Grave Secrets

“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.”