Grave Secrets

“So Buttercup wasn’t the donor of the Paraíso hairs,” I said.

“A Persian cat wasn’t the donor of the Paraíso hairs,” Minos corrected.

“That puts Buttercup in the clear. What about the Gerardi or Specter cats?”

“Definite candidates.”

I felt a sudden surge of optimism.

“Along with a million other shorthairs in Guatemala City,” he added.

The optimism plunged like an elevator in free fall.

“Can’t you determine if one of the other samples matches the hairs from the jeans?” Galiano asked.

“Both display similar characteristics. Individualization is impossible based on hair morphology.”

“What about DNA?” I asked.

“That can probably be done.”

Minos tossed the folder onto the counter, removed his glasses, and began cleaning them on the hem of his lab coat.

“But not here.”

“Why not?”

“There’s a six-month backlog on human tissue cases. You’ll have a birthday waiting for results on cat hair.”

I was wrapping my mind around that when Galiano’s cell phone sounded.

His face tensed as he listened.

“¡Ay, Dios mío! Dónde?”

He was silent a full minute, then his eyes met mine. When he spoke again he’d gone back to English.

“Why wasn’t I called sooner?”

A long pause.

“Xicay’s there?”

Another pause.

“We’re on our way.”

11

AT 3 P.M. THE STREETS WERE ALREADY IN GRIDLOCK. LIGHTS FLASHING, siren screaming, Galiano snaked forward as drivers edged over to allow us to pass. He kept his foot on the accelerator, barely slowed at intersections.

Shotgun Spanish crackled over the radio. I couldn’t follow, but it didn’t matter. I was thinking about Claudia de la Alda in her plain black skirts and pastel blouses. I tried to remember her expression in the photos, came up blank.

But other images flooded back from the past. Shallow graves. Putrefying bodies rolled in carpets. Skeletons covered with fallen leaves. Rotten clothing scattered by animals.

A sludge-filled skull.

My stomach knotted.

The faces of distraught parents. Their child is dead, and I am about to tell them that. They are bewildered, stricken, disbelieving, angry. Bearing that news is an awful job.

Damn! It was happening again.

My heart tangoed below my ribs.

Damn! Damn! Damn!

Señora De la Alda had received a phone call about the time I was heading out to learn more about cat hair. A male voice said Claudia was dead and told her where to find the body. Hysterical, she’d called Hernández. He’d called Xicay. The recovery team had located bones in a ravine on the far western edge of the city.

“What else did Hernández tell you?” I asked.

“The call was placed at a public phone.”

“Where?”

“The Cobán bus station in Zone One.”

“What did the caller say?”

“He told her the body was in Zone Seven. Gave directions. Hung up.”

“Near the archaeological site?”

“On the back steps.”

Zone 7 is a tentacle of the city that wraps around the ruins of Kaminaljuyú, a Mayan center that in its heyday had over three hundred mounds, thirteen ball courts, and fifty thousand residents. Unlike the lowland Maya, the builders of Kaminaljuyú preferred adobe to stone, an unwise choice in a tropical climate. Erosion and urban sprawl had taken their toll, and today the ancient metropolis is little more than a series of earth-covered knolls, a green space for lovers and Frisbee players.

“Claudia worked at the Ixchel Museum. Think there’s a connection?”

“I’ll definitely find out.”

A stench filled the car as we sped past the dump.

“Did Señora De la Alda recognize the voice?”

“No.”

As we flew through the city, the neighborhoods grew increasingly tired and run-down. Eventually, Galiano shot onto a narrow street with comedores and convenience stores on all four corners. We sped past ragged frame houses with clothesline laundry and sagging front stoops. Four blocks down, the street ended with a T-intersection which in turn dead-ended in both directions.

Turning left we faced a bleakly familiar scene. Patrol cars lined one side, lights flashing, radios spitting. A morgue van waited on the opposite shoulder. Beside the van, a metal guardrail; beside the rail, a steep drop into a barranca.

Twenty yards ahead, the pavement ended at chain linking. Yellow crime scene tape ran ten feet out, turned left, then paralleled the fence on its plunge into the ravine.

Uniformed cops moved about within the cordoned area. A handful of men watched from outside, some holding cameras, others taking notes. Behind us, I could see cars and a television truck. Media crew sat half in, half out of vehicles, smoking, talking, dozing.

When Galiano and I slammed our doors, lenses pointed in our direction. Journalists converged.

“Señor, esta—”

“Detective Galiano—”

“Una pregunta, por favor.”

Ignoring the onslaught, we ducked under the tape and walked to the edge of the ravine. Shutters clicked at our backs. Questions rang out.

Hernández was five yards down the incline. Galiano began scrabbling toward him. I was right behind.