Human Sacrifice

by Cindy L Hull

  “I didn’t know about it either,” Jamal protested. He sat in one of the chairs and clenched his hands in his lap. “Are you sure it’s the same dagger?” he asked.

  Madge nodded. “I used it in a class demonstration last week…I’ll never use it again.” She sniffled into a soggy tissue.

  Jamal, tears coming to him again, said, “She was sick.”

  George turned to Jamal. “It’s time you told us about Tanya.”

  Jamal lowered his voice, “I think she was taking oxycodone. She injured her back in a car accident in graduate school, and it was prescribed to her. She had been dependent on it for a while but told me she was through with it…but I guess…I think…she might have started up again.” Jamal looked at his colleagues, who wore a variety of expressions: disbelief in Madge, scorn in George, pensiveness in Brad, and concern in Claire.

  “And then she was drinking,” Jamal continued. “I should have helped her instead of badgering her about it. I…how could this happen?” He rubbed his nose on his sleeve. “I should have taken her back to the hotel.”

  “I should have,” insisted Claire. “I knew she was sick, but she was determined to be here. I don’t know why.”

  Brad said, “She was talking nonsense tonight.”

  “Well, if there is blame, I share some.” George aimed dark eyes at Brad. “She seemed agitated at the hotel. I should have insisted that she rest there, but, as Claire said, she wanted to come.”

  “Don’t look at me, George,” Brad said in a harsh whisper. “I almost had her convinced, but then you came, and suddenly she changed her mind.”

  Jamal looked up in surprise and glared at Brad. “You were in her room? When?”

  “I checked on her to see if she was okay,” Brad explained. “You saw that she acted odd at dinner.” He paused and looked at George, then brought his hand to his mouth. “In fact, she took a pain pill, for migraine she said. Right, George?”

  Jamal glared at Brad, then George, who nodded. Jamal opened his mouth to say more, but instead he looked away, tightened his jaw and clenched his fists.

  George pushed his glasses up his nose. “But the fact remains that she was stabbed. If she didn’t do it herself, someone wanted her dead.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Sergeant Juarez peeked into the parlor and directed the Keane College faculty to the atrium. Detective Salinas and Sergeant Garza were speaking with two uniformed officers and the crime scene technicians, two men with black satchels and a woman with a camera slung over her shoulder. George’s group found chairs and huddled toward the edge of the courtyard near the stairway as the technicians disappeared into the parlor, led by Garza.

  To Claire, Salinas looked as if he might have been called from a date. He wore khaki slacks, loafers, and a lime green guayabera embroidered with colorful tropical birds. She envisioned a woman sitting in a restaurant wondering what happened to her romantic evening.

  In contrast, Garza wore the same clothing she had worn on earlier occasions, black slacks and a white blouse, but tonight she had not bothered to wrap her hair up in a bun. Instead she had pulled it into a long thick black ponytail, tied at the nape of her neck.

  Salinas surveyed the crowd, his eyes pausing momentarily when they met Claire’s.

  “Good evening,” he said. “I’m very sorry to report that there has been a death here tonight…Professor Tanya Petersen. I cannot give you any further information at this time, but because of the nature of her death, we will need to interview you all. I’m afraid we have a long night ahead of us. Unfortunately, the sitting room and the parlor are no longer available to you. Please leave your name with Officer Morales before you wander to other areas of the mansion, so that we don’t forget any of you.”

  He pointed to a hefty policeman with dark curly hair and thick mustache, and continued, “Once I learn the details of Doctor Petersen’s death, I will begin my interviews.” Amid groans and whispers, Salinas and Juarez retreated through the door to the parlor, leaving Chan and the other officers behind with the guests.

  “Are you ready?” Salinas looked at Garza.

  She nodded slowly and followed Salinas and Juarez into the bedchamber where the crime team had changed into white scrubs, shoes, head covers, and gloves. The medical examiner stood at the bed, the technician looking over his shoulder. The photographer was documenting the area around the bed.

