Grave Secrets

Though trace recovery seemed hopeless, I was careful to work directly over the sheeting. If there were fragments, hairs, or fibers, we’d find them at the lab.

Laying the flashlight aside, I eased the skeleton onto its back. The odor intensified. Beetles and millipedes skittered in every direction. Xicay’s shutter clicked above me.

In a climate like that of the Guatemala highlands, a body can be skeletonized in months or even weeks, depending upon access by insects and scavengers. If the cadaver is tightly wrapped, decomposition can be slowed significantly. Muscle and connective tissue may even mummify. Such was the case here. The bones held together reasonably well.

I studied the shriveled corpse, remembering the photos of eighteen-year-old Claudia de la Alda. My back teeth ground together.

Not this time, Díaz. Not this time.

Constantly shifting to find more comfortable work positions, I began at what had been the body’s head and inched toward the feet, my whole being focused on my task. Time passed. Others came and went. My back and knees ached. My eyes and skin itched from pollen, dust, and flying insects.

Somewhere along the way I noticed that Galiano was gone. Xicay and Colom expanded their search down into the gorge. I worked on alone, now and then hearing muffled conversation, birdsong, a shouted question from above.

Two hours later the remains, plastic sheeting, hair, and clothing lay in a body bag. The crucifix was sealed into a Ziploc baggie. My inventory form told me I was missing only five phalanges and two teeth.

This time I hadn’t merely identified bones and distinguished left from right. I’d taken a long, hard look at every skeletal element.

The remains were those of a female in her late teens or early twenties. Cranio-facial features suggested she was of Mongoloid ancestry. She had a well-healed fracture of the right radius, and restorations in four of her molars.

What I couldn’t tell was what had happened to her. My preliminary exam revealed no gunshot wounds, no fresh fractures, no blunt or sharp instrument trauma.

“De la Alda?” Galiano had returned.

“Fits the profile.”

“What happened to her?”

“No blows. No cuts. No bullets. No ligatures. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Hyoid?”

Galiano referred to a horseshoe-shaped bone that floats in the soft tissue at the front of the throat. In older victims, the hyoid may crack during strangulation.

“Intact. But that means nothing with someone this young.”

This young. Like the kid in the septic tank. I saw something flicker in Galiano’s eyes, and knew he was sharing the same thought.

I tried to rise. My knees rebelled and I stumbled forward. Galiano caught me as I fell against him. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. My cheek felt hot against Galiano’s chest.

Surprised, I stepped back and concentrated on peeling off gloves. I sensed Guernsey eyes on my face, but didn’t look up.

“Did Hernández learn anything else?” I asked.

“No one saw or heard zilch.”

“Do you have De la Alda’s dental records?”

“Yes.”

“Should be a straightforward dental ID.”

I glanced up at Galiano, back down at the gloves. Had the embrace lingered after I was safely on my feet, or had I imagined it?

“Finished here?” he asked.

“Except for digging and screening.”

Galiano looked at his watch. With Pavlovian promptness, I looked at mine. Five-ten P.M.

“You’re going to start that now?” he asked.

“I’m going to finish that now. If there’s some sick bastard out there preying on young women, he could be choosing his next victim even as we speak.”

“Yes.”

“And the more people tramping around here, the more this scene is compromised.”

The name Díaz did not need saying.

“And you’ve seen that mob up top. This story is going to break like a tropical thundershower.” I tucked the gloves into the body bag.

“The transport team can take the body. Be sure they strap it down.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Was the bastard grinning? Was I imagining that?

Colom, Xicay, and I spent the next hour excavating and sifting six inches of topsoil from the portion of gully that had held the remains. The screen produced both missing teeth, three phalanges, several finger and toe nails, and one gold earring.

When Galiano returned, I showed him the stud.

“What is it?”

“It’s what we call a clue.” I sounded like Fredi Minos.

“De la Alda’s?”

“That’s a question for her family.”

“She wore no jewelry in any of her photos.”

“That’s true.”

Galiano dropped the baggie into his pocket.

Night was falling as we crested the ridge and stepped onto the road. The press trucks were gone, the obligatory body bag footage safely on tape. A few reporters lingered, hoping for a statement.

“How many, Galiano?”

“Who is it?”

“Is it a woman? Was she raped?”

“No comment.”

As I got into Galiano’s cruiser, a woman snapped me with one of three cameras draped around her neck.

I hit the lock, leaned back against the headrest, and closed my eyes. Galiano climbed in and started the engine. I heard a tap on my window, ignored it.