by Leta Serafim
“Yiannis, Yiannis, I’ve known you a long time. No offense, but you were never a prize.”
After finishing breakfast, they walked across the street to the migrant camp.
Pawing through the ashes searching for clues, they found chunks of glass spread over a large area and painstakingly collected them, hoping to obtain enough to gauge the size and shape of the bottle that had been thrown.
Wincing in pain, Tembelos leaned against the cane. “Timing was curious,” he told Patronas. “Was the bomb aimed at us or at them?”
“Them, I think. If it had been us, they would have blown up the Toyota.”
Patronas doubted they’d find fingerprints on the glass shards, but he planned to dust them anyway. Normally, he would have sent them on to Athens, but not this time. He was afraid more people would die if he didn’t catch the person responsible, that whoever it was would continue to wreak havoc among the migrants on Sifnos.
Petros Nikolaidis was in Apollonia, taking statements from the people in the clinic who’d been injured in the fire, and Papa Michalis and Evangelos Demos were working their way through Platys Gialos, speaking to the local residents there.
“Ask them if they saw anything,” Patronas instructed. “Height, weight, anything that would help us to identify the arsonist.”
The priest had chosen to station himself outside the camp, saying a Christian clergyman would not be welcome in there today. For once he had chosen to do the sensible thing. “Much as I’d like to help you, Yiannis, my presence will only antagonize these poor people, serve to alienate them further.”
Evangelos had held back for an entirely different set of reasons, Patronas believed—cowardice being the main one, indolence following close on its heels. He didn’t pull his weight, substantial as it was.
If a suspect was shooting at them and he ordered Evangelos to return fire, he was pretty sure his subordinate’s response would be ‘huh?’ The only help Evangelos would ever provide was as a shield.
The epicenter of the blaze had been a particular point along the riverbed. Judging by the burn pattern on the ground, the arsonist had tossed the Molotov cocktail into the foliage there and fled, running out to the road where Patronas and Tembelos had spotted him. Noticing how close the explosion was to the hovel where the woman, Noor, had been living, Patronas wondered if she, and not the camp itself, had been the real target.
The migrants still left in the camp were picking through their belongings and cleaning them off. A woman in jeans and a headscarf was shaking out a wet sheet and hanging it on a line, with a toddler playing at her feet. It was a poignant image. Surrounded by charred trees and ash, she stood there with a basket of clothes, going about her housework as if it were an ordinary day.
Technically savvy, Tembelos got out his cellphone and pressed the translation application. Then, looking down at the screen, he called out to her in broken Arabic. Smiling tentatively, the woman answered. They went on like this for a few minutes, call and response, each one answering in turn.
It was like watching time-lapse photography, so slow was the conversation. Still, it was a conversation, the woman obviously understanding what Tembelos was saying. It was a revelation to Patronas, so he pulled out his phone and looked for the application Tembelos had used.
‘As-salam alaykum,’ his friend had said. Obviously a greeting. He repeated the words slowly, working his tongue around them. He’d get Tembelos to show him how the application worked and would revisit Sami Alnasseri’s aunt at the clinic.
Feeling more optimistic, he unearthed yet another sliver of glass and slipped it into an evidence bag.
Underfoot, the ground was blackened in a rough circle, the brush deeply charred where the bottle had exploded. A miasma of smoke still lingered, wisps like Spanish moss enshrouding the bottoms of the trees, and there was a distinct chemical smell in the air, gasoline or some other kind of accelerant.
The roof of the shack where Sami and his aunt had been living had been covered with rushes, which caught fire almost instantly, resulting in a wall of flames and trapping her inside. She’d barely escaped with her life. Her skirt had caught fire, and like Tembelos, she had sustained third-degree burns on her legs.
Panicking, she’d jumped down into the dry riverbed and buried herself in the sand. Her quick thinking had saved her. She was still in the clinic, and according to the doctor, would be there for some time.
