Hungry Ghosts

by Peggy Blair

  She nodded her head. She held the chain in her fingers and closed her eyes. “I can see it like I’m there. They get him at the airport. They tell him Antifona needs him, that she’s in trouble. They take him to an old part of the city, so old it’s still haunted by ghosts. They tie him up. They make him breathe water until he answers their questions. Who else knows you? Antifona, she got a cell phone? What’s the number? He has to tell; he’s scared so bad. They say if he tells them, he’ll be safe, but they kill him anyway. He dies ashamed of himself, that he didn’t protect her.”

  She opened her eyes and gripped Ramirez’s fingers with her wizened hand.

  “Now he can’t cross to the other side. I think he blames himself that she’s dead. He needs to know that things are okay with them, that Antifona understands. You have to tell her what he done, that he tried. Yeah, I know she’s dead. But that’s just her body. The rest of her’s still out there, waiting. She’s trapped too.” She stood up and straightened her skirt. “I got to go now. I got two funerals to plan.” She walked away, stepping lightly despite her massive weight.

  “Mama Loa,” Ramirez called after her. “I saw those things. It’s like I was there when he died. I was dreaming. But I was that man. I was inside his head. How can that be?”

  She turned her head and looked at him sadly. “Spend enough time with the dead, you start to think the way they do. It’s a gift, I guess. For some, it’s a curse.”

  61

  “I can’t believe that Adam Neville tried to frame Sheldon with murder,” said Celia Jones. They were standing in her parents’ driveway, looking over the snowdrifts. Jones was bundled in a parka, but Charlie Pike seemed oblivious to the cold. His only concession to the weather was that his hands were in his pockets. “Or that he’s the Highway Strangler. How in God’s name did you figure that out?”

  “I only saw Sheldon violent once, Celia, and that was a long time ago. Besides, there was someone who saw Adam spray Luminol on Maylene Kesler’s body in those woods.”

  “Pauley Oshig?”

  “No, he wasn’t there when that happened,” said Pike. “He headed straight for the band office, just like he said. He was too afraid to hang around in the forest. He knew Bill would be angry enough at him for skipping school. He told me who let him know what they saw. I just didn’t pay enough attention.”

  “There was another witness in the woods that morning? But who?”

  “More than one; a whole bunch of them. Doesn’t matter, Celia. They wouldn’t be able to pick Adam out of a police lineup anyway.” Pike smiled and shook his head. He could never explain to Celia that crows were people too.

  “Mercury, that’s what Maylene Kesler found in those tests,” he said, changing the subject. “Everyone’s levels are off the charts around here, including your mother’s. That’s what I came to tell you. That could be why her symptoms are getting worse. Chelation therapy, that can help. I read a medical article about it.” He didn’t tell Jones how he got it. “You and your dad might want to check that out.”

  “There’s mercury in the drinking water?” Jones said. “Oh my God, she’s been drinking gallons of tea every day. I’ll get on it right away. Thanks for telling me. You know, I’m going to talk to Alex about having my parents move in with us in Ottawa. My mom needs medical care she can’t get here. But cripes, Charlie, mercury? That could explain her confusion, the disorientation, everything.”

  Pike nodded. Mercury poisoning could account for a lot of things. It might even explain why Dr. Kesler had told Molly Oshig that her son might not have FAS at all, why she had written on Pauley’s file that he should be evaluated for autism.

  “Bill’s planning to go to the media. Be interesting to see if the mill finally gets shut down once the government finds out there are white people around here at risk too.” Although they might already know, he thought, remembering the sign at the airport warning people not to drink the water.

  “So stupid,” Jones said, shaking her head. “Fingers crossed. When do you head back to Ottawa?”

  “Later today. But I have a wake to go to first. There was another suicide on the reserve yesterday.”

  Pike didn’t tell her it was Freda Wabigoon or about the incest. He didn’t plan to put it in his report to O’Malley either. After all, Freda had been right. The Anishnabe had their own laws. When it came right down to it, what happened on-reserve was no one else’s business.

  “Well, I guess I’ll see you at the office in a few days, Charlie. You did a helluva job. The media never even got hold of this story. I have to tell you, I’m almost dreading going back to Ottawa. Alex and I have to figure out this situation with Beatriz. We’re still thinking about whether we should apply for her to get refugee status. I’m worried about Children’s Aid stepping in. Everyone says they’ll put her in foster care.”

  “It messes you up, being taken away from everything you know,” said Pike. “I’ve been in that system. It’s a revolving door. Most of my friends were in foster care too. Bunch of white social workers didn’t like the way that Indians raised their kids. The little ones were always running around, playing. To someone who didn’t know better, it might have seemed like they weren’t being looked after, but there was always someone keeping an eye on them.” He turned to look at Jones directly. “You know, it’s not that hard to get a birth certificate, if that’s all you need.”

  “You mean a fake one? I’m a lawyer. I can’t break the law.”

  “People on my mom’s side, the Mohawks, they travel on their own passports. I like to think of it as respecting our laws, not breaking someone else’s.”

  “I don’t know, Charlie,” said Jones, stamping her feet to keep warm. “I get what you mean. But what about the rule of law?”

  “Whose law? Cuban laws say she’s yours already, don’t they? Canada’s laws would send her back to a country where she could die alone. Seems pretty simple to me. Jail cells down south are full of people who could get you a birth certificate. A passport’s even easier. Once you get the birth certificate, all you need is a guarantor to say they’ve known her for two years.”

  “Who would do that? Beatriz only got here two months ago.”

  “The list of guarantors includes First Nation police officers.”

  Jones searched his eyes. “You’re staying here, aren’t you, Charlie?” The snow caught in the fur of her hood.

  “Not right away. I have some commitments in Ottawa. But Bill and some of the other chiefs are talking about setting up a new police force to replace the APF. I was thinking I might apply. This may not be my home anymore, Celia. But it’s where I belong.”

  62

  Inspector Ramirez knocked on Hector Apiro’s office door in the medical tower. He held a box filled with exhibits from the two women’s murders. When Apiro called out for him to come in, he pushed the door open to find Maria Vasquez seated beside Apiro, sipping delicately from a glass of rum. Apiro had pink lipstick on his cheek.

  “Hola, Hector, Maria.”

  “Please, Ricardo, come in, sit down, have a drink. My goodness, you’ve had quite a day. I ran into Detective Espinoza at headquarters. He told me what happened.”

  Ramirez put the box down while Apiro rooted around in his papers for another glass. He filled it with Havana Club and handed it to Ramirez.

  “I was astounded to learn that Manuel Flores was involved in all of this. How was he going to sell the paintings? I would imagine there’s a very small market for the illicit trade in Italian masterpieces.”

  “I think the Cuban families who originally owned them planned to file a legal action in the U.S. courts as soon as the paintings landed in Guantánamo Bay. They were going to argue that the American courts had jurisdiction because the paintings were on American soil. The cost of restoring the paintings would be nothing compared to their true value.” Ramirez smiled. “I hope you don’t mind, Maria, but I had hope
d to pick Hector’s brain for a few minutes about some women’s murders we’re investigating.”

  “Maria knows about them, Ricardo. She might be able to help.”

  Ramirez nodded. “The thing is, Manuel Flores was behind Antifona Conejo’s murder, but that still leaves the others. I’ve released Juan Otero from custody. The only thing I’m sure of is that he wasn’t involved. Detective Espinoza and Detective Delgado are cross-referencing hotel and rental car records to see if there was a foreigner of interest in Havana at the relevant times. I wanted to go back through the exhibits to see if we missed anything. Any insights you might have, Maria, would be helpful.”

  “Of course,” said Maria. “I knew LaNeva, you know. She was my friend.”

  Ramirez opened the first box of exhibits and removed all the individually bagged items from Prima Verrier’s purse. There was an identification card, a tube of lipstick, and a box of condoms, brand name “Impulse.” He put them on Apiro’s battered desk.

  Maria reached for the box of condoms. “You can’t get this brand here easily,” she said. “The only condoms we have are from China, and they break.” She pointed to another exhibit bag that held condoms from LaNeva’s purse. “Same with these ones. They’re Trojans.”

  “I should have noticed that before,” said Ramirez. He felt angry with himself for missing it. He thought for a moment. “Up to now, I’ve assumed that all the items in the victims’ purses belonged to them. But what if they were left behind by the killer? Manuel Flores talked about how much pleasure the murderer might take from leaving the obvious out in the open. What if everything we found at these crime scenes was put there deliberately?”

  Apiro nodded thoughtfully. “That means re-evaluating the significance of every item from each crime scene.”

  “What about the Trojans?” Ramirez asked.

  “It’s interesting imagery when you put it in the context of the apple we found in LaNeva’s stomach,” said Apiro. “Adam and Eve tasted an apple and gave up immortality. Aphrodite bribed Paris of Troy with an apple and caused the Trojan war.”

  “All right, then what about this cigarette butt?” said Ramirez. “Silk Cut brand?”

  “Ah,” said Apiro. “Those were sold here years ago. They were supposed to be lower in tar, so they took longer to kill you. I remember the advertising campaign had scissors that cut through silk. This was back in the days when we still had advertisements, Maria. These were aggressive ads. Phallic shapes. Purple silk that looked almost vaginal, but which was slashed. There was one that had a row of surgical scissors lined up with the blades splayed open, as if they were cabaret dancers.”

  “It sounds like the men who created that advertising campaign hated women,” said Maria. She shuddered.

  “Perhaps the surgical scissors are supposed to mean something,” said Apiro, “although I can’t imagine what. You know, Ricardo, there was something at the crime scene that I didn’t appreciate the significance of before. This thin wooden stick in Antifona’s purse?” He held up the bag. “It’s not for manicures.”

  “No,” said Maria. “It’s from a child’s lollipop.”

  “Maria tells me that a ‘lollipop’ is slang for oral sex.”

  “Maybe he wants to make sure we know they are prostitutes,” Ramirez said. “But trying to understand this man is almost impossible. We might as well examine the entrails of a chicken under the full moon. I thought of doing that, actually.”

  Apiro chuckled. “Well, there is something that’s been bothering me, Ricardo. In Russia, there are stories of Baba Yaga, the guardian of the Waters of Death. She lives in a hut in the woods that has chicken legs and moves around by itself. She uses a broom to sweep away all traces of her path, to keep strangers away. The only shoe prints we’ve found so far have been from women’s shoes, Ricardo. Never a man’s.”

  “You think he sweeps away his shoe prints?” asked Ramirez.

  “Either that or he flies away. Maybe it isn’t only what he leaves behind that’s important, but what he removes.” Apiro lit his pipe.

  “I think you’re right,” said Ramirez. “There are multiple clues. Because Prima was the first one. And the name, LaNeva, sounds like ‘nevar,’ which means ‘snow’ in English. Perhaps he makes contact with his victims before he kills them. It’s possible he chooses who to kill based on little more than their names.”

  “It worries me,” said Maria. “I have a friend, Nevara, who had a client who promised to bring her stockings.”

  “I hope I’m wrong.” Ramirez shook his head. “I don’t know if we’re on to something or wasting our time.” He reached into the box for the final item, a lipstick.

  “What about this, Maria?”

  She examined it closely through the plastic exhibit bag. “It’s brand new. See, the seal hasn’t even been broken. The name should be on the bottom.” She held the lipstick up to the light, squinting to read the fine print on the label. “It’s called Indian Red.”

  “The only truly red Indians were in Canada,” said Apiro, drawing on his pipe. “The Beothuks of Newfoundland. They used red ochre in their burial practices. But they were hunted to extinction. There was a bounty on their heads.”

  “Snow. Indians. Apples from Quebec. The killer has to be Canadian,” Ramirez decided.

  “If you’re right, there could be thousands of suspects,” said Apiro. “A million Canadians come here every winter. The killer has probably already left the country.”

  “I know,” said Ramirez, frustrated.

  Maria looked at her watch. “I’m sorry, I have to leave. I’m meeting a friend this afternoon. We’re going to the zoo.”

