It was lunch time when they arrived at Pamplona. Their breath had condensed on the glass of the windows due to the cold outside, providing clear evidence of the suffocating heat inside the car, made even more uncomfortable by the presence of Lieutenant Padua; he had insisted on travelling with them but had not opened his mouth once during the journey. When the car finally stopped in front of the Navarra Institute of Forensic Medicine and they got out, a woman totally hidden beneath an umbrella emerged from a small group waiting at the entrance and moved forwards a few steps in order to position herself in front of the stairs.
Amaia realised who she was as soon as she saw her: it wasn’t the first time that a victim’s relative had waited for her at the entrance to the morgue. There was no way they would be allowed to observe the autopsy. There was nothing they could do there, even the popular belief that the family had to authorise the autopsy was false. Autopsies were carried out as part of judicial protocol under orders from the judge, and in cases where the identification of a body was necessary, this was done via CCTV and the family never entered the autopsy room … There was nothing for the family members to do there, but they still gathered at the entrance to the Institute as if called there and waited together, as if a nurse might come out at any moment and tell them that everything had gone smoothly and their loved one would recover in a few days.
When she started to get close to the woman, determined to avoid looking her in the eye, she noticed how pale her face was, the supplicant manner in which she held out a hand towards her while her other held that of a little girl, only three or four years old, whom the mother almost dragged along with her. Amaia sped up.
‘Señora, Señora, I beg you,’ said the woman, managing to brush Amaia’s hand with her own rough, cold one. Then, as if she felt her behaviour had crossed some line, she stepped back and clung onto the little girl’s hand again.
Amaia stopped short and shot a look at Jonan, who was trying to stand between them.
‘Please, Señora,’ begged the woman. Amaia looked at her, inviting her to speak. ‘I’m Johana’s mother,’ was her sole introduction, as if she were assuming a sad title for which no explanation was necessary.
‘I know who you are, and I’m very sorry about what’s happened to your daughter.’
‘But it wasn’t the basajaun who killed my daughter, was it?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that question, it’s still too soon to be certain. We’re at a very early stage in the investigation and the first thing we need to do is establish what happened.’
The woman took another step forward.
‘But you must know, you must, that that murderer didn’t kill my Johana.’
‘What makes you say that?’
The woman bit her lip and looked around, as if she might find the answer in the fat drops of rain that were falling.
‘Did they …? Did they abuse her?’
Amaia looked at the little girl, who seemed absorbed in contemplating the patrol cars parked at angles in the road.
‘I’ve already told you that it’s too early to tell, we can’t be sure until we carry out the … well …’ suddenly, the thought of mentioning the autopsy seemed too brutal. The woman came so close that Amaia could smell her bitter breath and the scent of lavender water emanating from her damp clothing. She took Amaia’s hand and squeezed it in a gesture that was both acknowledgement and desperation.
‘Please, Señora, at least tell me how long she’s been dead.’ Amaia placed her hand over the woman’s.
‘I’ll speak with you once the … once they’ve finished examining her, I give you my word.’
She pulled free of the hand that was holding hers like an icy claw and moved forward towards the entrance.
‘She’s been dead for a week, hasn’t she?’ said the woman, her voice cracking with the effort. ‘Since the day she dis-appeared.’
Amaia turned toward her.
‘She’s been dead for seven days. I know it,’ repeated the woman. Her voice broke completely and she started to cry, sobbing noisily.
Amaia went back to where she stood and looked around, weighing up the effect Johana’s mother’s words had had on her colleagues.
‘How do you know that?’ Amaia whispered to her.
‘Because the day my daughter died I felt like something broke in here,’ said her mother, raising her hand to her chest.
The inspector realised that the little girl was clinging to her mother’s legs and crying silently.
‘Go home, Señora, take the little girl away from here; I promise I’ll come and speak with you as soon as I have anything to tell you.’
The little girl was weeping, her expression one of infinite love, and the woman looked at her as if she had suddenly realised she was there and as if her existence was somehow miraculous.
‘No,’ she answered firmly. ‘I’ll wait here until they finish, I’ll wait here so I can take my daughter away.’
Amaia pushed the heavy door, but she was still able to hear the mother’s prayer.
‘Watch over my daughter, who is inside this building.’
Fulfilling his promise to San Martín, Jonan had come into the autopsy room. Amaia was aware that it wasn’t his first time, but that as a rule he normally avoided this unpleasant experience which he appeared to find very difficult. He stood in silence, leaning against the steel countertop and his face gave no hint of any emotion, perhaps because he knew he was being observed by the others, who sometimes made jokes about him being a doctor – of archaeology and anthropology – and yet was squeamish about autopsies. However, Amaia didn’t miss the fact that he had his hands behind his back, as if making clear his intention not to touch anything, either physically or emotionally. She had gone over to him before they went in to say that he could give an excuse and decline San Martín’s invitation, that she could send him to talk to Johana’s mother or to continue working on leads at the police station. But he had decided to stay.
‘I have to go in, chief, because this crime is baffling me, and with what I know at the moment, I can’t even begin to outline a profile.’
