Human Sacrifice

by Cindy L Hull

“Did Paul say anything to you?”

  Claire hesitated. “He indicated that he read my first book. He made a reference to my section on shedding religious biases, and something about anthropological ethics. What do you think he was up to?”

  George’s eyebrows furrowed in their characteristic way, and he pushed his eyeglasses further up the bridge of his nose. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t make much sense to critique the research of your future colleagues.”

  Claire told him about her conversation with Cody about Paul’s father. “Paul seemed flustered when he realized I had written two books and he hadn’t known it,” she said. “Do you suppose this is what Cody meant by ‘knowledge is power?’”

  George’s brow creased into deeper crevices. “Very curious.”

  Claire raised her eyebrow again. “Talking about curious, Laura left quickly. What were you two talking about?”

  “I told you. The Mayanist program.” He sighed and scowled. “She wanted to explain that, while she and Paul both attended the same graduate program in Chicago, she hadn’t known him personally.”

  “Is Laura a suspect?” Claire smiled at him.

  George blushed, “So, Tanya’s conspiracy theories have gotten to you too?”

  “I really don’t know,” Claire admitted. She told him about Detective Salinas’ interest in her photographs. “I have to pick them up now. I hope the police settle this soon, so we can get this conference back on track for all of us.”

  “That might be easier said than done.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Claire entered the hotel through the restaurant patio entrance to avoid the commotion at the auditorium, where scholars would be congregating for the lecture. She decided that the Exhibit Room would be a quiet place to examine the photographs before turning them over to the officers. In the excitement of the past days, she had not yet seen the exhibits or the book-sale tables set up for the conference. The Exhibit Room door was unlocked and the room unoccupied. The exhibit cases, as well as the book tables, had been left unattended.

  She studied the two exhibit cases, positioned on one side of the room. The first case held a Keane College collection, including replicas of Mayan tools, pots, grinding tools, jewelry, pottery, and a sacrificial dagger. The second cabinet held replicas of the artifacts Eduardo had designated for loan to the college. The most intriguing were the replicas of stone carvings portraying religious specialists using the large flint knives to open the chests of sacrificial victims—usually prisoners of war—the bloody dagger in one hand, the beating heart in the other. The original carvings were too heavy and valuable to put on public display.

  On the other side of the room, Claire scanned the tables set up to display books available for purchase. She paused at each table, viewing the books published in Mayan studies: anthropology, archaeology, religion and myth, history, and linguistics. She paused to rearrange the copies of her two ethnographies on Yaxpec. Thirty years of research condensed into two books.

  Claire sat on a metal chair behind the bookseller’s table and pulled the photographs and her reading glasses from her purse. The gruesome scene of Paul’s death had not affected her as she had taken the photos, the camera acting as an emotional barrier between her and the awful sight. But now, her stomach wrenched as she stared at the vision of Paul, his blood soaking into the hard earth. Studying the area around Paul’s body, she remembered her concern. The body seemed too close to the pyramid. But she was not a forensics expert, and her working knowledge of physics was negligible. Marks on the hard earth might indicate that the body had been moved, but by whom and why?

  Shuffling through the other photographs, she didn’t notice anything that might be of interest to the detective. She paused at the photograph Lois and Dale Stuart had taken of her group, she and her colleagues standing together physically and symbolically in a complex web of personal and professional relationships.

  Claire looked at her watch. She couldn’t avoid her obligation any longer. Brad would certainly notice her absence and reprimand her if she missed his friend’s speech. She rummaged in her purse for the card the officer had given her and called Sergeant Garza.

  As she ended the call, the Exhibit Room door opened, and a young woman wearing jeans and platform sandals entered, balancing a jelly roll on top of a take-out coffee cup. She looked at Claire, then at the books on the table in front of her.

  “I had to go to the bathroom,” she said, embarrassed, “and I needed some food. No one was around to watch the table.”