As far as Patronas could determine, the fire had devoured everything she owned, but he painstakingly went through the remains of her hovel anyway. Three meters square, it appeared to have been one of the better ones. The dirt floor was swept clean, and the bedding, what was left of it, was rolled up neatly in the corner. A board, resting on a stack of bricks, had once served as a table. He spied a pot, its contents charred beyond all recognition, in a far corner of the hovel, and a battered backpack, lying on its side near the entrance, remnants of blackened cloth hanging in shreds from its metal frame.
Like an archeologist, Patronas inspected everything, seeking to determine what each item had been before being incinerated. Inside the backpack, he found two passports and a slim role of banknotes. Thoroughly burned, they disintegrated when he touched them, leaving behind a fistful of papery ash.
He would need to find another place for her to live when she was discharged from the clinic. Petros Nikolaidis had volunteered his house, saying there was plenty of room, but Patronas worried that her presence might put Nikolaidis and his family at risk. Better to install her in a room at Morpheus Hotel instead, preferably the one next to his. He’d station Tembelos outside and leave him there, sitting peacefully day and night with his leg propped up. Lots and lots of overtime , and that asshole, Stathis, would have to pay for it.
Wandering back from the riverbed, Patronas saw another chunk of glass and nudged it with his foot. He and Tembelos had separated and were making a wide sweep, working their way out from the point at which the Molotov cocktail had exploded. There were still hot spots everywhere. Patronas had trodden on a few already, secret places where the fire still smoldered, making him more cautious.
After they finished collecting the fragments of glass, they laid them out on the ground and shifted them around, fitting them together like pieces of a puzzle. Judging by the remnants they’d unearthed, the bomb had been a big one, several gallons of accelerant in one huge glass jug.
“Achilles Kourelas,” Tembelos said, studying what was left of the bottle. “He’s the one who did this.”
Patronas nodded. Full, the glass jug would have been extremely heavy, and Achilles Kourelas was a big, strong man. He could probably lift a car, if he set his mind to it. Tossing the jug into the bushes would have been child’s play. Tembelos’ words made sense.
Still, it was just a hunch, and hunches were a bad idea when it came to police work—led to frame-ups and the convictions of innocent people.
The fact of the matter was they had no tangible proof Achilles Kourelas was involved—no DNA, no fingerprints, no nothing.
Palianthropos. The younger Kourelas was an awful human being, no question about it. A bully and a brawler. But an arsonist? Whoever had thrown the Molotov cocktail had to have planned the attack in advance, had bought the jug and gasoline. From what Patronas had seen, premeditation wasn’t Achilles Kourelas’ style. He might hate the migrants and espouse ridding Greece of them, but he wasn’t alone in his bigotry. Lots of other people felt the same way, and any one of them might have thrown the bomb.
“I’m not convinced Kourelas is responsible,” he told Tembelos. “A firebombing? He had to have known it would lead straight back to him.”
“Hate rules him, Yiannis. Rules both father and son, and this was a hate crime.”
Patronas and Tembelos continued to probe the ground, the area they tilled gradually growing bigger and bigger. A group of migrants were watching them collect the glass, their expressions hard to read. Patronas was glad they were there. He wanted them to see him laboring on their
behalf, to be counted as one of the just.
Only about a hundred shanties remained standing, and the mayor was talking of closing the camp down altogether. The shelters that survived were sad places, full of the detritus of human life—plastic basins for washing clothes, unopened tins of food, and homemade diapers.
“You wanted a public message,” Tembelos said, nodding to the camp. “I’d say you got one.”
An elderly man standing outside one of the tents addressed them in halting English, “A cowardly act, to burn sleeping people.”
“We’ll catch whoever did this,” Patronas said. “You have our word.”
The man ignored him. “I thought Greece was better than this.”
“So did I,” Patronas said.
Stathis was skeptical when Patronas called that evening to report in. “You think the two crimes are related, the killing and the fire?”
“It stands to reason,” Patronas said, careful to keep his tone respectful. His boss sounded like he was irritated, and he didn’t want to set him off.
“Two violent acts in less than a week?” Patronas said. “I can’t believe it was a coincidence.”
“You think one perpetrator is responsible?”
“My guess is more than one person is involved.”
“A couple of vipers, then.”
“Maybe more than a couple, sir. Could be there’s a whole nest of them here.”
“Question Costas and Achilles Kourelas again,” Stathis ordered. “We need to put a stop to this.”
“A waste of time, sir. We have no evidence that either was involved. Just being members of Chrisi Avgi doesn’t make them criminals.”
“In my mind, it does. Go talk to them, Yiannis. Do it and do it now, or I will fucking fire you.”
“Sir, I cannot do it now. I cannot go visit those two men at this hour of the night. They are already hostile. It would be suicide.”
“Very well, tomorrow morning then. Call me and tell me what you’ve learned. I’ll be waiting.”
Chapter Eighteen
She will put both his feet in one shoe.
—Greek Proverb
Patronas and his men ate dinner in the same taverna in Kamares, a proper meal with many courses, appetizers of every description.
“If the people of Sifnos are indeed greedy,” the priest said, sticking his fork into a grilled sardine. “I’d say it works in their favor with respect to cooking. Greedy means you want more—more oil and butter, that extra tablespoon or two of sugar. The cooks here are generous with everything.”
Nikolaidis nodded. “The cuisine of Sifnos is justifiably famous. One of the greatest chefs of Greece, Nikolaos Tselementes, was born and raised near Apollonia, and his legacy lives on to this day.” He raised his fork in salute.
“I’ll say it does,” Papa Michalis said.
Smiling blissfully, he cut the little fish in half and popped a piece in his mouth.
“You always say human beings are better at survival than success.” Patronas gestured to the wide assortment of dishes on the table. “No offense, Father, but this is hardly survival.”
Tembelos laughed. “You’re right,” he said. “Survival would be the crap they ate during the war. Not fish like these.”
“Believe me, I know about survival,” the priest said, becoming serious. “When I was young, I was so hungry I would steal artichokes from a field on my way to school, cut them with my jackknife and eat them raw. The problem was the juice would stain my lips black and the teacher would know and beat me.”
“An inauspicious beginning for a priest,” Patronas said. “Stealing ….”
“Artichokes only. Never anything else.”
“Still, Father. I believe theft is mentioned in the Ten Commandments. It’s expressly forbidden.
The old man had insisted on ordering barbounia, the most expensive fish in Greece, and for once, Patronas was glad he had. They’d also ordered a kilo of fresh sardines, basted in lemon, oregano, and olive oil, mastelo, lamb cooked in red wine until it practically melted, and a portion of Sifnian myzithra, a tangy local cheese, so tasty they’d ended up fighting over it. For dessert, they’d eaten melopita, a cake made of cheese and flavored with honey. They drank ouzo and over three liters of wine. After they finished, Tembelos staggered back to the hotel, saying the alcohol had sufficiently dulled the pain of his burns to let him sleep.
The others quickly dispersed, Patronas to Leandros, Nikolaidis, Evangelos Demos, and the priest near the home of Costas and Achilles Kourelas. Patronas had instructed them to observe only, to do absolutely nothing on their own. Evangelos and Nikolaidis were safe on that score. Papa Michalis, he wasn’t so sure about. Greatly excited about the prospect of a stakeout, the old man was apt to do or say something stupid and give them away.
“Keep an eye on him,” he told Nikolaidis. “The fact that he’s a priest won’t protect him from those two.”
Patronas remained convinced Achilles Kourelas was innocent, at least of the arson, and that bringing him in would be a mistake, but he didn’t know how to get out of it and still hang on to his job. Once Stathis got an idea in his head, it stayed there. And tonight, that idea had been Achilles Kourelas. Guilty until proven guilty.
“Cats wearing gloves never catch mice,” Stathis had said, a proverb he recited often.
As usual, his boss didn’t know what he was talking about.
He might be a cat, but given their relative size, only a fool would mistake Achilles and his father for mice.
After Nikolaidis dropped him off, Patronas walked around to the back of Leandros. He was very sleepy and thought he’d watch the apartments of the four suspects from a prone position, lying on a chaise lounge on the beach.
It was after midnight and a soft breeze was blowing, stirring the surface of the sea and ruffling the canvas umbrellas lined up along the shore. There was less ambient light in this area, and overhead, the stars were like sequins sewn across the sky.
Once, Patronas had collected a jarful of fireflies and used them as a nightlight, delighted by their flickering in his room. His mother had quickly put an end to it, repelled by the idea of bugs in her house, and dumped them out in the toilet, but he still remembered the little creatures’ unsteady twinkling. Would that I could harness starlight as easily, to contain it in a jar.
Upstairs, Svenson and the students were all present. The doors to their rooms were open and he could hear them talking, rock music booming in the background.
He was in the process of dragging a chaise lounge from the apartment complex down to the beach when he caught sight of someone walking outside Lydia Pappas’ apartment. There was no light on and he paused, not wanting to alert the intruder to his presence. Two people emerged from the apartment upstairs, and like him were silently watching whoever it was moving around in the dark. Bowdoin and Nielsen, Patronas guessed, judging by their silhouettes.
“Chief Officer, what are you doing here?” Lydia Pappas sang out.
Anticipating a night of solitude, Patronas had brought a thermos full of coffee with him. He was so startled, he dropped it, the liquid leeching out and darkening the sand. Her presence was unexpected, and it unnerved him.
“You’re a witness in a murder case,” he stammered, straightening up in an effort to appear taller. “I’m here to protect you.”
A lie, but a small one. Far better than telling her she was a suspect in the boy’s death. Not the most sophisticated man when it came to women, Patronas was sure such knowledge would not further his cause.
“So you’re here to protect me?”
Patronas couldn’t see her well in the dark, but it sounded like she was laughing. “That’s right,” he said.
“What makes you think I’m in need of protection?”
“Recent events would indicate there’s a madman loose on the island.”
“You better come up here then,” she said, patting the seat beside her. “I’d hate to be attacked by a madman.”
Patronas
looked up at the balcony. Whoever had been there was gone. The boys’ scrutiny made his skin crawl. He wondered if Lydia Pappas knew the students had been watching her.
“Come on,” she coaxed.
Feeling foolish, he left the chaise lounge where it was and joined her on the terrace. He was surprised to see that she, too, had been injured in the fire, her left arm in a sling.
“What happened? You’re hurt.”
She nodded. “A burning branch fell on me.”
“Is it bad? Your pottery … will you be able to work again?”
“I’m fine.” Hoisting her bandaged arm in the air, she turned it from side to side. “Actually, I’m proud of it. I only wish I’d been able to do more.”
Dressed in a shapeless peach dress, she had just taken a shower, and the smell of soap still clung to her skin—a woodsy, herbal scent that reminded Patronas of pine forests and rain. A detective, he suspected there was no bra under her garment. That led to other thoughts, the possibility of a thong and how one might go about removing it.
She began braiding her hair, working her fingers deftly through the wet strands. When she finished, she tied it back with a bandana, a red paisley one with tiny knots at the ends.
A lantern was on the table and the flame flickered now and then, illuminating only a small area of the terrace. Again, Patronas had the sense that he and Lydia were an island unto themselves, just as they’d been that morning on the way to Thanatos, the circle of light like a wall against the darkness.
“What are you doing up so late?” he asked.
“My arm was bothering me and I couldn’t sleep. Anyway, it’s a glorious night.” She smiled at him. “You look exhausted. Every time I see you, you’re working. Don’t you ever stop?”
“It’s been a rough week. A lot has happened.”
They spoke again of the fire, the horror of the burning camp, and the dead child, the plight of the migrants and what their presence would mean to Greece.