‘It won’t be pleasant.’
‘It never is.’
Normally when she arrived at an autopsy the technicians had already removed the clothing, taken samples of nails and hair and had often washed the body. Amaia had asked San Martín to wait before doing any of this because she suspected that the way in which the clothes had been torn might provide some new information. Tying a single-use surgical gown behind her back, she went over to the table.
‘Now then, ladies and gentlemen,’ said San Martín, ‘let’s begin.’
The technicians started to take samples of fibres, powder and seeds that were attached to the different fabrics; then they removed the plastic bag they had used to preserve the girl’s hand, on which two nails were so broken they were hanging off, nails on which traces of skin and blood were evident.
‘What does this body say to you? What story does it tell us?’ Amaia got things going.
‘It has elements in common with the other crimes. However, there are also a lot of differences,’ said Iriarte.
‘For example?’
‘The girl’s age is similar, the way in which her clothes were arranged to the sides, the cord around her neck … And, perhaps in part, the way the scene was set up on previous occasions,’ observed Jonan.
‘In what sense?’
‘I already know for a start that the way the body was presented is different, but there is something virginal about how the flowers were arranged. Perhaps it’s an evolution in the fantasy, or he wanted to distinguish this victim in some way.’
‘By the way, do we know what sort of flowers they are? It’s February, I don’t expect there are many flowers in the area.’
‘Yes, I sent a photo of one to a gardening forum and received a response straight away. The little yellow ones are calendula officinalis, they grow at the side of roads, and the white flowers are camellia japon
ica, a variety of camellias that are only grown in gardens. It’s very unlikely that they grow in the woods, although they’re both in season as they flower early. I had a look online and found out that they were historically used as a symbol of purity in some cultures,’ explained a well-informed Jonan.
Amaia remained silent for a few moments considering the idea.
‘I don’t know, I’m not convinced,’ said Iriarte.
‘What about the differences?’
‘Her age aside, the girl doesn’t fit the victim profile. Her style of dress was almost childish, jeans and a fleece, and although her clothes have been separated to either side, it looks like something that was done later. He tore her clothes in quite a clumsy way, for a start, some of them are in tatters; she’s still wearing her shoes, which in this case are trainers; the body seems seriously violated, but the pubic hair hasn’t been shaved off. Her hands … her remaining hand is tense and shows signs of a fight, both in the nails that are half torn off and the half-moon marks on her palms, which tell us that she clenched her fists so tightly the nails broke the skin,’ said Iriarte, pointing to the wounds. ‘And of course there’s still the matter of the amputation.’
‘What can you tell me about where she was found?’
‘It’s completely different; instead of by the river, a natural, open setting that suggests purity, we found her in a covered, dirty and abandoned place.’
‘Who might know about the existence of that hut?’ Amaia asked Padua.
‘Almost anyone from the area who goes up onto the hill. It’s been used by hunters and hikers and groups out for a picnic used it until the roof started caving in last year … In any case, judging by the remains of the rubbish, it doesn’t seem long since it was used for something like that.’
‘What’s the cause of death, Doctor?’
‘She was strangled manually, as I already told you when giving my first impressions. This cord was added afterwards, when the swelling was already established and, furthermore, this time it’s a different kind of cord and it’s been knotted.’
‘Perhaps he came back later to add the cord. Perhaps when they published the first information about the basajaun’s crimes …’ Amaia suggested.
‘Yes, it would appear we’ve got a copy-cat.’
‘Or rather an opportunist. A copy-cat kills imitating the scenario used by the other killer; the opportunist is an upstart who isn’t paying homage to the original killer, but rather trying to disguise his crime in order to have it attributed to the original killer.’
The doctor leant over the body again with a speculum and took a sample from inside the vagina.
‘There’s semen,’ he said, passing the swab to the technician, who proceeded to bag and label it. ‘There are tears to the interior walls of the vagina, and a haemorrhage that was interrupted by the girl’s death. She probably died during the rape, since no blood is visible externally. Either that, or she was already dead when the rape occurred.’
Amaia came in a bit closer.
‘What can you tell me about the amputation?’
‘It took place post-mortem, it didn’t bleed, and it was performed with an extraordinarily sharp object.’
‘Yes, I can see how the bone was cut. The flesh looks a bit frayed higher up, though.’
‘Yes, I’d noticed that, I’m inclined to say that they’re bites from an animal. We’ll make a mould and let you know.’
‘And what about the cord, Doctor?’
‘You can see it’s different from the others just by looking at it, thicker and with a plastic coating. Washing line. You’ll find out for certain, but it doesn’t seem likely that he’s decided to change the kind of cord he uses at this stage.’