  “Your books are valuable,” Claire said. “The display articles are replicas, but still expensive to replace.”

  “I don’t have a key,” she said. “I didn’t think I’d be gone long.” She rearranged the books at the table, waiting for Claire to relinquish her seat.

  “I’m sure it was okay,” Claire consoled. Stuffing the photographs and her glasses into her purse, she left the embarrassed exhibit monitor and hurried to the auditorium. She paused at the entrance as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, then edged her way along the last row to join Madge and Tanya.

  Eduardo was discussing the Mayan society, not as agriculturalists who eked their existence from the thin Yucatecan soils, but as warlike imperialist city-states in constant conflict for power and territory, the “Apocalypso” version. He stood at a podium in front of a large screen displaying archaeological evidence of the warring Maya.

  Claire’s mind wandered as Eduardo droned on. She didn’t want to hear about human sacrifice, especially one that involved bodies thrown from pyramids. She leaned back with her head against the wall. She wondered if there could be something else for her. She loved teaching, thrived on her own research and the relationships she formed with her students and the people in Yaxpec, but the politics and the academic dramas tired her. Brad’s arrogance, Jamal’s puppet-like dedication to his mentor, George’s surliness, and Tanya’s incessant chatter wore on her. Only Madge invigorated her and reminded her why she chose this profession: the seeking of knowledge about other ways of life, and the wonder of all things cultural.

  The house lights went up, and Claire’s attention returned to Eduardo, who was now explaining his family’s place in both American and Mexican history.

  “So, here I am, descended from a Mexican mother whose ancestors found themselves in the state of Texas after the Mexican-American War, and a middle-class Mexican businessman living temporarily in the United States. My parents ultimately settled in Mexico City and made a commitment to preserve ancient Mexican cultures…”

  Claire heard a snort and turned to see Madge roll her eyes in the dim light. “Preserving culture, my butt,” she whispered.

  “Shh,” Claire said, and stifled a smile.

  Eduardo then turned to the story, familiar to Claire’s colleagues, of how he and Brad met. “Brad was my first friend in graduate school. I am honored to thank him by loaning artifacts from my family’s collection to Keane College.” He motioned to Brad, coaxing him to the front of the room. Brad stood awkwardly as Eduardo reached under the podium and pulled out a box about six inches long. He opened the box and extracted a translucent green statue of a Mayan deity, a corncob erupting from its head.

  “I would like to present this statue to Brad, and to the Keane College Mayanist Program, as a representation of the first item I will be loaning to their new museum,” Eduardo announced. “Of course, this is a replica of an important piece in our family collection at Galerías Indígenas. The original is jadeite, a symbol of Mayan royalty.” Eduardo paused, expecting sighs of appreciation, but instead the audience became restive. People turned to each other, and whispered comments floated through the room.

  “Where do you suppose the original came from?” Claire whispered to Madge, who was rummaging in her bag for her notepad.

  Eduardo held his hand up to still the undercurrent. “I see you are interested in this beautiful pie
ce.” He smiled and looked out at the audience. “The original of this deity, the Corn God, Ixim, dates to the mid-800s AD.” Eduardo cradled it in his hands like a tiny chick.

  “As you all know, the Mexican Antiquities Act prohibits any exporting of artifacts for sale after 1972. My grandfather acquired this piece in the 1940s near an unexcavated Yucatecan site. He received it from an old friend who obtained it from a relative who had found it while planting henequen in his fields. The actual provenance is unknown. My grandfather did not sell the original but kept it safe in his collection. The original, and all other loaned pieces, will be accompanied by documentation of legitimacy. I am very proud to be able to loan these beautiful items to my old friend and his wonderful colleagues.”

  Polite applause spread through the lecture hall, but a whispered undercurrent continued. Madge jabbed Claire in the ribs. “Look at Brad. He looks ill.” Brad stood stiffly at his friend’s side, staring at the statue.

