The Dig (The Blackwell Files Book 9)

by Steven F Freeman

  Leading the band inside, Cornick traveled along the right wall of the ornate sanctuary and passed through a wooden door in the rear, leading the group into an antechamber the size of a modest walk-in closet. A grimy tarp hung across a wall in the back of this space.

  Cornick moved the tarp aside and huffed down an aluminum ladder into a cramped tunnel, then motioned for the others to follow.

  A multitude of passages branched out in all directions.

  Cornick motioned to one on the right. Flipping on a series of lights as he went, he crept along the tunnel until stopping at a rectangular chamber.

  Pottery and figures fashioned from clay sat inside a locked cabinet with a wire-mesh front. Like the Zapopan site, yellow flags and wire had been used to delineate a multitude of dig spots. But this site lacked the opulence and scale of the other.

  “This is it,” said Cornick. “The Chapalas temple—an impressive site in its own right.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Dr. Miller loved it here. I think he would’ve brought down a cot and never left if the church fathers would’ve let him. And now…?” He sighed.

  The team spread out around the room. Mastana approached the cabinet and gazed at a foot-high clay pitcher locked inside.

  “Found something?” asked Alton.

  “No. But this jug reminds me of something Kevin told me,” replied Mastana, referring to her Australian boyfriend. “He showed me pictures of things the elders in his town kept from the old days. Aboriginal styles are different from the Aztecs, but it looks like the Aztecs liked animals as much as his ancestors did—especially snakes. This is the third or fourth object I’ve seen with a snake on it.” The jar depicted its serpent in a zigzag pattern, ready to strike. “It reminds me of the browns back in Australia.” She stepped away with a shiver.

  Alton turned back to the chamber. A dozen pits looked to be in the middle of active excavations. Catching Cornick’s eye, he motioned to them. “Which of these was Dr. Miller working before he disappeared?”

  Cornick scratched his chin. “Hmm. I’ve been so focused on the other site, I’m not entirely sure. Elias, do you know?”

  Tan walked to the far left corner of the room and pointed to a square pit with terraced levels of excavations, shallowest along the pit’s walls and successively deeper towards the middle.

  Alton approached the spot. The curved surface of a painted jar protruded from an earthen wall on the third layer, while the rest of the jar remained embedded in the packed soil. Yellow police tape marked off an area of two or three square yards around the jar.

  A catholic priest entered the site. “Señor Cornick. A lady is here to see you—Gaby Vasquez, she says.”

  “Good,” said Alton as the archeologist nodded. “I have some questions for her.”

  Exiting the tunnel and emerging from the cathedral, Alton blinked as he and the rest of the group stepped into the bright light of the plaza.

  “Ah!” said Cornick. “Lieutenant Vasquez. Let me introduce you to the team from America.”

  A woman looked up from her phone. Her ebony hair was pulled into a bun, much as Mallory wore hers while on the job. The lieutenant stood perhaps an inch taller than Alton, and the form-fitting curves of her business outfit suggested a healthy diet and regime of regular exercise. Black-framed glasses and an unsmiling face lent a no-nonsense look to the police woman’s demeanor.

  “Agent Blackwell,” she said in a moderate accent, nodding and extending a hand when introduced. She repeated the greeting for the entire group.

  “The fathers set up a table for us inside,” said Cornick. “Shall we go?”

  They moved inside the vestibule and traveled along the left wall to a large, oak table covered in decades of varnish and grime. Modern folding chairs had been placed around the table.

  Happy to take the weight off his bad leg, Alton lowered himself into a chair. “We might as well get down to business. I suppose you know our mission: work with you to solve these crimes and ensure we put a stop to any new ones?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Before we start with information sharing, I was wondering…we didn’t bring any firearms.”

  “Yes, that is the law here.”

  “Exactly. But it’ll be hard to help protect the sites if we’re not armed. Can you get us some sidearms?”

  “I think so,” said Vasquez. “Let me talk to my boss.”

  “Thanks,” said Alton. He turned to David. “Speaking of security, I need to ask you for a favor.”