  Garza opened her notepad as Salinas spoke to the medical examiner, Dr. Hernandez, a tall man with gray hair and narrow brown eyes.

  Doctor Hernandez introduced his team and then asked, “Can you identify the victim?”

  Salinas nodded. “It’s Professor Tanya Petersen. Can you tell me anything?”

  “Her purse contained an empty prescription bottle, unlabeled, but with tablet residue. I suspect drugs were involved, and probably alcohol.”

  Salinas looked on as the doctor examined the dagger wound.

  “I think this is very strange,” Doctor Hernandez said. He moved so Salinas could look at Tanya’s hands curled around the dagger.

  “Is this how the body was found?” Salinas asked Sergeant Juarez.

  “Yes, except that blanket there…” Juarez pointed to the blanket that was now folded down over Tanya’s feet, “was on top of the dagger and covering her to the neck.”

  “Do you have a time of death?” Salinas asked Doctor Hernandez.

  “With the information I have now, less than an hour, but there is something else interesting.” The doctor indicated the area around the wound.

  “Yes,” said Salinas. “I see.”

  Rosa Garza looked at the body, then up at her boss, waiting for him to expand. Instead he said, “Let’s go back to the parlor.” To the doctor he said, “Thank you. We can talk later.”

  Garza, Juarez, and Salinas returned to the parlor, and pulled chairs together so they could talk quietly. Garza recorded Juarez’s report. When he had finished, Salinas sat back in his chair.

  “Professors Aguila and Carmichael found the body?” he asked, giving a quick glance toward his sergeant.

  “And Ms. Lorenzo,” Juarez said. “She called the ambulance and brought the two professors into the room to check on her.”

  Juarez removed his hat and scratched his head. “Do you think it was a suicide?”

  “I doubt it very much,” Salinas said, “but someone wanted us to think it might be.”

  “Do you think it’s related to Paul Sturgess?” Garza asked.

  “Time will tell, Rosa,” Salinas said. “Let’s keep the two deaths separate for now.”

  “There are two problems that I see, Detective,” Juarez said.

  “Go on.”

  “First is the second blanket. Professor Aguila admitted she covered Miss Petersen with the second blanket just after she had lain down on the bed. That means that she might have been stabbed at any time during the evening, and no one who looked in to see her would know.”

  Salinas nodded. “Second?”

  “Second, Professor Aguila said that Miss Lorenzo had taken a glass of water into the room and she said it was still there when she checked on her later, yet it is not there now.” He sat back, satisfied with his report.

  Salinas interrupted him, “And third…?”

  “Third?” Juarez said.

  “Yes, the doctor referred to it just now.” Salinas joined the fingertips of both hands forming a tent in front of his face, the index fingers touching his mouth. “Third, there is very little blood around the wound.” Salinas turned to his detective sergeant. “What does it mean, Sergeant Garza?”

  Garza threw her boss a quick look of appreciation for the opportunity to share her knowledge. “It means she was dead, or very nearly so, when she was stabbed.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  George, Madge, Jamal, and Brad collected folding chairs and placed
them in a small circle at the corner of the courtyard. They sat quietly, too exhausted to speak. Guests, including Laura and Evelyn Nielander, visited their circle to offer condolences, but wandered off, not knowing what else to say. When Claire saw Eduardo come their way, she stood.

  “I can’t take this,” she said, tense with fatigue and nerves. “I’m going upstairs.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Madge asked.

  “No, please. I need to be alone for a few minutes.”

  Claire left her name with Officer Morales and climbed the stairs to the restroom. Afterwards, she drifted through small groups of guests. Those who knew her approached with condolences. She could do no more than nod in return. She peeked into a small museum of colonial artifacts where several students had congregated. She backed out quickly before they noticed her.

