by Carmen Amato
Emilia nearly choked on a bite. “Mama, we’ve been over this before,” she said after getting the food down. “Kurt is not a boy from school. He’s grown. I’m grown. We like to spend time together on the weekends when we’re not working. If you ever need me, I’m only a phone call away.”
“What about your homework?” Sophia looked disapprovingly at her daughter.
“Mama, you’re not listening to me. Again.” Emilia threw down her fork and it rang against the thick pottery plate. “I’m not in school. I have a job.”
“I’m a mother worried about her daughter,” Sophia said. Her eyes filled. “You missed church.”
Emilia mentally counted to ten. Some days Sophia remembered everything Emilia told her. Other days, like today, her mother was stuck in the past and arguing only led to tears.
“You’re right, Mama.” Emilia took her plate to the sink. Experience told her to surrender to the inevitable. “I’ll go talk to Padre Ricardo. Right now.”
“That’s my good girl,” Sophia said with a watery smile.
“You don’t need to worry, Mama.” Emilia came back to her mother at the table. She’d known it was going to be difficult to balance life with Kurt with her mother’s needs, and days like this were a painful reminder. Emilia leaned down to give Sophia an awkward hug and kissed the top of her mother’s head. “We’re all fine.”
☼
Padre Ricardo took off his reading glasses and replaced the last letter in its glassine envelope. It was written on heavy linen stationary, foxed with age at the edges.
“What do you think?” Emilia asked. There was a cup of his famously tasteless chamomile tea in front of her on the kitchen table in the rectory.
Over the years, the church of San Pedro de los Pinos had become her second home and Padre Ricardo Suarez the closest thing to a father that she’d ever had. More than once she’d consulted him on an ethical dilemma relating to an investigation. Seemingly ageless, he wore faded guayabera shirts and dark cotton pants as he organized neighborhood social events, children’s religious instructions, holy day pageants, women’s groups, and fatherhood lessons, all with the energy level of a teen.
A few months ago he’d asked her to look for a girl missing from their neighborhood. It was a case that Emilia wished could have had a better ending. Any ending, actually. But her efforts had been an inconclusive disaster and the 16-year-old girl, Lila Jimenez Lata, was now just another name and picture in a big binder of missing women Emilia kept in the bottom of her desk drawer at work.
“I don’t think it’s as simple as the letters would have us believe, Emilia.” The priest passed the four envelopes back to her.
“But it’s all there.” Emilia put them back in the drawer of the enameled box. “It’s why Padre Pro’s finger never decayed.”
The glass-encased relic sat next to its protective box in the bright circle on the tabletop thrown down by the kitchen’s pendant light. The index finger pointed up, mounted like a trophy to the wooden base. The skin around the knuckle was wrinkled, the nail was short and blunt, and the general effect was of a small sculpture made out of sweet brown piloncillo sugar.
“The soldiers’ uniforms are all wrong in the picture, you know,” Padre Ricardo said. He turned the glass box so that the dramatic print affixed to the back panel was angled toward them.
“Probably for effect,” Emilia reasoned.
The priest got up and peered in Emilia’s cup. “Don’t you need more tea?”
“No, this is enough for me, thanks.” Emilia sipped at the vaguely flavored warm water.
Padre Ricardo moved out of range of the light over the table. “The uniforms in the picture aren’t the uniforms the army wore in the 1920’s.” His face was lit for a moment by the bright blue flame of the gas stove but fell into shadow again as he placed the kettle on the hob. “Padre Pro didn’t die wearing a cassock, either. He had on a suit and a checkered vest. Practicing the Sacraments was illegal. Anyone wearing a roman collar or a cassock would be arrested as a matter of course.”
“A fanciful drawing doesn’t mean it isn’t his real finger,” Emilia said.
Padre Ricardo made himself a mug of tea with the same used teabag that had flavored Emilia’s mug. He put the mug on the table and left the kitchen. A light went on in the living room and Emilia heard him muttering to himself. He returned carrying a thick leather scrapbook.