  “What’s that?” replied the Secret Service agent.

  “One of our two mission parameters is keeping the archeologists safe. I’d like for you to make that your full-time mission while we’re here—unless we’re spread thin on more critical tasks. It’s not the most glamorous assignment, but no one else has your experience in keeping an eye out for danger.”

  “No problem, Al,” said David with his easy-going smile. He spread his arms in a magnanimous gesture. “I live for that kind of thing.”

  “Thanks,” said Alton with a chuckle. “And now for the next step. Lieutenant Vasquez, can you give us a briefing on your efforts to date?”

  “What do you need to know?” asked Vasquez, her arms crossed.

  “Everything you know,” said Alton. “We just got here. Now, for the record…I don’t see any reason for me or my team to reproduce any of the work you’ve already done. I’d rather get up to speed on what you’ve learned so we can figure out the next steps together.”

  At this revelation, Vasquez uncrossed her arms and relaxed her shoulders. “Okay. Where do you want to start?”

  Alton turned to his wife, an FBI agent, with one eyebrow raised. What do you think?

  Mallory cleared her throat. “How about the background of Dr. Miller and the two team members who were murdered?”

  “Okay,” said Vasquez.

  “Since we’re here where Dr. Miller disappeared,” said Mallory, “why don’t we start with him?”

  Vasquez hefted her burgundy leather briefcase onto the table and unbuckled its brass locks. She dropped a manila folder onto the lacquered surface, removed a photo, and slid it to the Blackwells.

  A grinning face stared into the camera. The missing archeologist didn't hold the rank of colonel but nonetheless would have had a good shot landing a job advertising fast-food chicken. Red suspenders with a yellow stripe down the middle offered a colorful contrast to the jolly scientist’s white goatee and mustache.

  “Harold Miller,” said Vasquez. “Age sixty-two. PhD in archeology and has worked in the field for almost forty years. He’s been on this site for twenty-three months. Disappeared two weeks ago, shortly after the murders of two other team members.”

  “Did he make any enemies while he was here?” asked Mallory. “Perhaps those who opposed his work inside a cathedral?”

  Vasquez nodded. “Father Chavira didn’t like the idea at first. But he is not a man to use violence to get his way. The bishop approved Dr. Miller’s work, so the father didn’t have a choice.”

  “Any chance Father Chavira took authorization into his own hands?” asked Alton.

  Vasquez laughed. “I don’t think so. He is a true man of God. Besides, he couldn’t even if he wanted to. He is in his seventies and is missing a leg. He is not going to be murdering anyone. He has trouble just walking.”

  “So does Dr. Miller, for that matter” said Cornick. “You saw the picture. The man has…girth. And he’s spent almost every day for years on his hands and knees, crawling around the sites he loves. It’s really taken its toll on him. His arthritis has grown so severe, he can barely navigate through the digs. I’m surprised he didn’t quit years ago.”

  “Why didn’t he?” asked David.

  Cornick’s gaze became thoughtful, and the corners of his lips tugged upwards. “You have to know Harry. He excelled in the detail work, getting down in the dirt to coax a fragile artifact out of the environment with minimal damage. It was his passion, really—the reason he ne
ver wanted to lead a team. Doing so would take him away from the detail work he loved.” His face darkened. “But he didn’t enjoy the work so much his last month on the job.”

  “Why?” asked Mallory.

  “A gang member threatened him a few days before he disappeared.”

  “Why would a gang member threaten an elderly scientist?” asked Alton.

  “At the time, we didn’t know it was a gang member,” said Cornick. “Dr. Miller went to a warehouse across the street to borrow a wheelbarrow. He was surprised at how rude they were—they told him to leave and not come back or they’d make sure he couldn’t come back.”

  “After Dr. Miller disappeared,” said Vasquez, “I looked into the ownership of this building. It belongs to a company that doesn’t seem to produce any income. Yet there is always activity at that site.”

  “A shell corporation,” said Mallory. “A front to hide activities, usually illegal ones.”