  “Thanks for your help, Maria. It’s much appreciated.” Ramirez’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, and held it to his ear. It was Detective Espinoza.

  “We found a Canadian who registered at the Hotel Telégrafo last year and again this year at the same time as our two victims were killed. His name is Adam Neville. He’s from Winnipeg, in Manitoba, Canada. He and his wife, Denise Labelle, stayed there from February 10 to March 2 last year. They registered again on February first this year. He checked out a week ago, but his wife is still there. Hotel staff say she left for a few days but kept the room. She rented a vehicle from Havanautos last year and this year. I have the computer printouts.”

  “Excellent, Fernando. Fax me that information, will you? I’m in Dr. Apiro’s office right now. I’ll wait.” Ramirez got the number from Apiro and repeated it to Espinoza.

  “They found a suspect,” he said after he hung up. “A Canadian. Adam Neville. You may have been right about Adam and Eve, Hector. I think we’ve got him. I need to notify the Canadian authorities. I’m not sure who exactly to contact, but I know who can tell me.”

  Ramirez dialed the switchboard and asked to be put through to Chief Miles O’Malley in Ottawa.

  Inspector Ramirez put down the phone after O’Malley said goodbye. “Well, that’s interesting, Hector. Chief O’Malley says that this man, Adam Neville, is already in custody. He’s a forensic pathologist, suspected of murdering prostitutes in Canada. They call him the Highway Strangler. Charlie Pike arrested him in Northern Ontario in connection with a recent death there.” He explained what O’Malley had told him. “Celia Jones told me about this Highway Strangler when we spoke earlier this week. I should have paid more attention. Chief O’Malley said to call Charlie Pike directly if we have any questions.”

  “A pathologist was the murderer?” said Apiro, frowning. “That doesn’t speak well for the profession.”

  “It explains why there was never any forensic evidence left behind.” Ramirez lit a cigar.

  “Maria will be relieved. I’ll tell her about the arrest as soon as she gets back from the zoo.”

  “I used to like the zoo,” said Ramirez. He exhaled, watching the smoke waft lazily to the ceiling. “Not much to see there these days,
though, is there? A bunch of old lions. Seems like a rather sad place to spend an afternoon.”

  Apiro nodded. “I know. But apparently her girlfriend really wanted to see it. She’s visiting from Canada.”

  “Well, I’ll be glad to close these two files once and for all,” said Ramirez. “Chief O’Malley is going to send me a copy of Charlie Pike’s report as soon as he gets it. Then I can wrap up my cold case. Señora Verrier’s family will be glad to know their ordeal is finally over.” He paused for a moment. “Tell me, Hector, have you ever heard of someone having an apparitional experience? Manuel Flores mentioned the term to me.”

  Apiro shook his head and smiled. “You could say that anyone who goes to a Catholic Church and eats a wafer believing it to be the body of Christ is having one. There are a lot of otherwise very rational people who believe in things that are scientifically impossible because they are experiencing auditory and visual hallucinations. Children are particularly vulnerable when it comes to believing things that aren’t real. So it’s a polite way for psychiatrists to characterize people as mentally healthy even when it’s evident that what they say they’ve seen or heard can’t possibly exist in real life. In what context did he use it?”

  The fax machine in Apiro’s office began to churn. The pathologist stood up to retrieve the papers that curled out of it, his question forgotten. “Ah, here you are, Ricardo. It’s the information you asked for from Detective Espinoza.” He handed the printouts to Ramirez. “I’ll need to update my forensic report for you as well. The technicians found something odd—a bit of an anomaly—but I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. I meant to tell you, and in all the excitement I forgot.”

  “What was that, Hector?”

  “Well, it’s odd. They tested the lipstick on the two cigarette butts from the crime scenes. They found saliva, but it wasn’t a match for either of the two dead women.”

  “Adam Neville’s?”

  “No, and that’s what’s strange. It can’t be. It’s saliva from a woman. And whoever’s it is, it’s the same woman. It took the lab a while to analyze the DNA; we were out of the supplies we needed. It comes from another jinetera, I suppose.”