He put it on the table and opened it. Emilia caught a glimpse of some faded newspaper articles glued to the thick pages.
“Il Papa Juan Pablo II came to Mexico City in September 1988,” he said. “You’re too young to remember, but that’s when the Vatican beatified Padre Pro as a martyr of the Catholic Church.”
“The first step to becoming a saint,” Emilia said.
“I was a seminarian in Mexico City then.” Padre Ricardo flipped a page and ran his finger across an article with a picture of people standing in front of a blocky tomb. “It was quite unforgettable. As part of the beatification procedure, the body was exhumed.”
“As in, dug up?” Emilia asked, remembering Silvio’s mocking promise.
Padre Ricardo nodded. “Padre Pro was executed in 1927 along with his brother Humberto. His body was taken by ambulance to the hospital and then to the Pro home where the two brothers were laid out. People came to the Pro home throughout the night. The next day, thousands attended the funeral. Five hundred cars in the processional. Thousands and thousands walking with the bodies to the cemetery. The brothers were buried in Mexico City.”
Emilia opened her mouth but Padre Ricardo held up his hand and continued. “When the body was exhumed, no one said anything about missing body parts. His remains are now in a reliquary in the church of the Holy Family in Mexico City.”
He flipped another page and shifted the scrapbook so that Emilia could see a newspaper photograph. Two slender marble columns flanked a portrait of a serious young man with an oval face and big eyes. Below it, a large silver coffer, topped by a cross, sat on a marble altar. The silver box looked solid and heavy . . . and small.
“That’s where his remains are? Emilia asked. “It’s not big enough.”
“It’s a reliquary, Emilia. Not a coffin.”
Emilia kept staring at the picture, trying to make the scene fit her hopes. “That means his body wasn’t intact when they exhumed it. Otherwise they would have put it on display. Or at least kept it in a coffin.”
“The only thing we can say for sure is that the reliquary contains his remains,” Padre Ricardo said. “The Vatican beatification process is very thorough.”
“That doesn’t mean that the letter is wrong,” Emilia insisted. She opened the drawer and took out the letters again. The oldest one supposedly verified how the finger had been preserved. “You said that his body was taken home after the execution. That’s how his mother was able to save the finger. It’s right here in the letter.”
“It’s a little known fact,” Padre Ricardo said sadly. “Padre Pro’s mother passed away while he was a seminarian in Belgium.”
Emilia left the letters on the table. She got up and brought her mug to the sink, where the light wasn’t so bright. Tears pricked the back of her eyes as she slowly poured out what was left of the tepid grass-flavored water. “So Kurt was right,” she said at length. “Silvio was right. It’s a fake.”
“Isn’t there some way to tell?” Padre Ricardo asked. “DNA testing? Can they find out how old it might be? Perhaps, if it’s the right age, you could petition to have the reliquary opened and do comparison testing.”
“Yes.” Emilia came back to the table. She didn’t look at the priest as she packed the relic and letters into the blue enamel box. “There are tests.”
Chapter 5
“We got a problem,” Silvio announced as Emilia slung her shoulder bag on top of her desk Tuesday morning.
“Besides . . .?” Emilia cut her eyes to Flores.
The young man was sitting at the desk she’d directed him to las
t night before leaving. The screen was lit and he was following the prompts to gain access to the police intranet. He had on another expensive suit, this time with a navy shirt, striped tie, and a heavy gold tie pin. The combination made him look like an advertisement for an Italian clothing designer. She made a mental note to ask if he had a pair of jeans.
Silvio snapped his fingers to get Emilia’s attention again. “Customs is giving me the run-around.”
“Like you expected bureaucratic excellence from them?” Emilia unlocked her desk’s deep file drawer and dropped her shoulder bag on top of the binder full of records of missing women. She called them Las Perdidas—the Lost Ones. Lila Jimenez Lata had been the 43rd entry in the binder. Emilia had only ever found one of the missing women.
“I called Customs for their work schedule,” Silvio said. “We’ll need to talk to everybody on duty Sunday night. Got referred to”—he checked a scrap of paper on his desk—“Irma Gonzalez Perot.”
