Exotic #02 - The Hieroglyphic Staircase

by Marjorie Thelen

“Hola, Leyla. Have you left me anything to eat?” He always asked but he knew she would have prepared something for him.

  “Sí, señor, verdura, arroz, frijol y carne,” she said as she lifted lids on the stove to show him.

  “Gracias.”

  He asked her to prepare coffee before she left which she agreeably did and served them. The inspector helped himself to sugar for his coffee. They sat facing each other in heavy dark wood chairs, carved Honduran style with Mayan heads, flowers, and village houses in low relief. Yellow cushions mitigated the hardness of the seat. A carved coffee table matched the chairs and supported a tray of coffee and shortbread cookies of the kind sold in plastic wrap in the small stores that peppered every street in Copan Ruinas.

  “Tell me,” said the inspector, “about the child who came to the clinic to fetch the doctor. No one has seen him since the murder. I regret the late hour, but you understand that a murder is very serious for our town. Such things do not happen here. It is bad for the tourist business.”

  Dominic leaned back in the chair. “Dr. Hidalgo says the child’s name is Flaco. He lives under the bridge on the road to the Archaeological Park.”

  The inspector’s black eyebrows pushed high into his broad forehead. “I know of this band of boys. So it was one of those.”

  “Yes, the child was near hysteria when he came running into the clinic.”

  “I need to find him. I have not had a chance to question the doctor, but I will see him as soon as we finish.”

  So much for Dr. Hidalgo’s restful evening.

  “This doctora Palomares. What do you know of her?”

  So they came to the main reason for this evening’s visit. Dominic shrugged, wanting to appear as nonchalant as possible. “Like I told you earlier, I first met her last night at the clinic party. This morning I brought her back to town. I tried to help her get through a traumatic experience.”

  “I see. She’s very pretty, don’t you agree?”

  Dominic smiled inwardly. What was the inspector up to? “She is. And she appears intelligent, honest, bright, and cooperative.”

  “I see,” said the inspector. He refused the offer of a second cup of coffee. “I still have much to do before I can go home to my family.”

  Dominic showed him to the door and watched the inspector drive off, concerned about the man’s probing questions about Elena. To consider her a suspect was ludicrous. Dominic didn’t know her well, but from his years of pastoral counseling, he knew when someone was lying. Elena wasn’t lying, and he was going to prove it. Something told him he should find Flaco before the inspector did.

  * * * * *

  Elena arrived at the morgue the next morning, sleep deprived and in bad humor. Even after three cups of doña Carolita’s espresso, she was unable to clear the fog that engulfed her head. After hours of tossing and turning, she had taken the sedative, then had been unable to wake up when the alarm rang at 5:00 A.M.

  She had every intention of going to the Archaeological Park early that morning to get the workers back on track. But she hit the alarm so hard it fell off the night stand, and she had gone back to sleep. Doña Carolita had awakened her around seven. The day was off to a bad start. Plus she’d have to identify a dead body. She hoped they had closed his eyes.

  They had. The man lay in repose, his wound no longer visible, as he was face up on a metal table on wheels. He didn’t look like the same man. Maybe they had switched the body. But the medical assistant assured her that he was the same and showed her the wound, which had been cleaned. Elena was glad she had passed on breakfast. The assistant seemed particularly fascinated with the wound.

  “I have never seen such a wound. I myself cleaned it. Here, look, you can see….”

  Elena interrupted him before she became ill, and the smell of formaldehyde in the lab overpowered her. She preferred an archaeological dig with shriveled ancient skeletons, if any.

  “Thank you,” she said, “but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Are there papers to sign?”

  “Yes. Here they are. Personally, I believe the instrument used was not a steel axe. I think it was axe-like but with a dull blade. An axe with a steel blade would have….”

  Elena interrupted him again. “What do you mean? Where would a duller axe come from?”

  “From the indios in the villages. They still use the old Mayan style axe made from stone, or it could have come from the Museum. Mayan warriors made good use of axes in warfare.”

