging a recorder from my pack, I walked to the edge of the tank.

One look, and my stomach rolled in on itself.

The chambers were brimming with a hideous dark liquid topped by a layer of organic scum. A million cockroaches scuttled across the gelatinous mass.

Galiano and Hernández joined me.

“Cerote.” Hernández backhanded his mouth.

Galiano said nothing.

Swallowing hard, I began to dictate. Date. Time. Location. Persons present.

The bucket rattled, dropped again. Serrated teeth bit into the ground, swung free, returned. A second concrete lid appeared, was displaced. A third. A fifth. The odor of putrefaction overpowered the smell of damp earth.

As items were revealed, I dictated description and location. Xicay shot pictures

By mid-morning eight concrete lids lay in a heap, and the tank was fully exposed. I’d spotted an arm bone lodged against the entrance drain on the west side, fabric in the southeast corner, and a blue plastic object and several hand bones embedded in the scum.

“Cue the truck?” Galiano asked when I’d finished my last entry.

“Have it driven into position. But first I have to remove what’s visible and search the top layer.”