“So?”
“She’s the head of Human Resources for the region. Secretary said I had to make a fucking appointment.”
“Give it to me. I’ll follow up.” Emilia dug out her notebook and scribbled down the information he gave her. “Think we can get a few more uniforms today?”
“I called,” Silvio said. “A team will be there mid-morning.”
He could be a major pain, but Silvio was an excellent investigator. He knew the right people to call, and never wasted time. Emilia flipped her notebook closed and leaned over her desk. “We’re going to have to take Flores with us,” she whispered. “We can’t leave him here. Castro and Gomez will steal his wallet and lock him in a closet.”
“Rayos,” Silvio muttered. He darted a glance at Flores, whose head was bobbing gently to whatever tune was playing in his headphones. “You can introduce Flores to the wonders of the morgue, see what Prade has on our victim. I’ll go over to the ship, finish the search, start asking questions around the dock.”
“Take the kid to the morgue on his first day?” Tougher-looking men than Flores had slumped to the tiles the first time they saw an autopsied body.
“Take smelling salts or whatever they use now when girls faint.”
“Why can’t Flores go with you?” Emilia whispered. “If the zombie brothers are all the help we’re going to get on this case, you can use another pair of hands.”
“He doesn’t know procedures,” Silvio growled.
Emilia wheeled her chair around the side of the two desks. “You can’t shove him off on me because you’re mad at Loyola.”
“Careful, Cruz, your drama is showing.” Silvio stood up, grabbed his coffee mug, and pounded over to the coffeemaker in the corner of the squadroom.
“Pendejo,” Emilia hissed.
Of course she’d be saddled with the new kid. Probably for days, until they arrested Bonilla or Ramos or both, and Silvio was in a marginally better mood.
Emilia went over to Flores and gave him a quick briefing on the essentials: the daily 9:00 meeting of all detectives, the rota system for assigning new cases, a few words on the cruise ship case. The kid smiled easily, seemingly pleased to be in the squadroom, but didn’t ask any questions or take any notes.
The regular morning meeting went the same way all the meetings had gone since Loyola became acting lieutenant. Major cases were reviewed. Loyola interrupted to ask questions, always with an edge of worry in his voice that the detectives were moving ahead before obtaining the requisite permission. He introduced Flores with the caveat that the new detective would be riding with Emilia and Silvio. Castro and Gomez cracked a few jokes about Flores getting lucky that was obviously a play on words. Ibarra, Loyola’s one-time chain-smoking partner, looked relieved, as did Macias and Sandor, a quiet team with a strong arrest record.
Silvio briefed the cruise ship case, outlining what the techs had said at the scene, and their concerns about Bonilla and Ramos. The squadroom discussion about the case was brief; the victim with fake identification was obviously a small-time thief or dealer who’d managed to get on board and was surprised by a member of the crew who for obvious reasons, didn’t want to admit to the crime.
“When does the ship leave?” Loyola asked.
“Tomorrow late afternoon,” Emilia said. As always when starting any investigation she’d made a timeline. In more than one case, the linear display of facts had helped distill information and reach a conclusion.
“Plenty of time,” Loyola said. “It hasn’t hit the news yet and I’ve had word from on high to keep it that way.”
“And if we don’t have an arrest before it sails?” Emilia asked. “Can we detain the ship?”
“It’s a low priority case, Cruz,” Loyola said pointedly.
“So we let a murderer sail off,” Emilia said under her breath, although she knew the reasoning behind his decision. Acapulco enjoyed an average of three murders a day and at least half the bodies that transited the morgue or city hospitals were unidentified. The problem was so bad that the morgue wanted to put up a website with pictures of the dead, in hopes that friends and families could identify them. The mayor’s office opposed the idea, claiming it would be detrimental to the city’s all-important tourism industry. The issue still simmered but Emilia had yet to see a battle that the city’s enigmatic mayor, Carlota Montoya Perez, hadn’t won.