  She leaned closer and examined the wound, curiosity winning out over queasy stomach. Thoughtfully, she said, “If I come across such a weapon in the Mayan arsenal, I’ll let you know.”

  Inspector Oliveros came in as she was signing the forms that said she was sure the dead body was the same man she had discovered yesterday morning at the Temple of Inscriptions.

  “Thank you for coming,” said the inspector. “Is there anything more you remember that might help our investigation?”

  “No, inspector, I have told you everything I can remember.”

  “I have been searching for the little boy that was with the doctor, but I have been unable to find him. His friends have not seen him. Please, if you find him, tell him to come to the police station.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, thinking the last place that young boy would want to be was near the police. Saying goodbye, she left.

  A three-wheeled open-air taxi cruised by, the driver honking his horn. She flagged him down for a ride to the Archaeological Park. She was on her way to see the director, a visit she did not relish. She found him in his office at the Museum and entered unannounced, as the receptionist seemed to be on coffee break.

  His appearance shocked her. His hair, normally slicked back, fell over his forehead. He wore a ripped T-shirt and tan shorts, the kind with pockets on the legs. They were torn and dirty, like he had been rolling in the dirt, uncharacteristic of his normally fastidious exterior. He was in a state of great agitation, flipping through a large stack of papers on his otherwise immaculate desk.

  She cleared her throat, and his head jerked up. He seemed surprised that anyone should interrupt his frenzy.

  “I gave you the day off,” he said with a scowl. “What are you doing here?”

  He remained in a half-crouched pose over the papers, his head in an upraised twist.

  “Excuse me, director, but I assumed I would report to work this morning after I visited the morgue to identify the body. I tried to come early this morning to help the workmen get started on the Staircase, but I overslept. I’m sorry. I plan to work longer this evening.”

  She hoped she sounded sufficiently contrite. On the other hand maybe she sounded too subservient. She never seemed to be able to strike the right balance with this man.

  He straightened slowly and smoothed back the hair that had fallen in his red-rimmed eyes. He must not have slept well either.

  “I see,” he said. “It is better you didn’t come early.” He stopped like he was unable to continue or had started a line of thought he no longer wanted to pursue. “I’ve been doing some investigative work myself, you see.” His hand swept his untidy person.

  Elena nodded, still perplexed over his changed demeanor and his state of agitation.

  He set about tidying the stack of papers, trying to bring them back to order. He looked at her.

  “You don’t have to watch me, doctora, I am perfectly capable of arranging things. Please, take the rest of the day off. I think it will be best for you. This is nasty business, and you do not look well.”

  She could almost feel him give her a patronizing pat on the head. She struggled to keep the lid on her temper. In her best neutral voice she said, “No, director, I like to keep busy. I need to get back to work. It will help me sleep better, I assure you.”

  She turned to leave before she said anything to regret.

  “No,” he said and hobbled toward her. “You will not go to the Staircase today.” He looked around the room as if searching for the reason why she
shouldn’t go. “It is too dangerous.”

  “Too dangerous? Surely you don’t think the murderer is still lurking around here?”

  His eyebrows struggled to convey his meaning. “We do not know, do we? Until the police come to some conclusion about what happened and until we solve who is taking the hieroglyphs, I am shutting down the project you work on. Talk to your department head in the United States about working somewhere else.”

  “Shut down the project? But I have invested so much time and effort in this, and the workmen, who will pay them? They depend upon this work for their livelihood.”

  He ignored their plight, her work, her future. “Do not trouble yourself about the workmen. I will shift them to another project. Now contact your university, advise them of the problem, and make arrangements to leave. Yes, that will be the best course of action.” He spoke as if he had just come up with the whole scheme and had convinced himself of its merit.

  “But….” said Elena.

  He waved her quiet. “No, listen to me. It is too dangerous to continue with the study of the hieroglyphs. You must leave for your own safety. We do not know the motivations of this madman who has killed or stolen the hieroglyphs or,” and his eyes got bigger and whiter, “there may be more than one, maybe a gang of thieves and murderers. You must go.”

