Exotic #02 - The Hieroglyphic Staircase

by Marjorie Thelen

  Two policemen in dark blue uniforms alighted. The taller one nodded.

  “Buenos días,” he said. “I am inspector Oliveros. What happened here?”

  “There’s been a horrible accident,” said Elena. “A man lies dead over there behind the Temple.” She pointed in the direction of the huddle of people gathered around the body and gave a brief sketch of the morning’s tragedy.

  “You say you found the body?” asked the inspector.

  Elena nodded.

  “Please will you accompany us to the site?” He indicated with a gesture of his hand that Elena should lead the way.

  The group of onlookers parted to allow the police to examine the body. Dominic stayed close to Elena. More people arrived -- the curious, those drawn to stare at the abnormal and macabre. The police took the list of names and asked the guard, Elena, the doctor, Corazón and the onlookers more questions.

  On orders from the inspector, the park guard started taping off the site and ordering people to leave if they were not directly involved. Elena took a seat on a large hewn stone by the path. Dominic sat beside her. In silence they watched the proceedings. He was having trouble coming up with words of comfort, which was unusual for a man with experience in comforting others. But he no longer felt like a priest. That was in the past and far away from the site of this murder. He could not call on his faith. He had none.

  Elena sat up straighter and peered off toward the entrance to the Park. Dominic followed her gaze and saw an odd-gaited figure coming at what, for him, might be a run. A limp in his left leg gave his effort a rolling appearance. His jacket flapped in the breeze he created, because none existed that day in the Archaeological Park.

  “It’s the director,” said Elena. “He has a crippled leg. That’s odd. Why is he on foot? Why wouldn’t he come in the Museum van?”

  They stood to get a better view. The heat was taking a toll on the man. Dominic could see he was laboring for breath. He looked like he might be the second victim of the morning.

  Elena walked toward him and Dominic followed, curious to meet the man who didn’t like this bright, beautiful woman. It was evident by the director’s contorted face that he was either in a great deal of pain or he was very angry about something, maybe both.

  “Director, have you heard what happened?” said Elena.

  “Of course, I have heard, but not from you. Why have you not informed me?” His brown complexion had taken on the rosy hue of exertion and indignation.

  “I found the body. The police would not allow me to leave.” Elena’s jaw set in a line as hard as the lines in the stone pyramid.

  “What body?” asked the director, who had stopped before Elena.

  “Someone was murdered. I found him on the way to work this morning.”

  “Who?”

  “We don’t know. Someone outside of the area, judging by his clothes. The police are collecting evidence now.”

  “How did it happen? Did you use any of your analytical skills to assess what might have happened?”

  “My skill is deciphering ancient text, not in reading the evidence in a crime scene.”

  Dominic could hear the irrational argument building between them and interjected. “We should see if the police need Elena anymore, and then perhaps I could drive her to town. She has been through hell this morning, sir, and needs to rest.”

  The director turned slowly, stiffly, taking hobbling steps with one leg and using the other as a pivot. “Who are you?” he asked without the slightest hint of social amenity.

  His rudeness surprised Dominic, who was used to sunny, Honduran graciousness and hospitality. With a friendly voice he introduced himself, explaining about the clinic and his work there.

  “I see, señor Harte,” the director said, his tone more conciliatory. “Then I need to thank you for helping doctora Palomares. This event has us all upset.” He turned to Elena. “Doctora, you should rest. I will see what is to be done. I am sorry you had to be involved in this terrible event.”

  Dominic took Elena’s arm before astonishment had a chance to register on her face. With a firm grasp on her elbow, he pushed her ahead of him before she could say anything else and steered her to the police to see if they could leave.

  “Sí,” the inspector said. “You may go now, doctora. I will come later to interview you. By then you will have had time to recover, and the events of this morning will be clearer.”

  “I’m staying at doña Carolita’s. You’ll find me there.”

  Dominic led the way to the Jeep and helped Elena into the front passenger seat.

  “I can’t believe that miserable man was nice to you. I didn’t know he had it in him,” she said, as they drove across the Park toward the exit.

  Dominic glanced over. Her jaw was still set in a tight line, her eyes straight ahead. She fumbled in her vest pocket, pulled out a cigarette and lit up.

  “I only do this when I’m really upset,” she said. She blew out a long plume of smoke to underscore her pronouncement.

  Dominic smiled. “Whatever it takes. I was surprised as you by the director’s sudden change of attitude. It might have something to do with his wife. She does volunteer work at the clinic. I know her pretty well. A nicer person you couldn’t find.”

  “You’re kidding?” Elena said, turning to look at him. “A nice person married to that horrid man?”

  Dominic shrugged. “It’s a mystery. Would a cup of coffee at the tourist center restaurant help?”

  Elena shook her head. “If you don’t mind, would you drop me at doña Carolita’s? I’m not feeling well at all.”

  “Sure. I’ll bring the doctor by later to give you something. You’ve had one helluva morning.”