“Unless we’ve got something solid, like a signed confession.” Loyola spread his hands as if to say whatever and the discussion moved on to a case that Macias and Sandor were handling and would have to offload before they went off to their training course in Mexico City. Emilia took notes; the case almost certainly would come to her and Silvio.
Castro started shuffling a deck of cards and Flores turned to watch.
☼
“Detectives Cruz and Flores. Here for the report on the body found on the Pacific Grandeur cruise ship.” Emilia lifted the Palacio Réal cooler so the young man in his scrubs could see what she carried. “I’ve also got a secondary case to discuss with him.”
“Doctor Prade’s in the holding room,” the attendant said. “I’ll take you back there.”
Emilia hated the morgue, hated that she was there so often. The overflow of unidentified bodies meant that two chiller vaults had been reconfigured so that older bodies could be stacked like sardines rather than held in individual drawers. Of course, whenever Emilia needed to see a particular body, it was at the bottom. Morgue workers would pull out the bodies like so many frozen fish before finding the right one.
When there was a big accident or a mass cartel grave uncovered, body bags lined the halls. Prade would prioritize them and abbreviate the autopsy to a handful of procedures. Gurneys with their cargos of naked bodies would form a queue waiting for their turn in the small operating theater while the cleaning crew--six older women who seemed immune to the death around them--continuously mopped the floor.
Today the place was relatively empty but the air was still thick with the morgue’s trademark smell; a mixture of cloying sweetness and eye-watering antiseptic. The attendant led them into the main holding room. Flores’s boyish face tightened as he took in the rows of drawers built into the walls, the way the floor sloped down on all sides toward a central drain, the worktable cluttered with labelled bags full of personal effects of the dead.
Doctor Antonio Prade was perched on a stool at the long counter built into the one wall without drawers. He wore a surgical mask around his neck, reading glasses perched on his nose, and a wrinkled lab coat misbuttoned over a plaid shirt and brown corduroy trousers. The once-white coat had some smears on it, which Emilia prayed were soap. He raised his pen in a just-a-moment signal, then continued scribbling on a form.
“I hope that’s your report on the body found on the cruise ship yesterday.” Emilia put down the cooler and dug out her notebook.
“Introductions, Detective Cruz?” Prade didn’t look up but his voice rang out against the tiled walls.
“Sorry,” Emilia said. “Doctor An
tonio Prade, meet Orlando Flores, our newest detective.”
Prade finally put down his pen and peered at Flores over his spectacles. “Welcome to the charro, boy,” he said, taking in Flores’ expensive suit. “How long have you been on the job?”
“Since yesterday,” Flores replied
Prade turned to Emilia, eyebrows raised.
“Second day as a cop,” Emilia said and tapped her forefinger against the cover of her notebook. “First day on the street as a detective.”
Flores looked as if he didn’t get why Prade had called their occupation a rodeo, but Emilia knew that Prade would immediately understand the por dedazo gesture. The medical examiner had been in his position for several years and knew the politics of the Acapulco police force better than most cops. He often joked to her that he saw a lot of bare assholes and more were attached to the living than the dead.
“Where’s Silvio?” Prade asked. “There hasn’t been a reshuffle, has there?”
Emilia shook her head. “He’s at the docks, following up on the same case.”
Prade got off the stool. “That’s too bad. I wanted to hear what Silvio had to say about this.” He consulted the form he’d been completing, crossed the room, and tugged at the handle of a numbered stainless steel drawer. There was a slight sucking sound as the rubber seal parted. Cool air escaped with a sigh as the drawer rolled open.
The body was no longer folded up, the way Emilia had seen it on the ship, but flaccid, naked, and straight. Both eyes were closed. The bullet holes in the temple were less glaring, less final, if only because they were overshadowed by the fact that the crown of the head had been sawn off.
Behind Emilia, Flores made a gagging noise that tapered into a cough.
“Died between midnight and 2:00 am on Sunday night,” Prade said. He pointed to the disfigured head. “Two shots to the brain. Twenty-two caliber.”
“Seven hours after the ship docked in Acapulco, more or less.” Emilia didn’t turn to look at Flores.
