Grave Secrets

“It’s possible.”

“Suppose that’s the reason Díaz is stonewalling? Diplomatic embarrassment?”

“It doesn’t make sense. Specter’s the one who got me access.”

“For two hours.” Her voice dripped sarcasm.

Fereira was right. If Specter was powerful enough to overrule Díaz, why not obtain full clearance?

“If there’s even a remote chance it is his daughter, why wouldn’t Specter want to be sure?” Fereira posed the exact question that was in my mind.

“Could Díaz have other reasons for not wanting me near those bones?”

“Such as?” she asked.

I could think of no “such as.”

“Lucas claims it’s the bus crash,” I said.

“It’s been pretty crazy around here.” She pushed to her feet. “If it’s any comfort, it’s not you. Both Lucas and Díaz abhor interference.”

When I started to object, she raised a hand.

“I know you’re not interfering. But that may be how they see it.” She looked at her watch. “When do you plan to examine the bones?”

“This afternoon.”

“Anything I can do?”

“I have an idea, but it would require help.”

“Shoot.”

I told her my plan. Her eyes slid to Claudia de la Alda, returned to mine.

“I can do that.”

Three hours later Fereira and I had finished the De la Alda autopsy, eaten a quick lunch, and she’d moved on to one of the bus victims. Claudia de la Alda had been wheeled to a refrigerated compartment, and the Paraíso skeleton occupied the same table. The autopsy tech sat on a stool in the corner of the room, helper turned observer.

The bones were as I remembered, though clean now of muck and debris. I inspected the ribs and pelvis, recorded the state of fusion of every crest, cap, and cranial suture, and examined the teeth.

My gender and age estimates remained unchanged. The remains were those of a female in her late teens.

I’d also been correct in my impression of Mongoloid ancestry. To confirm my visual observations, I took skull and facial measurements for computer analysis.

I searched for evidence of peri-mortem trauma, but found nothing. Nor did I spot any skeletal peculiarities that might be of use in identification. The teeth showed no anomalies or restorations.

I’d just finished recording long bone lengths for stature calculation, when a phone rang in the anteroom. The technician answered, returned, and told me my time was up.

I stepped back from the table, lowered my mask, and stripped off my gloves. No problem. I had what I needed.

Outside, the sun was dropping toward cotton candy clouds billowing from the horizon. The air smelled of smoke from a trash fire. A light breeze floated wrappers and newspaper across the sidewalk.

I took a deep breath and gazed at the cemetery next door. Shadows angled from tombstones and from dime-store vases and jelly jars holding plastic flowers. An old woman sat on a wooden crate, head veiled, withered body swathed in black. A rosary dangled from her bony fingers.

I should have felt good. Though it was incomplete, I’d scored a victory over Díaz. And my initial assessment had been right on. But all I felt was sad.

And frightened.

Three months had passed between the day Claudia de la Alda was last seen alive and the day Patricia Eduardo went missing. Just over two months had passed between the disappearances of Patricia Eduardo and Lucy Gerardi. Chantale Specter vanished ten days after Lucy Gerardi.

If one maniac was responsible, the intervals were growing shorter.

His blood lust was increasing.

I pulled out my cell and punched in Galiano’s number. Before I hit send, the thing rang in my hand. It was Mateo Reyes.

Molly Carraway had regained consciousness.

13

SHORTLY AFTER DAYBREAK, MATEO AND I WERE ROLLER-COASTERING the blacktop to Sololá, shooting through pink, slanted sunshine on the ups, plunging through pockets of fog on the downs. The air was chilly, the horizon blurred by a damp morning haze. Mateo pushed the Jeep full out, face deadpan, hands tight on the wheel.

I rode in the front passenger seat, elbow out the window like a trucker in Tucson. Wind whipped my hair straight up, then forward into my face. I brushed it back absently, my thoughts focused on Molly and Carlos.

Though I’d met Carlos only once or twice, I’d known Molly a decade. Roughly my age, she’d come to anthropology late in life. A high school biology teacher grown frustrated with cafeteria duty and bathroom patrol, Molly had shifted direction at age thirty-one and returned to graduate school. Upon completion of a doctorate in bioarchaeology, she’d accepted a position in the Anthropology Department at the University of Minnesota.

Like me, Molly had been drawn into medical examiner work by cops and coroners oblivious to the distinction between physical and forensic anthropology. Like me, she donated time to the investigation of human rights abuses.

Unlike me, Molly had never abandoned her study of the ancient dead. Though she did some coroner cases, archaeology remained her main focus. She had yet to achieve certification by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology.