by Kathy Reichs
Galiano withdrew a brown envelope from his pocket and placed it in front of me. Hand-printed on the outside was a police or coroner dossier number. I looked at but did not reach for it.
“Take a look.” Galiano resumed his seat.
The envelope contained a series of five-by-seven color photographs. The first showed a bundle on an autopsy table, liquid oozing from the edges to form a brown puddle on the perforated stainless steel.
The second showed the bundle untangled into a pair of jeans, the lower end of a long bone protruding from one ragged cuff. The third featured a watch, and what were probably pocket contents: a comb, an elastic hair binder, two coins. The last photo was a close-up of a tibia and two metatarsals.
I looked at Galiano.
“That was discovered yesterday.”
I studied the skeletal elements. Though everything was stained a deep chocolate brown, I could see flesh clinging to the bones.
“A week ago toilets began backing up at the Pensión Paraíso, a small hotel in Zone One. Though the place ain’t the Ritz, guests grumbled, and the owners went poking in the septic tank. They found the Levi’s blocking the exit drain.”
“When was the system last inspected?”
“Seems the owners are a bit lax on upkeep. But minor maintenance was done last August, so the body probably went in after that.”
I agreed but said nothing.
“The victim may be a young woman.”
“I couldn’t possibly express an opinion based on these photographs.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
We stared at each other in the stuffy heat of the room. Galiano’s eyes were extraordinary, brown with a luminous red cast, like amber caught in sunlight. The lashes might have landed him a Maybelline contract, had he been of the female gender.
“Over the past ten months, four young women have gone missing in this city. The families are frantic. We suspect the disappearances may be linked.”
Down the corridor, a phone sounded.
“If so, the situation is urgent.”
“Lots of people go missing in Guatemala City.”
I pictured Parque Concordia, where orphans gathered each night to sniff glue and sleep. I remembered stories of children being rounded up and killed. In 1990, witnesses reported armed men snatching eight street kids. Their bodies were found a few days later.
“This is different.” Galiano’s voice brought me back. “These four young women stand out. They don’t fit the usual pattern.”
“What does this have to do with me?” I had a pretty good idea.
“I described your work to my superiors, told them you were in Guatemala.”
“May I ask how you knew that?”
“Let’s just say SICA is kept apprised of foreign nationals entering Guatemala to dig up our dead.”
“I see.”
Galiano pointed at the photos. “I’ve been authorized to request your help.”
“I have other commitments.”
“Excavation is finished at Chupan Ya.”
“Analysis is just beginning.”
“Señor Reyes has agreed to the loan of your services.”
First the reporter, now this. Mateo had been busy since our return to the city.
“Señor Reyes can examine these bones for you.”
“Señor Reyes’s experience and training don’t compare to yours.”
It was true. While Mateo and his team had worked on hundreds of massacre victims, they’d had little involvement with recent homicide cases.
“You coauthored an article on septic tank burial.”
Galiano had done his homework.
Three years back, a small-time drug dealer was busted in Montreal for supplying product to the wrong buyer. Not fancying a long separation from his medicine chest, the man offered the story of an associate floating in a septic tank. The provincial police turned to my boss, Dr. Pierre LaManche, and LaManche turned to me. I learned more than I ever wanted to know about human waste disposal, and LaManche and I spent days directing the recovery. We’d written an article for the Journal of Forensic Sciences.
“This is a local problem,” I said. “It should be handled by local experts.”
The fan hummed. Galiano’s cowlick did pliés and pirouettes.
“Ever hear of a man named André Specter?”
I shook my head.
“He’s the Canadian ambassador to Guatemala.”
The name rang a very distant bell.
“Specter’s daughter, Chantale, is one of those missing.”
“Why isn’t this being handled through diplomatic channels?”
“Specter has demanded absolute discretion.”
“Sometimes publicity can be helpful.”
“There are”—Galiano groped for a word—“extenuating circumstances.”
I waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. Outside, a truck door slammed.
“If there’s a Canadian link, liaison between jurisdictions will be useful.”
“And I’ve spent time in septic tanks.”
“A rare claim. And you’ve done cases for Canadian External Affairs.”
“Yes.” He really had done his homework.
It was then Galiano played his trump card.
“My department has taken the liberty of contacting your ministry in Quebec, requesting permission to engage you as special consultant.”
A second item emerged from Galiano’s pocket, this one a fax with a familiar fleur-de-lis logo. The paper came across the desk.
M. Serge Martineau, Ministère de la Sécurité Publique, and Dr. Pierre LaManche, Chef de Service, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale, had granted permission, pending agreement on my part, for my temporary assignment to the Special Crimes Investigative Unit of the Guatemala National Civil Police.
My bosses in Montreal were part of the ambush. There would be no end run around this.
I looked up at Galiano.
“You have a reputation for finding the truth, Dr. Brennan.” The Maybelline eyes were relentless. “Parents are in agony not knowing the truth about their missing kids.”
I thought of Katy and knew the fear I’d experience should my daughter disappear, the absolute terror that would grip me should she vanish in a place with unknown language, laws, and procedures, peopled by unfamiliar authorities who might or might not exert genuine effort to find her.
“All right, Detective. I’m listening.”
* * *
Zone 1 is the oldest part of Guatemala City, a claustrophobic hive of rundown shops, cheap hotels, bus terminals, and car parks, with a sprinkling of modern chain outlets. Wimpy’s and McDonald’s share the narrow streets with German delis, sports bars, Chinese restaurants, shoe stores, cinemas, electrical shops, strip joints, and taverns.
Like many ecozones, the sector follows a diurnal rhythm. Come dark, the vendors and pedestrians clogging its streets yield to cigarette sellers and hookers. The shoeshine boys, taxi drivers, buskers, and preachers vanish from Parque Concordia, and homeless children gather to bed down for the night.
Zone 1 is broken pavement, neon, fumes, and noise. But the quarter also has a grander side. It is home to the Palacio Nacional, the Biblioteca Nacional, the Mercado Central, Parque Central, Parque del Centenario, museums, a cathedral, and a spectacular Moorish post office. Police headquarters is located in an outlandish castle at the intersection of Calle 14 and Avenida 6, one block south of the Iglesia de San Francisco, famous for its carving of the sacred heart and for the banned books discovered in a roof cavity, hidden decades earlier by rebellious clergy.
Ninety minutes later Galiano and I were seated at a battered wooden table in a conference room on the castle’s third floor. With us were his partner, Sergeant-detective Pascual Hernández, and Juan-Carlos Xicay, head of the evidence recovery team that would process the septic tank.
The room was a cheerless gray, last painted about the time the padres were stashing their books. Putt
y-colored stuffing sprouted from my chair, and I wondered how many nervous, bored, or frightened buttocks had squirmed in that same seat.
A fly buzzed against the room’s single window. I felt empathy, and I shared the insect’s desire for escape. Beyond the window, through filthy blinds, I could see one of the castle’s battlements.
At least there was an upside. I was safe from attack by medieval knights.
Sighing, I shifted for the billionth time, picked up a paper clip, and began tapping the table. We’d been waiting twenty minutes for a representative from the DA’s office. I was hot, tired, and disappointed to be pulled from my FAFG work. And I was not hiding it well.
“Shouldn’t be long.” Galiano looked at his watch.
“Couldn’t I outline the procedure?” I asked. “It may take Señor Xicay some time to line up the equipment.”
Xicay scratched an eyebrow, said nothing. Hernández gestured his powerlessness by raising a hand and dropping it onto the tabletop. He was a heavy man, with black wavy hair that crawled down his neck. His forearms and hands were also layered with dark, wiry hair.
“I’ll check again.” Galiano strode from the room, his gait indicating annoyance.
With whom? I wondered. Me? The tardy DA? Some higher-up?
Almost immediately, I heard Galiano arguing in the corridor. Though the Spanish was rapid fire, and I missed many words, the animosity was clear. I caught my name at least twice.
Moments later the voices stopped, and Galiano rejoined us, followed by a tall, thin man in rose-pink glasses. The man was slightly stooped, with a soft belly that pooched over his belt.
Galiano made introductions.
“Dr. Brennan, may I present Señor Antonio Díaz. Señor Díaz heads up the criminal investigative section of the office of the district attorney.”
I rose and held out a hand. Ignoring it, Díaz crossed to the window and spun toward me. Though colored lenses obscured his eyes, the hostility was palpable
“I have been a prosecutor for almost twenty years, Dr. Brennan. In all that time, I have never required, nor have I requested, outside help in a death investigation.” Though heavily accented, Díaz’s English was precise.
Stunned, I dropped my hand.
“While you may view our forensic doctors as inadequately trained hacks laboring in a Third World medico-legal system, or as mere cogs in an antiquated and ineffective judicial bureaucracy, let me assure you they are professionals who hold themselves to the highest standards.”
I looked to Galiano, cheeks burning with humiliation. Or anger.
“As I explained, Señor Díaz, Dr. Brennan is here at our request.” Galiano’s voice was tempered steel.
“Why exactly are you in Guatemala, Dr. Brennan?” From Díaz.
Anger makes me feisty.
“I’m thinking of opening a spa.”
“Dr. Brennan is here on other business,” Galiano jumped in. “She is a forensic anthrop—”
“I know who she is,” Díaz cut him off.
“Dr. Brennan has experience with septic tank recovery, and she’s offered to help.”
Offered? How did Galiano come up with “offered”?
“We’d be foolish not to avail ourselves of her expertise.”
Díaz glared at Galiano, his face concrete. Hernández and Xicay said nothing.
“We shall see.” Díaz looked hard at me, then stomped from the room.
Only the fly broke the silence. Galiano spoke first.
“I apologize, Dr. Brennan.”
Anger also goads me to action.
“Can we begin?” I asked.
“I’ll handle Díaz,” Galiano said, pulling out a chair.
“One other thing.”
“Name it.”
“Call me Tempe.”
* * *
For the next hour I explained the glories of septic disposal. Galiano and his partner listened closely, interrupting now and then to comment or to ask for clarification. Xicay sat in silence, eyes lowered, face devoid of expression.
“Septic tanks can be made of rock, brick, concrete, or fiberglass, and come in a number of designs. They can be round, square, or rectangular. They can have one, two, or three compartments, separated by partial baffles or by full walls.”
“How do they work?” Galiano.
“Basically, a septic tank is a watertight chamber that acts as an incubator for anaerobic bacteria, fungi, and actinomycetes that digest organic solids that fall to the bottom.”
“Sounds like Galiano’s kitchen.” Hernández.
“What can we expect?” Galiano ignored his partner.
“The digestion process creates heat, and gases bubble to the surface. Those gases combine with particles of grease, soap, oils, hair, and other junk to produce a foamy scum. That’s the first thing we’re going to see when we open the tank.”
“Bring a little sunshine into your day.” Hernández.
“With time, if left undisturbed, a floating semisolid mat can form.”
“Shit pudding.” Hernández was covering his repugnance with macho humor.
“Tanks should be pumped out every two to three years, but if the owners are as lax as you say they are, that isn’t likely to have happened, so we’ll probably encounter this type of sediment.”
“So you’ve got this soup kitchen for microbes. Where does everything go from there?” Galiano asked.
“Once a tank fills to a certain level, the altered waste products flow out through an exit drain to a series of pipes, usually laid out in parallel rows, called a drain field.”
“What kind of pipes?”
“Typically, clay or perforated plastic.”
“This system dates to the Preclassic, so I’m sure we’re talking clay. What goes on there?”