The technicians removed the remains of the clothing and the corpse lay exposed under the cold lights of the operating theatre. The bruises formed a purple map across the back and shoulders, on the thighs and calves, where the blood had accumulated due to its own weight after the heart had stopped. The inflammation had deformed the remains of the body on which the signs of puberty were barely visible. Once the earth had been washed from the face, the marks from various blows and the swelling from a punch that had knocked a tooth loose became clear. San Martín removed it with some forceps while he gestured to Jonan to come closer. The aroma of the perfume was still very strong, even after washing the body, and, when combined with the smell of serious decomposition, it really was repulsive. Jonan, pale and upset, couldn’t take his eyes off the girl’s face, but he stayed strong. He kept his breathing steady and from time to time he punctuated the deep silences with technical questions.
Amaia thought of the increasing popularity of forensic series among television viewers, series in which the most shocking thing was the fact that they resolved a case, or sometimes two, in the course of a night, thanks to autopsies, identification, interrogations and even DNA tests, tests that took at least a fortnight even when they were ordered as a matter of urgency, and took a month and a half when no-one chased them up. They also had to contend with the fact that there wasn’t a forensic laboratory in Navarra capable of carrying out DNA analyses, which had to be sent to Zaragoza, and the extremely high cost of certain tests, which made them almost out of the question. But what made her laugh most was the way the investigators on the shows would stand there, exchanging notes and reports across a body that would be giving off nauseating gases and smells even in the best case scenario.
She had read that some judges and police officers considered jurors’ skewed understanding of forensic techniques, often acquired from the aforementioned television series, to be harmful since it encouraged them to ask for tests, analyses and comparisons without any justification, although some scientists also argued that they could finally explain their discoveries without their work sounding like a foreign language. That was certainly the case for forensic entomologists. Ten years ago, their findings would be mostly incomprehensible, while nowadays almost anybody knew that it was possible to establish the time and place of a death with great precision by establishing the age of larvae and other fauna found on the cadaver.
Amaia went over to the box in which they had put the remains of the clothes.
‘Padua, we’ve got the remains of a pair of blue jeans, a pale pink Nike fleece, silver trainers and white socks here. Tell me, according to her mother’s report, what was she wearing when she went missing?’
‘Jeans and a pink sweater,’ murmured Padua.
‘Doctor, would you say she could have died the same day she disappeared?’
‘It’s very likely.’
‘Could I use your office, Doctor?’
‘Be my guest.’
Amaia untied the knot at the back of the surgical gown and took one last look at the body, then went out towards the wash basins, saying, ‘Jonan, come out here and bring Johana’s mother through.’
In spite of the many occasions on which she had visited the Navarra Institute of Forensic Medicine, she had never been up to San Martín’s office since he seemed perfectly comfortable signing the reports in the small, cramped, cubicle beside the autopsy room which was intended for the use of the technicians. Amaia imagined she would find a room as unusual as its owner, but the luxury with which he had decorated it surprised her. There was no doubt that the office took up more space than he officially had a right to. The furniture was of a practical build, the kind you would expect in the office of a senior scientist, and had simple, modern lines in contrast with the collection of bronze statues, which were arranged with the utmost attention and carefully lit. An extraordinarily heavy-looking Lamentation measuring some seventy centimetres square stood on the large meeting table. Amaia wondered whether they moved it when the table had to be used for meetings.
At the other end of the table, Johana’s little sister seemed enchanted by the large number of blank sheets of paper and box of biros Jonan had just set in front of her. Her mother sat in trance-like contemplation of the dead Christ in the arms of his mo
ther.
Jonan went over to Amaia.
‘She’s praying,’ he explained. ‘She asked me whether I thought the sculpture was consecrated.’
‘What’s she called?’
‘Inés, Inés Lorenzo. The little girl’s called Gisela.’
Amaia waited a minute longer, not wanting to interrupt the prayer, but the woman noticed her presence and turned towards her. Amaia invited her to sit down in one of the chairs and took the other herself. Jonan remained standing near the door and Inspector Iriarte let Amaia take the lead, opting for one of the chairs at the meeting table, which he turned round so he was facing Amaia and could watch the woman from behind.
‘Inés, I’m Inspector Salazar, and these are Deputy Inspector Etxaide, Inspector Iriarte and Lieutenant Padua from the Guardia Civil; I think you’ve already met.’
Padua picked up the seat behind the desk and moved it to one side. Amaia was grateful that he had decided not to sit behind the desk.
‘Inés,’ began Amaia, ‘as you know, a Guardia Civil patrol found the body of your daughter today.’
The woman stared at her, upright and attentive, as if she were holding her breath.
‘During the autopsy it was established that she’d been dead for several days. She was wearing the same clothes that are mentioned in the missing persons report you filed at the Guardia Civil barracks the day she disappeared.’
‘I knew it,’ she muttered, looking at Padua with an expression that wasn’t as reproachful as might have been expected. Amaia was afraid she was going to start crying. Instead, she looked at Amaia again and asked, ‘Did he rape her?’
‘Everything would suggest that she suffered a sexual assault.’
Inés pursed her lips in a gesture of private self-control.
‘It was him,’ she declared.
‘Who do you think it was?’ enquired Amaia.
Inés turned to look at the little girl, who had knelt up on the chair and was half lying on the table as she drew, partly hidden by the sculpture. Her mother looked at Amaia.
The Invisible Guardian Page 22
