Grave Secrets

At eight I dialed the lab in Montreal and asked for the DNA section. When Robert Gagné came on, I outlined the Paraíso case and explained what I wanted. He thought it could be done, agreed to give it priority if I hand-delivered the sample.

I phoned Minos. He promised to have the cat hair packaged and ready in an hour.

I phoned the Guatemala City morgue. Dr. Fereira had carried through with what I’d requested.

I phoned Susanne Jean at the RP Corporation manufacturing plant in St-Hubert and gave her the same outline I’d given Gagné. She thought my idea would work.

I phoned Mateo. He told me to take all the time I needed.

Ditto for Galiano.

I hung up and headed for the door. O.K., Mrs. Ambassador. You’ve got yourself a traveling buddy. And I hope you and any companion get waved right through Guatemalan customs.

Angelina Fereira was well into another crash victim when I entered the autopsy room. A man lay on the table, head and arms badly charred, abdomen yawning like an open mouth in a Bacon painting. The pathologist was slicing a liver on a tray beside the body. She wielded a large, flat knife, and spoke without looking up.

“Un momento.”

Fereira peered closely at the exposed cross-sections, removed three slivers, and dropped them into a specimen jar. The tissue floated to the bottom and settled among its counterparts from the lungs, stomach, spleen, kidneys, and heart.

“Are you autopsying everyone?”

“We’re doing externals on the passengers. This is the driver.”

“Saved him for last?”

“Most of the victims are so badly burned we couldn’t be sure which one he was. Found him yesterday.”

Fereira stripped off mask and gloves, washed her hands, and crossed to the swinging doors, indicating that I should follow. She led me down a dingy corridor into a small, windowless office and closed the door. Unlocking a battered metal cabinet, she withdrew a large brown envelope.

“A radiologist at the Hospital Centro Médico owed me a favor.” She spoke English. “Had to call in the chit for this.”

“Thank you.”

“Sneaked the skull out after Lucas left on Tuesday. Wouldn’t want that getting out.”

“It won’t come from me.”

“Good thing I did.”

“What do you mean?”

Fereira slid one of several films from the envelope. It contained sixteen CT scans, each representing a five-millimeter slice through the skull found in the septic tank. Raising an X ray toward the overhead light, she pointed to a small white blob in the ninth image. Through the next several images the opacity enlarged, changed shape, diminished. By the fourteenth frame it was no longer visible.

“I spotted something in the ethmoid, thought it might be useful. After your call this morning, I went for another peek at the skull. The remains were gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Cremated.”

“After only one week?” I was dumbfounded.

Fereira nodded.

“Is that standard procedure?”

“As you can see, we’re cramped for space. Even under normal circumstances we don’t have the luxury of keeping unknowns for long periods of time. This bus crash has pushed us to the edge.” She lowered her voice. “But two weeks is unusual.”

“Who authorized it?”

“Tried to track that down. No one seems to know.”

“And the paperwork is missing,” I guessed.

“The technician swears he placed the order in the filing basket after carrying out the cremation, but it’s nowhere to be found.”

“Any theories?”

“Yep.”

She returned the film, held out the envelope.

“Vaya con Dios.”

At twelve fifty-seven I was belted into a first-class seat on an American Airlines flight to Miami. Dominique Specter sat beside me, lacquered nails drumming the armrest. Dr. Fereira’s CT scans were locked in a briefcase at my feet. The cat hair samples were tucked beside them.

Mrs. Specter had spoken incessantly during the limo ride and throughout the wait in the airport lounge. She described Chantale, recounted childhood anecdotes, floated theories as to the cause of her daughter’s problems, wove schemes for her rehabilitation. She was like a DJ between records, terrified of silence, nonselective in the banality with which she filled it.

Recognizing the talk as tension release, I made reassuring sounds but said little. Feedback was not necessary. The verbal flow continued unabated.

Mrs. Specter finally fell silent as we thundered down the runway for takeoff. She compressed her lips, leaned her head against the seatback, and closed her eyes. When we leveled off, she pulled a copy of Paris Match from her handbag and began flipping pages.

The wallpaper chatter resumed during our transfer in Miami, died again on the flight to Montreal. Suspecting my companion had a fear of flying, I continued to grant her conversational control.

Traveling with the ambassador’s wife had its advantages. When our plane touched down at ten thirty-eight, we were met by suited men and whisked through customs. By eleven we were in the back of another limo.