  “He’s embarrassed,” said Claire.

  Madge guffawed, and wrote notes in her notepad.

  Eduardo broke into the restless atmosphere. “I have another small announcement.”

  The audience began to look at their watches and shift in their seats. “In the spirit of the Mexican concerns for the repatriation of exported items, and for the return of items now housed in private collections, I am offering scholarships and internships to students at Keane College and our Texas alma mater to research artifacts from my family’s private collections. I am calling this enterprise ‘The Provenance Project.’ Any artifacts whose origins can be determined will be returned to their home villages or closest museums.”

  Eduardo’s eyes scanned the audience, his charisma finally winning over the skeptics. He continued, “This is a long-term project, but one that allows me to undo some of the damage done by those who knowingly stole items from excavated sites, or innocently acquired them. I hope to make amends to the communities that have lost their heritage to foreign or national museums and to private collections. I think my family would approve of my actions.”

  A more enthusiastic round of applause spread through the room. Eduardo turned to his friend and asked him to step forward. Brad stood stiffly and hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. He stared at the statue as if it held the powers of Mayan sorcery. Eduardo offered the statue to him, and slowly Brad raised his hands to accept it. Eduardo placed it gently into Brad’s hands as if it were the real thing.

  Brad moved back to the podium. “I don’t know what to say. This is an amazing piece…I have admired the original in your collection. I don’t know how to thank you. We will treasure it.” He held it up for the audience to see. “All of us at Keane College will treasure it.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Claire rushed from the lecture hall, squinting at her watch. She had told Sergeant Garza she would turn the photographs over to one of her officers at 5:30, but Eduardo’s lecture had started late and had just ended. She recognized Sergeant Juarez at the front desk, wisely dressed in slacks and a guayabera instead of his uniform. He was scanning the crowd leaving the auditorium as the receptionist made a call, presumably to Claire’s room. When Juarez saw her rushing toward him, he motioned to the receptionist, who hung up and turned to another guest.

  “Buenas tardes,” Claire said. “I’m sorry I am late.”

  “No problema, Señora.” He led her away from the commotion, and Claire extracted the photo envelope and memory card from her purse. She handed them to the officer, looking over her shoulder as she did so. She felt like a spy delivering government secrets to the enemy.

  “Please tell Detective Salinas that I need my memory card back. I have an extra one for now, but I still need it.”

  “Cierto,” he replied. “Oh, and Detective Salinas sends his greetings.” Before she could respond, he turned and walked away.

  Claire observed Laura seated in the lounge, reading. Claire approached her.

  “Are you busy?”

  Laura placed the typed sheets she had been reading on a small table. “Please, join me.”

  “What are you reading?” Claire asked.

  “It’s a copy of Evelyn Nielander’s paper on the Zapatistas. Her research has a connection with my interest in Guatemalan refugees and the loss of indigenous languages.”

  “Can I ask you a few questions about your academic background?” Claire asked.

  Laura nodded, but looked uncomfortable. She clasped her hands in her lap.

  “You applied for a position in economic anthropology, but your credentials seem to indicate more interest in linguistics and Guatemalan political movements.”

  Laura grimaced. “My grandparents came to the United States during the Guatemalan civil war, with my parents and my brother. I was born in the United States, but many in my family were killed or disappeared in the 1980s. I studied linguistics because I wanted to carry on my family’s cultural heritage, but my interest has turned more to human rights.”

  “Thus, your interest in Evelyn’s work with the Mexican Zapatistas?”

  Laura nodded. “Many Guatemalans, those lucky enough to have survived the genocide, made their way to the United States, but others settled in Chiapas and integrated with the Maya living there. Some became involved with the Zapatista movement.” She picked up the papers from the table. “It was a bit of a deception, I admit. You advertised for an economic anthropologist. But to me, language, economics, and politics are linked to power.”

  “It might have strengthened your application to address that interest. Small departments are always looking for broadly trained faculty.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Laura said.