  * * * * *

  Inspector Oliveros arrived while Elena was resting in the room that she rented for her summer stay in the town of Copan Ruinas. Doña Carolita, a widow who took in boarders, showed him to the small living room furnished with plastic covered chairs. Not a mote of dust was evident on the gleaming terrazzo floors. Pink and yellow plastic flowers bloomed on a wall table under a colorful picture of the Virgin of Suyapa, the patron saint of Honduras.

  Lying on her bed, Elena had been drifting in and out of a dream state filled with ghostly images twisting around pyramid shaped objects. The knock on the door startled her.

  “Doctora,” doña Carolita said in a hushed whisper, standing at the end of the bed. “It is the police inspector to see you. Do you feel well enough to see him or should I ask him to come back later?

  “No, I’ll see him. Will you bring us some coffee? Maybe it will help my headache.”

  “Sí, cómo no, hijita,” doña Carolita said, expressing her affection for Elena with the diminutive name of daughter.

  Elena ran a brush through her hair, downed a few aspirins she fished out of a vest pocket and slipped into a pair of sandals.

  The inspector rose when Elena entered the living room.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “Not at all, doctora, it is I who am sorry to disturb you. This has been a trying day, but I have some important questions to ask.”

  “Sí, sí. I will help in any way I can,” said Elena, sitting down across from him.

  The inspector hardly looked ruffled from a morning spent at the scene of a crime. His short sleeved uniform shirt was neatly pressed. His unlined face no doubt belied his age. People of Mayan descent often looked younger than they were.

  Doña Carolita arrived with two mugs of café con leche and a small plate of vanilla sandwich cookies on a tray, which she left on the carved Honduran coffee table between them.

  “Gracias,” said Elena. She helped herself to a mug.

  “Would you, doctora, go over finding the man in as much detail as possible?” The inspector settled back into the seat with his mug of coffee and a cookie to munch on.

  As Elena recounted her story, he interrupted with polite questions from time to time and made notes on a small, spiral ring pad
he had pulled from his shirt pocket. He had a funny way of squinting one eye when he spoke that made her feel like he was skeptical of everything she said. Or maybe she was being paranoid.

  “Did the director mention the theft of the artifacts?” she asked.

  “Sí, sí,” said inspector Oliveros. “But, please, tell me what you know as you are the one who is studying the hieroglyphs, no?”

  “Yes. That’s right. Three have disappeared so far. The latest was yesterday. It was gone when I arrived at the site.”

  “What time was that, doctora?”

  “I arrived about 7:00 A.M. my usual time.”

  “And this morning?”

  “I arrived about 6:00 A.M. I came earlier as the director asked me to watch the site until extra guards from Tegucigalpa could arrive. I wanted to be on site before the workers.”

  “Had the night guard already left?”

  “He was at the front gate as I came in, getting ready to leave.”

  “Did he say anything unusual to you?”

  Elena shrugged, trying to remember, but she had detected nothing out of the ordinary. “No, he wished me a pleasant day, as is his custom.”

  “Do you normally go to the Hieroglyphic Staircase by way of the back of the Temple of Inscriptions?” His squint deepened and his tone took on a sharp edge that Elena didn’t like. Her headache made it difficult to think, and the inspector’s squint and tone was grating like fingernails across a blackboard.

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t usually go that way. But the morning was lovely, and I wanted to see the view from the top of the temple without climbing the narrow stairs in front. The back path is easier. The man I found must have thought so, too.”

  “Do you have any idea why someone might use that back path?”

  “The obvious answer would be the thief who was stealing the glyphs.”

  “Describe for me how the victim looked when you found him. Do not leave out any details, no matter how trivial they may seem.”

  Elena tried to see the scene again in her mind, tried to filter out all her judgments of the horror of the dead man, tried to see the scene as a scientist. How exactly had it looked?

  “I remember I was thinking about the theft of the hieroglyphs. I had my head down, watching the trail because that part of the path is rough with loose stones and bumps from the tree roots. First, I saw the feet.” She thought of the odd, laid-over angle of the ankles and how large the shoes looked.

  “I thought, why would anyone leave their running shoes on the path? I stopped and got that queer feeling people talk about when they say the hair stands up on the back of their necks. I knew something wasn’t right. Then I connected the feet with the rest of the body, and I thought, oh, someone’s sleeping here.

  “I turned to the right and took a step to go around the body because I didn’t want to disturb him. But I stopped. It was the way, I think, that his head was turned on his cheek. It was at an odd angle, lifted a little too high, his chin pointed up, because I remember his Adam’s apple protruded sharply.

  “Then I saw the back of his head, the matted hair, the blood. I screamed, but he didn’t wake up.”

  She paused, feeling her professional detachment slipping away. Her own reaction had surprised her. She could feel the screams reverberating through her body. She remembered covering her mouth and whimpering with hysteria, trying to find someone to help. This she did not share with the inspector. This was her own private horror.

  The inspector’s eyes were on her, watching her face. She took a deep breath and continued.

  “I kept calling for help, I don’t remember how many times. I ran to the top of the pyramid and screamed for someone to help until the two workers who come every morning to help at my work site came into view. I waved to them and told them what I had found. But they were scared. They said it was unlucky to find a dead person. They hung back. So I told them to go for the guard and the director for help. I stayed at the site by myself.”

  “How long before help came?” The inspector scribbled on his notepad.