  “That is what we think,” said Vasquez, “especially since we learned the boss of that warehouse is Gustavo Cruz.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Mallory.

  “Locals call him el tiburón—the shark. He’s suspected of a number of crimes—drug running, murder.” Her face scrunched up in concentration. “How you say?…extortion. But we haven’t been able to prove anything. Not yet.”

  Silva spoke for the first time. “I grew up in a rough neighborhood. I can see this guy, el tiburón, chasing people off his property. Sounds just like the gang lords in my old hood. But why would he murder Dr. Miller? Guys like that usually want to keep a low profile. They don’t kill someone unless they have to.”

  Vasquez shrugged. “We ask ourselves the same question. To be sure, I investigated the background of the warehouse, but I can’t go inside it without a warrant. It’s not a crime to have people in a warehouse that doesn’t make any money.”

  “It doesn’t make legal money,” said Alton grimly. He turned to Cornick. “I have to ask a tough question. Do you think Dr. Miller is still alive?”

  Cornick struggled to form an answer. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “On one hand, it’s completely out of character for him to simply disappear. He keeps a regular schedule—even hates to leave a dig once started. That’s a bad sign. On the other hand, the two other victims were left where they were killed. So if the same people killed Dr. Miller, why hide his body this time?”

  Alton nodded. Why, indeed?

  “Speaking of the other victims,” said Mallory, “I understand one of them was Eden Grey. Was her body discovered here?”

  “No,” said Vasquez, “and that has us confused.”

  “Why?”

  “All three victims—the two murder victims and Dr. Miller—were part of Dr. Cornick’s team. Considering they all had that obvious connection, it’s odd that her body was discovered far away from either site.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “Interesting,” said Mallory. “Where was it found?”

  “In her apartment,” said Vasquez. “If you want to know all the details of that crime, I should take you to it.”

  “Agreed,” said Alton. “Shall we go?”

  The party hailed cabs and directed them to follow Vasquez’s Dodge Charger northward, out of the centro.

  After a half hour of motoring through ever-thinning traffic, the line of vehicles pulled to a stop on a quiet lane shaded by the overhanging branches of deciduous trees Alton didn’t recognize. Dappled sunlight played on the sidewalk below. It hardly seemed the site of a homicide.

  Vasquez directed the cabs to wait, then led the party to a first-floor apartment. She punched in a series of numbers on a lockbox hanging from the doorknob. When the box’s door popped open, she removed the key and unlocked the front door. “Whoever killed Ms. Grey left this door unlocked when they left.”

  She led the party into a front living room. “Nothing in the apartment has been touched since our initial crime-scene investigation. We’ll leave it that way until we solve these crimes.”

  Pieces of a lamp lay scattered on the floor at the base of a narrow table. A picture frame hung askew on the wall, while another lay on the floor with its glass shattered out. Over to the left, pieces of enamel plates lay strewn about the kitchen floor.

  “Before we review the crime scene, can you tell us a little about the victim?” asked Alton.

  Vasquez pulled another manila folder out of her briefcase and removed a photograph. A slender, freckled woman wearing beige shorts, a khaki shirt, sturdy boots, and work gloves grinned from atop a pile of rubble in front of the Zapopan Basilica. It scarcely seemed possible that a young lady bursting with such potential now lay in a quiet grave.

  Vasquez began to speak without referencing her notes. “Aged twenty-four. A graduate student at Stanford University. Her work here in Guadalajara was her second field assignment.”

  “Her first was in North Dakota,” added Cornick.

  Vasquez continued. “Her body was found here a month ago.”

  “Here in the living room?” asked Alton.

  “No. The bedroom.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Blow to the head,” said Vasquez. She sighed. “And this is making these crimes hard to figure out. They are kind of the same but kind of different, too. The victims are all members of Dr. Cornick’s team. Yet one is only missing and might not be murdered. And another is killed in her home instead of an archeological site. These differences make it hard to establish a pattern.”

