Grave Secrets

The object was roughly the size and shape of a volleyball. It rested on the tanks’ bottom, its top one foot below the surface of the sludge. Despite the queasiness, my pulse ratcheted up a notch.

Gingerly, I explored my find, gloved fingers reading the anatomical Braille.

Ovoid globe. Hollows separated by a tented bridge. Rigid bands winging outward beside an oblong aperture.

The skull!

Careful, Brennan.

Ignoring my roiling innards, I bent at the waist, grasped the brain case in both hands, and tugged. The muck refused to yield its booty.

Frustrated, I scooped away handfuls of slime. When I could see a patch of parietal, I rewrapped my fingers around the cranium and applied alternating pressure.

Nothing budged.

Damn!

Barely resisting the urge to yank, I continued the gentle twisting motion. Clockwise. Counterclockwise. Clockwise. Inside my jumpsuit, I felt hot perspiration roll down my sides.

Two more twists. The seal broke, and the skull shifted.

I cleared what path the sludge would allow, repositioned my fingers, and teased the skull upward. It rose slowly, emerged with a soft sucking sound. Heart thudding, I cradled it in both hands. Slick brown goo filled the orbits and coated the features.

But I saw enough.

Wordlessly, I handed the skull to Mario, accepted his gloved hand, and climbed from the tank. Mario placed the skull on the body bag, and picked up the first of the two pressure tanks. After spraying me with bleach solution, he sprayed me again with clear water.

“Ty-D-Bol called with a job offer.” Galiano.

I lowered my mask.

“Whoa, nice skin tone. Bilious green.”

Walking to the equipment locker for a clean jumpsuit, I realized I was trembling.

Next we did as Galiano had suggested. A pressure hose blasted the sludge into suspension, and the tanker truck evacuated the liquid. Then the pump was reversed, and we began straining 3,500 gallons of liquid through a quarter-inch screen. Mario broke up clumps and plucked out roaches. I examined every fragment and scrap of debris.

Somewhere during that process, Díaz bailed. Though I didn’t see him leave, at one point I glanced up and the pink lenses were gone.

Daylight was fading to dusk as the last of the liquid poured through the screen. The blouse, shoes, socks, undergarments, and plastic bow were bagged beside the equipment locker. A skeleton lay on the white sheet, complete except for the hyoid, one tibia, some hand and foot bones, two vertebrae, and four ribs. The skull and mandible lacked eight of the front teeth.

I’d identified, sorted left from right, and recorded every bone, confirming that we had only one individual, and ascertained what was missing. I’d felt too ill to perform further analysis. Though my brief glance at the skull made me uneasy, I’d decided to say nothing to Galiano until I was certain.

I was inventorying a rib when Díaz reappeared, followed by a man in a beige suit. He had greasy blond hair, a bad complexion, and weighed less than I did.

Díaz and his companion scanned the yard, conferred, then crossed to Galiano.

The new arrival spoke.

“I am here on behalf of the district attorney.” The guy was knobby-joint skinny and looked like a kid in adult clothing.

“And you are?” Galiano removed and folded his shades.

“Dr. Hector Lucas. I am taking possession of the remains found at this site.”

“Like hell you are,” Galiano replied.

Lucas looked at his watch, then at Díaz.

Díaz produced a paper from a zipper case.

“This warrant says he is,” said Díaz. “Pack everything for transport to the central morgue.”

Not a synapse fired in any muscle in Galiano’s body.

Díaz raised the warrant to eye level. Galiano ignored it.

Díaz pressed tinted glasses to nose. Everyone else remained frozen in place. Behind me I heard movement, then the pump cut off.

“Now, Detective.” Díaz’s voice sounded loud in the sudden stillness.

A second went by. Ten. A full minute.

Galiano was still staring when his cell phone shrilled. He clicked on after four rings, never taking his eyes from Díaz.

“Galiano.”

He listened, jaw clenched, then said one thing.

“¡Eso es una mierda!” Bullshit.

Galiano shoved the phone into his pocket and turned to Díaz.

“Be careful, señor. Be very careful,” he hissed with a low, steady venting of air from his diaphragm. “¡No me jodas!” Don’t fuck around with me.

With a jerk of his hand, Galiano gestured me from the body bag. I pushed to my feet and started to step back, reversed myself, knelt next to the skeleton, and peered intently at the skull. Díaz took half a step and started to speak, then bit off whatever he had intended to say and waited until I arose again.

Lucas approached and glanced at the array in the body bag. Satisfied, he pulled gloves from his pocket, tucked the sheet inside, and ran the zipper. Then he stood, a look of uncertainty on his face.

Díaz strode from the yard, returned with two men in gray coveralls, “Morgue del Organismo Judicial” stenciled on their backs. Between them they carried a gurney, legs collapsed beneath.