Grave Secrets

“Traditional Mayan stew. Tonight they have duck, beef, and chicken.”

“Chicken.” I closed my menu. I couldn’t read it anyway.

Galiano chose beef.

The waitress brought tortillas. Galiano took one, offered the basket.

“Gracias,” I said.

“When?” He settled back into his chair.

I’d missed a bridge somewhere.

“When?” I repeated his question.

“When did you burn your allotment?”

I made the connection, but had no intention of discussing my love affair with alcohol.

“A few years back.”

“Friend of Bill Wilson?”

“I’m not a joiner.”

“A lot of people rely on AA.”

“It’s a wonderful program.” I reached for my glass. The bubbles made soft fizzing sounds as the ice settled. “Was there something you wanted to tell me about the case?”

“Yes.”

He smiled, sipped his martini.

“You have a daughter, correct?”

“Yes.”

“I have a son. He’s seventeen.”

I said nothing.

“Alejandro, but he prefers Al.”

Galiano continued, unconcerned by the lack of feedback.

“Bright kid. He’ll start college next year. Probably ship him up to Canada.”

“St-F.X.?” I hoped to blow a hole in his unassailable self-confidence.

Galiano grinned.

“That’s where you scored the Bat tidbit.”

So he had caught my use of his nickname at headquarters.

“Who?” he asked.

“Andrew Ryan.”

“Ay, Dios.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

“What the hell’s Ryan up to these days?”

“He’s a detective with the provincial police.”

“Using his Spanish?”

“Ryan speaks Spanish?”

Galiano nodded. “We used to discuss passing members of the opposite sex and no one knew what we were saying.”

“Commenting on their intelligence, no doubt.”

“Sewing skills.”

I drilled him with a look.

“It was a different time.”

The waitress arrived, and we both set to seasoning stew. Then we ate in silence, Galiano’s eyes roving the restaurant. Had someone been watching, they’d have thought us a couple grown bored with each other. Finally, “How well do you understand the Guatemalan justice system?”

“Obviously, I’m an outsider.”

“You know you’re not working in Kansas here.”

Jesus. This guy was just like Ryan.

“I know about the torture and assassination, Detective Galiano. That’s why I’m in Guatemala.”

Galiano took a bite of stew, pointed his fork at mine.

“It’s better hot.”

I resumed eating, waited for him to go on. He didn’t. Across from our catacomb, an old woman cooked tortillas on a comal. I watched her toss dough, lay it on the flat clay pan, and place it over the fire. Over and over her hands moved through the motions, her face a wooden mask.

“Tell me how the system works.” It came out sharper than I intended, but Galiano’s evasiveness was starting to irritate.

“We don’t have jury trials in Guatemala. Criminal matters are investigated by judges of the first instance, primera instancia, occasionally by magistrates appointed by the Supreme Court. These judges, you’d call them DAs, are supposed to seek both exculpatory and incriminating evidence.”

“Meaning they act as both defense and prosecution.”

“Exactly. Once the investigating judge decides that there’s a case against an accused, he passes the matter on to a sentencing judge.”

“Who has the power to order an autopsy?” I asked.

“The judge of the first instance. An autopsy is mandatory in a violent or suspicious death. But if cause can be determined by external exam, there’s no Y incision.”

“Who’s in charge of the morgues?”

“They’re directly under the authority of the president of the Supreme Court.”

“So forensic doctors really work for the courts.”

“Or for the national social security institute, the Instituto Guatemalteco de Seguridad Social, IGSS. But yes, forensic doctors are under the authority of the judiciary. It’s not like Brazil, for example, where the state-run medico-legal institutes work for the police. Here forensic doctors have very little interaction with the police.”

“How many are there?”

“Around thirty. Seven or eight work at the judicial morgue here in G City, the rest are spread out across the country.”

“Are they well trained?”

He ticked points off on his fingers. It took only three.

“You must be a Guatemalan citizen by birth, a medical doctor, and a member of the medico-legal association.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Hell, USAC doesn’t even have a residency program in forensic medicine.” He referred to the University of San Carlos, Guatemala’s only public university.

“Frankly, I don’t know why anyone does it. The status is zip and the pay sucks. Have you been to the G City morgue?”

I shook my head.

“It’s like something out of the dark ages.”

He used a torn tortilla to sponge sauce, then pushed his bowl aside.

“Are forensic doctors full-time employees?”

“Some are. Some work for the courts just to supplement their earnings. Especially in rural areas.”

Galiano’s eyes darted left as the waitress entered. She cleared dishes, asked about dessert and coffee, left.

“What’s the drill when a body is found?”