Murder in Mykonos

by Jeffrey Siger

  Catia Vanden Haag was not concerned; just put off. Her only child, Annika, was away on holiday, and she’d heard from her just once since Catia and her husband returned home to the Netherlands after attending Annika’s graduation ceremonies at Yale University. It was by postcard on her arrival in London to join her boyfriend, Peter, for the start of their six-week backpacking adventure through Italy and Greece – ‘Having a great time, glad you’re not here.’ Catia knew her daughter well enough to know her note explained everything – she was too busy doing God knows what with her boyfriend to think of her poor mother.

  A tendency to focus with single-minded determination on the matter at hand to the exclusion of everything else was a trait Annika inherited from her Dutch diplomat father. Catia smiled as she thought of a trait or two she’d passed on: the Greek passion for doing God knows what – and the physical stamina to recover afterward. Catia well remembered her own days of flitting through summers with boys in her native Greece. She was not worried one bit about Annika. Sooner or later she’d get a call.

  It came that afternoon, but not from Annika.

  Peter’s father was calling to apologize.

  ‘For what?’ Catia had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘Peter told me what happened.’

  Catia felt the anxiety before knowing why. ‘Richard, what are you saying?’

  ‘I just spoke to him in London and—’

  It was so unlike her to interrupt. ‘In London? But they’re in Italy . . . or Greece . . . or . . .’ She realized she had no idea where they were.

  ‘I thought that too, that’s why I was so surprised when he called and told me he wasn’t.’

  ‘He?’ Catia’s free hand instinctively went to her throat.

  ‘Yes, that’s why I’m calling. I couldn’t believe my son would be so stupid as to allow your daughter to travel on holiday alone, no matter what the reason.’

  Catia didn’t know what to say, so she said the obvious: ‘Why aren’t they together?’

  ‘I’m embarrassed to say, he won’t tell me. All he said was they aren’t traveling together and she’s all right.’

  Her control was back and her voice abrupt. ‘Where’s my daughter, Richard?’

  There was surprise in his voice. ‘Haven’t you spoken with her?’

  ‘Not since she left for London.’

  He paused. ‘Peter doesn’t know.’

  ‘Then how can he possibly know she’s all right?’ Her tone was angry and dismissive, but she didn’t care.

  ‘Catia, I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.’ His voice was sincere, but that wouldn’t help find Annika.

  Catia was silent for a moment, then asked, ‘Do you have your son’s telephone number?’ Her anger kept her from saying the boy’s name.

  ‘Yes,’ Richard said, and gave it to her. ‘Catia, I . . . I—’

  She cut him off again. ‘I have to get off now, but thank you for calling to tell us.’

  ‘I really am sorry.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  It took Andreas only an instant to recover from the surprise of finding a body where only bones should be. He pulled his gun and ordered the wide-eyed Alex outside; then pushed a green-faced Kouros out behind him, yelling at him not to dare puke in the middle of a crime scene.

  Andreas was pretty sure the laborer wasn’t the killer – the corpse wasn’t fresh – but he wasn’t one for taking chances with murder suspects, and anyone who finds a body is a suspect until proven otherwise. He told Kouros to use the car radio to notify Syros of the body and to hold Alex at the station for further questioning but not to treat him as a murder suspect quite yet. In other words, no blowtorch and days of pain in a closet style interrogation. Andreas said he’d stay at the church until the Syros investigators arrived – but to leave Alex’s motorcycle just in case he needed it.

  Neither Andreas nor Kouros raised the obvious: another officer could be there in ten minutes to secure the scene and free up Andreas. Nor did Kouros ask what his chief planned to do out here all alone while waiting for the men from Syros. He just silently walked the handcuffed suspect down the hill, put him in the backseat, and got into the car.

  Andreas watched them drive off and turned to study the crime scene – his crime scene.