  Finally, Claire discovered a tiny room, empty except for scattered metal tables and chairs. She moved a chair to the window, opened the tall wooden shutters, and looked out over the plaza. The street was strangely quiet, a string of police cars and the crime-scene SUV lined up along the curb. She removed her purse from her shoulder and placed it on her lap. She closed her eyes, trying to take her mind off the contraband she possessed, but a desire to think of anything other than Tanya’s death took over. She extracted Paul’s notebook and her reading glasses from her purse and began to flip through the pages. She knew Salinas should be reading it, not her, but her curiosity overcame her conscience, and she started to skim.

  The format resembled a field notebook that all anthropologists carry with them to take notes and record ethnographic details. But this notebook focused on other anthropologists, not ethnographic data. As Madge suggested, most of the entries entailed questions or comments consistent with notes a job applicant might want to pursue. She did not see a page dedicated to her own research, but he had scratched a short notation to the top of a new page: LL—credentials. But there was also more.

  Claire heard heavy footsteps in the hallway. She closed the book quickly but recognized the hesitant clomp-clomp of Madge’s Birkenstocks. Claire crossed the room and opened the door a crack.

  “Madge,” Claire said softly. “I’m here.”

  Madge hurried along the hall and entered, closing the door behind her. Claire took another chair to the balcony window. They both breathed in the night air: cool, fresh, and free of the exhaust fumes that lay so heavy over the city during the day.

  “How are you holding up?” Madge said, settling into the chair and dropping her bag at her feet.

  “Terrible,” Claire said. “Poor Tanya.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Madge said. She pointed to the notebook. “I see you’re examining the evidence. What’s in it?”

  “Random notes on our faculty and research sites.”

  “Really?” Madge said, grabbing at the book. “What’s in it about me?”

  Claire, torn between grief and curiosity, handed her the notebook. Madge flipped through to her page.

  “My research sites,” she said, then her eyes fell on a comment: “‘The Margaret Mead of Archaeology.’ That little shit,” Madge said. “Sorry to say that about the dead…” she added quickly. “Just because Mead and I both had three husbands…lots of people have a few missteps along the way.”

  Claire smiled. “You’ve never told me your story. I’m sure it would cheer me up.”

  “I’m sure it would, my dear.” She turned pages, pausing to glance at entries. “He wanted to know about Brad’s research site, Tixbe, and he wrote the initials BS and ER…Eduardo?”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Claire. “Nothing really earth-shattering.”

  Madge turned a page and read, “‘Jamal, research site Dzib.’ Paul wanted to talk to a shaman, and wondered if Jamal knew someone with the initials BS.” She paused. “Who’s BS?”

  “No idea,” said Claire, staring down at the central plaza where the streetlights cast shadows on the sidewalk. A group of young Mexican adults, dressed in nightclub clothes—low-cut dresses and spike heels, men in western slacks, sharply creased, and button-down shirts, with the top three buttons undone—passed by the cathedral. Claire could hear them commenting on the police vehicles along the street.

  “Watch out, Jorge,” one of the young men teased the other. “Hide your drugs.”

  “Cállate, shut up,” the other young man said, laughing.

  Their youthful exuberance reminded her of her first visit to Merida when she was their age: strolling the dark streets, laughing in the night air, and being in love.

  “Did you see this?” Madge was saying.

  “What?” Claire said, bringing her attention back to her friend.

  “He listed Tanya’s research at Palenque, and someone with the initials TF. Who’s that?”

  Claire remembered the conversation she had with Evelyn Nielander. She looked at Madge, frowned and pressed her lips together.

  “I know that look, Claire,” Madge said. “It’s the ‘I want to tell you but shouldn’t’ look.”

  “I don’t know TF,” Claire said, “but Evelyn told me something last night after dinner, when you and Tanya went to the restroom.”

  “You two got suddenly quiet when we joined you,” Madge remembered.