  “The guard, it was the one who was on duty at night, came within maybe ten minutes. He checked the body for pulse and found none. He said the man was cold.”

  The inspector nodded his head. “We estimate the time of death around midnight. An unusual time to be viewing the pyramids, no?” he observed with a sudden grin that reminded Elena of the Joker in Batman, a smile that wasn’t sincere or real. She didn’t laugh at the man’s sudden turn of humor.

  He continued on, watching her unsmiling face. “What else did you notice?”

  Elena told him about the eyes and how the man was dressed. How he looked too neat to be lying dead on a footpath. “He wasn’t very mussed up,” she said, “like there had been no struggle. Like someone was waiting for him who knew he’d be on that path.”

  “Maybe someone he knew?” asked the inspector.

  “Maybe.”

  “But no one knows this man. We have found no one who knows who he is. A very strange detail, don’t you think, in a town this small where everyone knows everyone else, down to the intimate details of their lives? Are you sure you never saw this man before?”

  Elena’s expression would have been at home in a high stakes poker game, but anger was brewing inside like a geyser coming to blow.

  “What exactly are you asking?”

  Did he really think she was in cahoots with the murdered man? Was it because she was a stranger? A foreigner?

  He shrugged one shoulder. “The director said your credentials are good. He personally talked to your superior. Forgive me, but we can leave no stone unturned. Would you give me the phone number and name of your superior so I can speak with him?”

  “Her,” Elena said, trying to sound professional, holding in her fury. The man was doing his job. She had never been privy to a murder investigation. She had to remain calm. But no one was going to frame her for something she didn’t do.

  “Of course, I’ll give you her name, phone number, email address. I sent her an email, but she hasn’t responded.”

  He turned his notepad on the coffee table in Elena’s direction, and she wrote down the information.

  “Thank you for your cooperation.” The inspector stood, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in his shirt. “I must ask you to come to the morgue to sign some papers and identify the body. Would tomorrow morning be convenient?”

  The morgue was the last place she wanted to be in the morning.

  Three

  At the mid-day meal, which in the small town of Copan Ruinas was served between two and four when shops closed, doña Carolita fussed over Elena with dishes of shredded beef with picante sauce, rice, beans, and a salad of fresh vegetables.

  “You must eat, doctora, to keep up your strength.” She wrung the dish towel in her hands. “This murder is terrible, terrible. We never have problems like this in Copan Ruinas.”

  Elena pushed food around her plate and resigned her fork to the table. “Don’t worry, doña Carolita, everything will be all right, I’m sure.”

  “I am not so sure,” she said in a loud voice, for doña Carolita was a woman of strong opinion and a little hard of hearing. “It is the influence of the city and the hooligans, come to infest our town with their vermin. Ay, qué horror.” She threw up her hands and marched from the room.

  Elena drifted to the patio off her bedroom to sit in the cool afternoon shade. She felt ancient, like she had done battle with dragons. First, it had been her prickly relationship with the director, then the thefts. Now a murder, plus the horrible scene with the director in front of Dominic. Then the inspector insinuating that maybe she knew the man who was murdered better than she let on.

  She had had such high hopes for this project.

  She lit a cigarette from a pack lying on the small wrought iron stand beside the matching garden chair. She inhaled deeply and let the nice, addictive nicotine send calming waves into her bloodstream. Someday she’d give up this
disgusting habit, but right now it was pretty darned comforting.

  Doña Carolita brought her a small cup of strong, black espresso and left without a word. Elena was grateful for the woman’s quiet attention to her needs and respect for her space. Water splashed delicate circles in a blue and white ceramic tile fountain. Bird of paradise in red clay pots ringed the fountain and gold bougainvillea spilled over white-washed walls.

  The peacefulness of the setting settled into Elena’s soul and brought respite from the day’s events. She watched the antics of Carolita’s cockatiel that sat on his daytime perch and whistled selected bars from the song La cucaracha. He peered at her with one eye, as if to divine what was going on in her head.

  He wouldn’t want to know, thought Elena. Her mind kept playing in endless detail the scene of discovering the body and those sightless, bulging eyes. They stared, lifeless … surprised.

  Surprise. That was what she was trying to put her finger on. The surprise in those lifeless eyes. Was he surprised because he was alone and had not expected an attack from behind? Or was it because he had met someone there, someone he knew, and when he turned away the person had delivered the fatal blow?

  She shuddered. What deception had taken place there? Where could she look that she would not see those eyes? Why was it that the mind persisted in automatic replay of those things one wanted most to forget? Dr. Hidalgo had dropped off a sedative that she hadn’t taken. She might, if her mind didn’t soon let up. Who could have done this terrible thing? Was there a connection between the murder and the thefts? It seemed too coincidental to overlook.

  She rubbed her forehead. Rest wasn’t an option. Her mind was in overdrive, and the muscles in her back were in knots. She rotated her neck to try to loosen them. Maybe if she went for a walk, talked to someone. But she didn’t know many people, and the young girls who had befriended her from the Spanish language school wouldn’t be suitable. The team from Harvard that she had met when she first arrived had gone farther inland to investigate a remote site.