  He stood by the door and looked carefully down the hill. Nothing seemed out of place. Not a bush or a weed crushed by a tire or a single telltale sign of dragged or carried weight. Just endless gray-green-to-brown dry brush and brown rocky dirt mixed with wild-goat and donkey crap. The only tracks were Kouros’, Alex’s and his, and Alex’s tracks bore out his story that he’d worked on the wall and walked to the church from there.

  Andreas looked up toward the top of the hill and slowly scanned it just as carefully, moving his eyes back and forth in sections. He saw nothing unusual. He didn’t expect to, because he couldn’t imagine why someone would haul a body over the top of a mountain to get here. There was no more cover going that way than climbing up from the road below – and you’d be visible on the mountain for a lot longer to a lot more people if you did. Anyway, he expected Syros to go over every inch of the mountain looking for clues. Better chance at hitting the lottery, if you asked him.

  As far as Andreas was concerned there were two conceivable explanations for the lack of tracks – and one was strictly for James Bond fans. It involved a helicopter dropping a body at a deserted church rather than into the deepest part of the sea. Not a chance.

  No tracks meant only one thing to him: the body had been here for at least two weeks. Andreas had arrived in Mykonos the day after an unheard of early-June rainstorm. More like a deluge, he was told. Whatever tracks there were – and there must have been some – were wiped out by that rain. A bit of luck for the killer. Any other signs left on that hillside were long gone by now in the rough, northerly winds that regularly battered this part of the island.

  If there was a clue, Andreas knew it had to be inside the church. He scanned the ground outside the door for tracks, scuff marks, any clue to how the body got there. Nothing but footprints he recognized. To be thorough, he checked outside the windows but, as he expected, found nothing there. The sun still wasn’t throwing much light inside, and he thought about opening the shutters but decided against disturbing the scene any more than he already had. Even in this light, though, he could see the body. It was bent on its side, its back to him, bald and naked.

  Andreas took a small flashlight out of his pocket and scanned the floor. He didn’t want to step on anything important. He took three careful steps to the edge of the crypt by the front of the body and knelt down, all the time breathing only through his mouth. That cut down on the stench. He could never get used to that smell – and never wanted to.

  The crypt was about four feet deep but about a foot longer and wider than the slab covering it. It was lined with the same sort of gray and red granite that made up the church walls. The body was crammed into a too small space for its height on top of a pile of bones – human bones. For an instant he forgot not to breathe through his nose and gagged on the stench. He turned toward the door to find a fresher breath of air, then back to study the body.

  It was taller than five feet, probably closer to six, and slim. Because of the size and bald head, he’d thought from the door it was a man, but now he saw it was a woman; and her head was shaved, not bald. She just looked bald from a distance because the stubble of hair was a very light color, probably blond. Her ankles were bound together by thick hemp twine. A separate piece tied her hands crossed at the wrists, then looped a dozen times around her body, pinning her forearms and hands flat across her body at the bottom of her chest before ending leash-like about her neck.

  He wanted to examine her face but didn’t think he’d see much without moving the body or getting into the crypt. He couldn’t do either until forensics had photographed, videotaped, and catalogued everything. He braced himself with one hand against the edge of the crypt and, with his flashlight in the
other, held his breath and leaned in to see what he could.

  Her eyes and mouth were closed. Nothing particularly unusual about that – perhaps the only thing so far that wasn’t. As he lifted himself away from her face his flashlight caught a bit of white at one nostril. He leaned back in. It wasn’t at the nostril, it was in it. It looked like cotton, and it wasn’t in one nostril, it was in both.

  Andreas got to his feet and walked outside. Like most Greeks, he smoked, but he liked to think he only did when stressed. He lit up. This was not a simple murder. There was a message to this one. He’d seen murders with messages before but not like this. This message was meant to remain secret to everyone but the sender.

  He knew the word to describe this sort of preparation – the religious location, shaved head, bound feet, clasped hands, naked body, and whatever in the nostrils – but he couldn’t say it until he had more proof. Suggesting there’d been a ritual murder on Mykonos wouldn’t get him any more compliments from the mayor, or any closer to his old job in Athens. He would just wait for Syros to investigate and let them break the bad news to the town fathers.