  “She told me a rumor about Tanya…she wasn’t sure it was Tanya…but the facts were consistent with the story Tanya told us about her research with the hieroglyphs and the affair with a professor she so foolishly admitted to. Evelyn heard that the professor in question turned up on her dissertation committee.”

  “Was that professor TF?”

  “Maybe.”

  Madge shook her head. “Dear me,” Madge said, returning to the notebook. She turned to George’s page. “Just a list of his research sites,” she said, turning the page.

  Claire said, “I notice that you and George worked on several sites together—Uaxactún and Yaxhá.”

  “We met at Uaxactún.”

  Madge leafed through a few more pages. “Interesting. There’s no page for you, but there’s a cryptic note about Laura…he didn’t waste any time before researching her.”

  “But Madge, he didn’t have this with him at Uxmal,” Claire said. “It would have been stolen with his computer. That means he made this entry before he met her on Sunday.”

  “He knew she was applying for the job and researched her?”

  Claire remembered Tanya’s accusation that someone, also claiming to be from KC, had called Laura’s university for her credentials.

  “Look,” Madge said. “There are a few pages torn out, very close to the binding.”

  Claire looked over at the notebook on Madge’s lap. “Hmm,” she said. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  A square, blue sticky note stuck up from a page near the back of the notebook. Madge turned to the marker and found several pages of drawings, crude sketches of Mayan artifacts—bowls, statues, and weapons.

  Claire tipped the notebook so she could look. “Are those drawings of originals or replicas?”

  “Originals, I think,” said Madge. “See, the drawings include chips and cracks. Tourist replicas are perfect molds.”

  One piece drew Claire’s attention. She turned the page back toward Madge. Madge looked at it carefully, adjusting her bifocals to get the details.

  “This is it, isn’t it?” Claire asked.

  The drawing, though rough, was a fair representation of the jade corn god statue Eduardo had presented to Brad. Claire had seen the original in Eduardo’s catalogue.

  “Did he know Eduardo planned to present this to Brad?” Claire asked.

  “How could he? He died before Eduardo presented it.”

  An officer called the guests back to the atrium. Slowly, people returned to the open area, weary and rumpled. The evening breeze brought a chill into the courtyard. The lighting along the edge of the courtyard dimm
ed but did not obliterate the stars above the guests.

  When Madge and Claire returned downstairs, the atmosphere of the mansion had quieted markedly as the effects of alcohol wore off and fatigue grew. Most people spoke in quiet tones as they sat in small groups or lined up for coffee. Madge and Claire joined the coffee line, then returned to their group.

  “I can’t get past the idea of the dagger,” Madge said to the group as she sat heavily on a chair, interrupting their conversation.

  Brad sighed as he removed the rubber band from his ponytail and let his hair fall to his shoulders. “You said that she had her hand around the dagger…I thought…”

  “Suicide?” Jamal said. “Impossible.”

  “But if she hadn’t been drinking…or overdosed…or whatever, she could have fought back, or screamed. We heard nothing.”

  Claire’s cup clanked on her saucer as she nearly dropped it. “Someone knew she was sick and couldn’t fight back…someone who happened to have a reason to kill her…and who happened to have the dagger handy…that’s impossible!”

  “But who would do such a horrific thing?” Madge protested.

  “It couldn’t have been any of us,” Brad said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  After a few minutes, Detective Salinas and Sergeant Garza emerged from the parlor. The guests became suddenly alert as Salinas addressed them. “Because of the time, and the number of people here,” Salinas said, “I have requested that Sergeant Juarez and Deputy Chan assist me. They will conduct interviews in the sitting room. With your help, we can finish these interviews efficiently.” He paused to survey his captive audience, ignoring the deep sighs and mumblings around him.

  “Unfortunately, I have to request your passports. If you have them with you, we will collect them before you leave. Otherwise, please give them to the hotel clerk tonight at the hotel after the interviews. With everyone’s cooperation, you should have them back before the end of the conference.”