“The drain field rests on a bed of gravel, usually covered by soil and vegetation. While some aerobic breakdown occurs there, the drain field primarly functions as a biological filter.”
“Fine or coarse drip. Now we’re talking Mr. Coffee.”
Hernández was starting to get on my nerves.
“As the final step in treatment, the waste water leaks from the pipes and percolates through the gravel bed. Bacteria, viruses, and other pollutants are absorbed by the soil or taken up by the root systems of the overlying plants.”
“So the grass really is greener over the septic tank.” Galiano.
“And a lot happier. What else do we know about this setup?”
Galiano pulled out a small spiral pad and flipped through his notes.
“The tank is located approximately seven feet from the south wall of the pensión. It’s about ten feet long, five feet wide, and six feet deep, made of concrete, and covered by eight rectangular concrete lids.”
“How many chambers?”
“The owner, one Señor Serano, has no idea what’s down there. By the way, Serano’ll never be holding his breath when the Nobels are announced.”
“Noted.”
“Serano and his son, Jorge, remembered workers near the east end last summer, so that’s the lid they lifted. They found the tank nearly full, the jeans jamming the exit drain.”
“The entrance drain will be on the west.”
“That’s what we figured.”
“O.K., gentlemen. We’re going to need a backhoe to lift the concrete lids.”
“All eight?” Xicay spoke for the first time.
“Yes. Since we don’t know what we’re dealing with, we’ll uncap the whole thing. If there are multiple chambers, parts of the skeleton could be anywhere.”
Xicay pulled out his own pad and began making a list.
“A commercial septic service vacuum truck to pump out the scum and liquid layers, and a fire truck to dilute the bottom sediment,” I went on.
Xicay added them to the list.
“There’s going to be a lot of ammonia and methane gas down there, so I want an oxygen pack respiration device.”
Xicay looked a question at me.
“A standard full-face air mask with a single strap over the back O2 tank. The type firemen wear. We should also have a couple of small pressurized spray tanks.”
“The kind used to spray weed killer?”
“Exactly. Fill one with water, the other with a ten-percent bleach solution.”
“Do I want to know?” asked Hernández.
“To spray me when I climb out of the tank.”
Xicay noted the items.
“And quarter-inch mesh screens. Everything else should be standard equipment.”
I stood.
“Seven A.M.?”
“Seven A.M.”
It was to be one of the worst days of my life.
4
THE LAST RED STREAKS WERE YIELDING TO A HAZY, bronze dawn when Galiano arrived at my hotel the next day.
“Buenos días.”
“Buenos días,” I mumbled, sliding into the passenger seat. “Nice shades.”
He was wearing aviator lenses blacker than a hole in space.
“Gracias.”
Galiano indicated a paper cup in the central holder, then swung into traffic. Grateful, I reached for the coffee.
We spoke little driving across town then inching our way through Zone 1. I read the city as it slid past the windshield. Though not the highest form of Guatemalteca conversation, the billboards and placards, even the graffiti on service station walls, allowed me to improve my Spanish.
And to block out thoughts of what lay ahead.
Within twenty minutes Galiano pulled up to a pair of police cruisers sealing off a small alley. Beyond the checkpoint the pavement was clogged with squad cars, an ambulance, a fire engine, a septic tank vacuum service truck, and other vehicles I assumed to be official. Gawk-ers were already gathering.
Galiano showed ID, and a uniformed cop waved us through. He added his car to the others, and we got out and walked up the street.
The Pensión Paraíso squatted at mid-block, opposite an abandoned warehouse. Galiano and I crossed to its side and proceeded past liquor and underwear merchants, a barbershop, and a Chinese takeout, each establishment barred and padlocked. As we walked, I glanced at sun-bleached items in the shop windows. The barber featured big-haired models with dos that hadn’t been stylish since Eisenhower left office. The Long Fu had a menu, a Pepsi ad, a peacock embroidered on glittery fabric.