  He finished his cigarette and decided to have another look inside. Perhaps something about the church held a clue to why the killer chose this spot. Andreas wasn’t very religious, but like virtually every Greek, he was Orthodox and he knew the basics. Everything looked perfectly normal. The candles were in the right places, as were the required four icons: the Blessed Virgin, Jesus, the archangels and the saint after which the church was named. He didn’t recognize that icon and leaned forward to read the name. Saint Calliope. If he remembered correctly, she was a young woman tortured and put to death for her commitment to Christianity. That would fit.

  He went outside again and sat in the shade of the church wall, waiting. Later, he heard the sirens. The boys from Syros were here.

  Although the call from Peter’s father triggered her Greek temper, on balance Catia actually felt more relieved than worried by what she’d heard. She’d never liked Peter and had told Annika so more than once. She’d hoped the relationship would end when he left Yale to study in London but it hadn’t. Something about him grated on her. She described him to her husband, Schuyler, as the quintessential pretentious Athenian braggart, consumed by appearance over substance. He pointed out to his wife that Peter came from an old-line English family and that bourgeois was a French word not confined to Greeks. She preferred her description.

  Catia was sure their breakup explained why she’d not heard from her daughter. Annika didn’t take well to ‘I told you so’ scenarios – even if the actual words were never uttered. Still, Schuyler was right; a young woman should not be backpacking across Europe alone. She’d learned to accept in silence her daughter’s assorted injuries and broken bones as part of the price for raising an independent, athletically gifted child. She no longer even winced when Annika described such things as hang gliding and skydiving as ‘too routine.’ But for Catia’s own peace of mind, whether Annika wanted to talk to her mother today or not, she would have to. It had been too long – far longer than most mothers would tolerate.

  She dialed Annika’s mobile and waited for her voice to say ‘Please leave a message for Annika at the beep.’ Annika rarely answered her phone. That was a practice she picked up in college to cut down on distractions from studying. Every few hours she checked her messages and called back those she wanted to – or had to. Catia intended to leave a message, putting her at the very top of Annika’s ‘must-call’ list. Finally, voice mail picked up, but instead of her daughter’s voice, she heard, ‘Sorry, this voice mail box is full and cannot accept additional messages. Please try again later.’ She tried again, and again, each time getting the same message. That was not at all like Annika.

  She decided to call Peter in London.

  ‘Hello.’

  Catia tried sounding warm and charming. ‘Hello, Peter, it’s Catia Vanden Haag. How are you?’

  He spoke abruptly. ‘My father called you, didn’t he?’

  So much for civility, she thought. ‘Yes, he did.’

  His voice became icy and distant. That old pretentious tone. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I have to say.’

  ‘Excuse me, young man, but I expect a bit more respect from you than I’m receiving at the moment.’ She knew how to sound like a senior career diplomat’s wife when necessary.

  His voice wavered a bit. ‘I meant no disrespect, Mrs Vanden Haag, I simply think that whatever is said to you on the subject should be Annika’s decision, not mine.’

  That answer did not assuage her, but she sensed that if she got any testier, he’d probably hang up. ‘Peter, I haven’t heard from Annika since she left to meet you in London. You certainly must appreciate that I’m worried.’

  He paused. ‘Yes, I do, but honestly, Mrs Vanden Haag, I haven’t spoken with Annika since she left, and I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who may know where she is or how I can reach her? I’ve tried calling her cell, but all I get is a recording that her voice mail box is full.’

  ‘No, but the reason you can’t reach her is she forgot to take her phone.’ Again he paused. ‘She was very angry when she left. She wouldn’t talk to me, just threw her things in her backpack and walked out. I didn’t find her phone until later. It was turned off and I left it off.’