  Two candidates, both deceptive, Claire thought. “Madge, Tanya, and I are going to dinner. Would you like to join us?”

  Laura smiled, biting her bottom lip between her teeth. “Thank you, but I made plans with friends.” She stood. “This had been a terrible day. I can’t get past the idea that Paul Sturgess and I both interviewed for the position yesterday, and today, he is gone.”

  Claire had been thinking the same thing. She said goodbye and watched Laura move toward the elevator.

  “Professor Claire!”

  Now what? Claire thought as she turned and saw Cody rushing toward her.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, as he collapsed on the chair abandoned by Laura.

  “What is it, Cody?”

  He gulped. His hands and voice both shook uncontrollably. “I’m packing Paul’s things…” he paused and looked around the room. “I can’t find his computer.”

  “His computer?” Claire remembered the small laptop Paul had used during his interview to illustrate his presentation. “He had it at the reception. I remember he put it in his backpack.”

  Cody’s eyes widened. “His backpack is missing too.”

  Claire tried to visualize the scene at the pyramid. She didn’t remember seeing Paul’s backpack there. She had covered the ground carefully as she took photographs. She certainly would have seen it. “Could he have put it on the bus so he wouldn’t have to carry it around that evening?”

  Cody shook his head. “Never. It was too valuable.”

  Claire said, “Call Detective Salinas. This might be important.”

  “Will they understand me if I call?”

  Claire considered this and pulled her cellphone from her purse. The station’s number was the last one she had called. She touched the number on her screen, spoke to Sergeant Garza, and ended the call. “Go now. Detective Salinas will wait for you, but, listen to me carefully.” She whispered, “Don’t tell anyone else about this. No one, except Detective Salinas.”

  Cody nodded.

  “You promise?” She spoke as a mother might speak to a child, and immediately regretted her tone, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “I promise.”


  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Monday Evening

  Claire suggested a small restaurant near the Plaza Santa Lucia. The three women walked slowly for Madge’s sake, Tanya dominating the conversation with her own interpretation of Eduardo’s talk on the warrior Maya. Claire tried to concentrate on Tanya’s monologue, but her own thoughts were several miles away in another direction. She wondered what Roberto Salinas’s reaction would be to Cody’s discovery—or rather, his lack of discovery. She also wondered if he had examined her photographs. Most of all, she wondered what he thought about seeing her again.

  At the Plaza, they turned up a narrow one-way street, passed the Santa Lucia Cathedral, and stopped in front of a small restaurant named “La Paloma.” Inside, a young woman wearing a dress-length white huipil asked if they wanted to sit inside or in the courtyard. Deciding to take advantage of the cool evening breezes, they chose the courtyard. Following the hostess through the restaurant, they passed a long table where a lively multigenerational family celebrated what looked like a birthday for an elderly great-grandmother.

  They greeted other like-minded anthropologists as they passed into the open courtyard of what once had been a Spanish aristocrat’s home. Claire looked up at the darkening sky. She breathed in the clear air, knowing she would be returning to a Michigan spring that might greet her with beautiful lilacs—or a snowstorm. She heard a shriek of recognition and looked to see Madge, waddling as quickly as her legs would take her, to a table on the far side of the courtyard beyond a small fountain. Claire smiled as she recognized her friend, Evelyn Nielander, a cultural anthropologist at Central Wisconsin University. It was her paper Laura had been perusing in the hotel earlier.

  Evelyn was famous, or infamous, for her ability to disappear into the Chiapas rainforest every summer. Evelyn conducted her research on the Zapatista Movement, initiated by the Maya of Chiapas, but which had expanded into a major Mexican indigenous movement. Evelyn’s ability to enter the world of a Mayan social and political movement both awed and terrified her department chair. That same department chair, Steven Sorenson, sat with Evelyn at a square table located ominously under a mural of The Magician’s Pyramid.