  Elena couldn’t figure the guy out. He was not making sense. But she relented. “I’ll call Dr. Roulade to inform her of the circumstances. I did email her but I haven’t heard back. I’ll try to phone her.”

  “Yes, do that. Now if you will excuse me, I have much to do.” He stood guard over his stack of papers, and Elena had no recourse but to leave.

  Outside the Museum she did not turn toward town. Rather she walked toward the pyramids. She wanted to visit the Hieroglyphic Staircase to see if it would yield any more secrets. She wanted to do a little investigating of her own.

  Five

  Dominic pulled the Jeep to the side of the road onto a turnaround just before the bridge. He was on a mission to find Flaco. He awakened that morning with the boy on his mind. After a shower and a quick cup of coffee, he hopped in the Jeep and headed for the bridge. Maybe at this early hour he might find the boys there.

  He parked and slid down a grassy slope to the creek that flowed in fits and starts around islands of mud and debris. The early morning breeze carried the odor of garbage and stale urine. Under the bridge close to the cement supports lay pieces of cardboard carton that the boys slept on. Bits of broken toys dotted the ground. A solitary boy lay on a piece of cardboard, clutching his stomach, eyes mere slits as he watched Dominic approach.

  “Hola, muchacho,” said Dominic, “have you seen Flaco?”

  “No, señor,” said the boy in a weak voice. He was about six or seven, maybe older. “I haven’t seen him. He did not sleep here last night.”

  “Does he usually?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “Just a tummy upset,” said the boy.

  Dominic crouched beside him and felt his head. He was hot with fever. These children ate anything they could find and drank water from the stream.

  “What is your name?” asked Dominic.

  “They call me Gordo,” said the boy whose face and body were anything but fat.

  “Will you come with me to the clinic so we can help you with your tummy upset?”

  The child shook his head. “I will be all right. I just rest when this happens. The others will bring me food later. Right now I don’t feel like eating.”

  Dominic knew these boys distrusted people in general. They had little schooling, and their world was limited to what blew into their young lives.

  “Tell you what,” said Dominic. “If you come with me, I’ll take you to see our new medical clinic. The nice lady there can give you a teeny, tiny pill for your tummy upset, and a little hot tea that will settle it. Then maybe you can help me look for Flaco. I am concerned no one has seen him.”

  The child looked at Dominic, the whites of his eyes were yellow and the lids drooped. He was in worse shape than he let on. He seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of trusting a big, white man who spoke Spanish with an Anglo accent.

  “Okay,” he said. “But I can’t walk so good.”

  “No problem,” said Dominic. He lifted him from the dirty cardboard before the child could change his mind and almost choked on the smell. The boy had been laying in his own filth. Dominic placed Gordo on the back seat of the Jeep on a sheet of canvas he kept there.

  Lord God Almighty, why children? They are the innocents. What had this child done to deserve a life like this? The Catholic parish helped these youngsters. The Evangelists, who were relatively new on the scene, had an outreach center, the Episcopalians had a mission. But in a country as poor as Honduras, there were so many children like Gordo, it was hard to keep up. They appeared out of nowhere and disappeared into the same place. Maybe that had happened to Flaco, maybe he had just disappeared. But the disturbing fact was he had disappeared the same day a murder had occurred at Copan.

  * * * * *

  Elena sat behind a clump of bushes and watched the guard standing by the Hieroglyphic Staircase. He had told her no one was allowed in. She’d wait till he left. Even though he knew her and knew who she was and what she did, it had not moved him. The director had said to admit no one. He had been emphatic about the order.

  She considered bribing the slender man whose eyes would not meet hers, but that went against her principles. She might have to bend her principles later, but for now she didn’t offer him any incentive.