  Catia shut her eyes to compose herself. If Annika called her phone to find where she’d left it, there’d be no answer. Was he just stupid or vindictive? Greek men were legendary for screaming at the drop of a hat; it was a cultural trait that serendipitously taught most Greek women patience. She let out a long, silent breath. ‘Thank you; and if you think of anything that might help us find her, please call me. And please, send me Annika’s phone – I’ll give you our FedEx number.’

  When she hung up, the word in her mind was asshole. Not very ladylike she knew, but accurate.

  Her daughter’s incommunicado jaunt around Europe must stop at once. No matter what the reason. The first thing to do was call Annika’s friends and find how to reach her. Surely they’d know. No, she thought. The first thing to do was tell her husband. Oh boy.

  It was a virtually deserted, almost impassable road, but all three police cars arrived with sirens blaring. So much for keeping things quiet, thought Andreas. They’re attracting the whole island. Sure enough, a gray Jeep Grand Cherokee and a beat-up black Fiat sedan pulled up behind them. Two guys got out of the Fiat and started up the hill before the investigators had their equipment out of the cars.

  Andreas shook his head. Greeks – they were more curious than cats. He yelled at the two to stay on the road. They kept coming, as if they didn’t hear or didn’t understand. He yelled to one of his officers to arrest them if they didn’t turn back immediately. That stopped them. He heard them mumbling questions about his parentage, but they were retreating back to the road.

  There were eight men in the police cars: Kouros, three other Mykonos officers, and four strangers dressed in jackets and ties – in ninety degree heat. These guys were going to be a pain in the ass, he could just tell. He yelled to Kouros and another local officer to help the investigators with their equipment and told the other two to keep the curious off the hillside. He also told them to get the names, addresses, and phone numbers of everyone who stopped to watch – starting with the two in the Fiat. Andreas wanted them to know that he was particularly proud of his parentage.

  Andreas took a schoolboy-like joy in watching the jacketed cops labor up the hill in twice the time it had taken him. It wasn’t because of the equipment they carried but because three of the strangers clearly were deferring to the fourth – and much stouter – man’s difficulty with the climb. At least now Andreas knew who was in charge. By the time they reached the church, the heavy one was sweating like the proverbial pig but still wore his jacket and tie. He stopped about five yards from Andreas and looked back as if reviewing his path. Andreas knew he was trying to catch his breath. He to
ok that moment to step forward and introduce himself.

  ‘Welcome to Mykonos.’

  The stout man turned toward him and nodded. He said nothing, just kept trying to breathe.

  ‘I’m Andreas Kaldis.’

  The man nodded again and was able to say, ‘I know.’ He was about a half foot shorter than Andreas, with bushy, dark brown hair. From the almost pure gray of his eyebrows, Andreas guessed his hair was dyed.

  Andreas was starting to enjoy this but decided he’d better stop. No reason to antagonize the man unnecessarily.

  The man said, ‘I knew your father, good man.’

  That caught Andreas off guard. His father had been on the secret police force during the Junta or the Regime of the Colonels or the Dictatorship, depending on your point of view. Most cops avoided open discussions of those seven years and certainly wouldn’t risk offering compliments on someone from that part of Greek police history to a stranger, even a son. Especially a son of his father.

  Against his original instincts, Andreas thought he might actually like this guy. ‘Thank you for saying that,’ he said and extended his hand.

  Taking off his sunglasses, the other man reached out and shook his hand. ‘Tassos Stamatos, chief homicide investigator for the Cyclades.’

  Andreas had heard of him, a real old-timer. One of those guys who’d never retire and had the political connections to keep his job. He probably was about sixty, but strangely, his weight and short, bulldog build made him look ten years younger. Andreas decided there was no need to mention his homicide background to Tassos. It seemed pretty clear he already knew it. Politically connected cops knew that sort of stuff. It’s how they kept off the wrong toes.

  ‘So, what do we have here, Kaldis?’ Tassos asked, his tone crisply official.

  Andreas took the use of his last name as force of habit more than an effort to show who was in charge. ‘A body in a crypt, female, probably between fifteen and thirty, Caucasian, light-colored hair, dead a few weeks I’d say.’ He stopped.