  Mallory twirled a strand of hair around her index finger, deep in thought. “Guadalajara is a big city. Perhaps Eden Grey’s murder wasn’t tied to the dig sites.”

  “It’s possible,” said Vasquez. “You can see there was a fight in here. But if this was a robbery, the thieves left a lot of valuable things behind.”

  “Maybe they got spooked after killing her and took off,” said Alton.

  Vasquez shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Mallory lowered her voice. “Could it have been rape?”

  “We tested for that. She didn’t have sex that night.”

  Alton exhaled. The murder was a tragedy in its own right, but thank the Maker Grey’s last living experience hadn’t included that final insult.

  The lieutenant led the others to the back bedroom. Sheets and a thin, wool blanket lay pulled back. A slight depression lingered on the surface of the linen.

  “Who was the last person to see her alive?” asked Alton.

  “I believe I was,” said Cornick. “She worked a normal shift at my site.”

  “Did anything unusual happen that day?” asked Alton. “Did she say or do anything different when she left?”

  Cornick shook his head. “I’ve thought about that night dozens of times, but no, I can’t think of anything out of the ordinary. Ms. Grey was a creature of habit, like most of us on the team. She followed her usual routine that night—changed into clean clothes at the end of the shift, said good night, and left. That was the last time I saw her…alive.” He swallowed.

  “When she left, did she seem frightened or excited?”

  Cornick shrugged helplessly. “No, same as always.”

  “Did you see if she met anyone after she left, or if anyone approached her?”

  “Honestly, I was in the middle of excavating a chalice down in the main chamber when she said goodbye. I don’t recall even looking up. Someone could have been waiting in the basilica itself and I wouldn’t have known.”

  “I see.”

  No one spoke. The silence drew to an uncomfortable length.

  Vasquez peered towards the room’s single window. “The sun is sinking. If you want to see the spot where Dr. Salazar’s body was found, we should go now.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Alton nodded. “Yes, let’s go check it out.”

  The investigators piled back into cabs and skirted along perimeter highways before turning onto a side street where vendors sold soft tacos and enchiladas from carts.

  They stopped where th
e investigation had begun: the Zapopan Basilica. The sun dipped low, sending vibrant streaks of rose and lavender across the horizon in an aerial bouquet.

  Limping over from his cab, Alton approached Vasquez. “Dr. Salazar was killed here?”

  “Yes. I’ll show you.”

  The group filed around brick planters lining the plaza in front of the basilica, past a series of arched doorways fronting the building. They moved to the church’s far wall, to the left of the main entrance. On this side, a thick clump of trees obscured any view from the plaza.

  Waiting at the corner was a pretty, thirty-something researcher wearing purple, tapered glasses and mud-splattered, dungaree work pants.

  “This is Adriana Mura, one of the original members of the Guadalajara team,” Dr. Cornick explained to Alton’s team. “After the earthquake, she stayed at the Chapalas site, so she worked closely with Dr. Miller until he disappeared. I called her en route and asked if she could participate in this part of the investigation.” He leaned close to Mura and spoke in a low voice. “I know this is hard for you, but just in case there’s anything you can remember that will help these policemen…”

  She swallowed and nodded. “Yes. I’ll help.”

  Vasquez set off along the basilica’s exterior wall. Leading the group behind a tangle of thick branches, the lieutenant pointed to a rectangle of yellow police tape delineating several square yards at the base of the thickest tree. “His body was discovered there. He was stabbed in the chest, directly in the heart. The medical examiner says Dr. Salazar died instantly.”

  Despite the warm evening, Alton shuddered. “A quiet death, assuming he didn’t scream.”

  “Yes,” replied Vasquez. “With all the visitors here, someone probably would have heard a gunshot. This murderer was careful to make a plan to stay hidden.”

  “Did you ever find the murder weapon?” asked Mallory.

  “No,” said Vasquez. “The stab wound was a little more than five centimeters wide. It was a big knife.”

  With nothing more to see in the grove, the group moved inside the basilica and took seats around the same table used during the morning’s conversation.