  The entire area around the Staircase, Ball Court and Temple of Inscriptions had been roped off, closed to everyone including tourists, workers and archaeologists. Behind the Temple was the West Court where she had found the man with the staring eyes. That too was roped off and guarded.

  Elena had climbed through the brush to the East Court and sat with her binoculars, screened by bushes and a grouping of perfectly fitted stones. She couldn’t be seen by the guards, but from her high vantage point, she could see everything in the courtyard. She took off the canvas hat and fanned her face. Madre mia, it was hot and close. She wondered how long the guards would stay. Maybe all night. That would be unfortunate.

  She had searched for the missing boy, combing the wooded nature trail adjacent to the main ruins in the Park, where ceiba, strangler fig and the chichicaste thorn shrub grew. She was careful not to touch the thorns because they produced a nasty sting. She searched along a dry stream bed and as far as the river bed that used to cut close to the East Court before it was rerouted so it could do no further damage to the stonework of the ancient temples.

  She had found no trace of the boy. He must have gone into hiding. A growing feeling of apprehension crept through her insides like a sneaky jungle vine. The theft of the stones was bad, murder worse, the director was acting funny, and the little kid was gone. What was going on? Why had he disappeared?

  The police inspector saw her as an easy solution to his problem. News of the murder was on national television. He needed to keep a cap on bad news, and if she were the culprit, case closed. He’d be the hero. She had seen lines at the bus station and a special charter bus to take away tourists, unnerved by the murder. Until the murder was solved, people would live in fear. The only recourse was to solve the murder herself and clear her name. In the process, she’d probably find out who took the stone hieroglyphs.

  The guards were talking, the ones by the Staircase. Two more guarded the area where the body had been found. They started walking away. What luck. They stopped to examine something. Move, move along. She hardly dared believe they were leaving. Maybe they were taking a dinner break.

  She wanted to examine the site. She wanted to look for what the inspector had missed, because she was sure he had missed something. Maybe something that the child had seen and that’s why he had disappeared.

  The guards lit cigarettes.

  Move on, move o
n.

  They resumed walking, as if hearing Elena’s command, and they soon disappeared around the bend that led to the main path. Good. Now she could look. It would have to be fast because the sun was low on the horizon, and she didn’t know when the guards would return. Careful as a cat stalking a bird, she stood and peered about, using binoculars. After a thorough sweep of the stones of the pyramids, steps, courtyard, overhang of trees, bushes, even out to the river bank, she was satisfied that she was the only one left standing. Out into the open she stepped, hurrying to the place on the pathway where she had found the man. The inspector had not mentioned having found any identification. Had this man been walking in the Park without any?

  She circled the site, calling up the mental image of how she had found the man, lying with his head in that odd, twisted position, staring at nothing. Where had he been going? Up the path to the top of the pyramid, it would seem. But why? What motivated him? Was he trying to steal the hieroglyphs? Why come this way when the Staircase was on the other side of the Temple? Surely, he wasn’t going to the top of the pyramid to enjoy the view.

  The crowd of people who had gathered round the body had trampled the grass and small shrubs. A dark circle still remained on the path. Someone had tried to erase the stain with fine gravel but a faint outline persisted. Elena gazed in circles, not sure what she was searching for. She was operating on a hunch that the place hadn’t given up all its secrets. It was like searching for clues in the hieroglyphs that would give meaning to the text. What piece of the images would provide a link to the next? Why were certain flowers, heads juxtaposed? The expression on the face, the shape of the bulbous eyes, the wide, prominent noses, the. …

  The bulbous eyes. She came back to the eyes. Was the man staring at something, instead of nothing as she had thought? She stood where the body had lain. Looking around first to make sure the guards hadn’t returned, she lay down as she remembered he had, trying to see, to look in the direction he had stared. A chill breeze brushed her neck. She jerked around. There was nothing there. Through sheer force of will she remained in prone position, gazing in the direction he had. Had someone been standing up there, had he seen something? Had another person come from behind and swung an axe? She couldn’t be sure but he may have been looking toward the top of the Temple.