“Is there anything more?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
She allowed her head to drop to one side, as though the weight of it were too much for her neck to bear.
“Many spouses cheat on their partners.” I knew that firsthand.
“I’ve lived almost two decades with my secret, and it has been pure hell.” The voice was tremulous and angry at the same time. “I’ve never been able to admit who my daughter is, Dr. Brennan. To her, to her father, to my husband, to anyone. The deception has tainted every part of my life. It has poisoned thoughts and dreams I’ve never even had.”
I thought that an odd thing to say.
“If Chantale is dead, it’s my fault.”
“That’s a natural reaction, Mrs. Specter. You’re feeling lonely and guilty, bu—”
“Last January I told Chantale the truth.”
“About her biological father?”
I sensed her nod.
“The night she disappeared?”
“She refused to believe it. She called me dreadful names. We had a terrible quarrel, and she stormed from the house. That was the last anyone has seen her.”
For a full two minutes, neither of us spoke.
“Does the ambassador know?”
“No.”
I envisioned the report I would write concerning the septic tank bones.
“If it was your daughter at the Paraíso, what you’ve told me may come out.”
“I know.”
Her head returned to vertical, and a hand rose to her chest. The fingers looked pale, the lacquered nails black in the night.
“I also know about the body recovered near Kaminaljuyú today, though I’m sorry I don’t remember the poor girl’s name.”
The Specters’ sources were good.
“That victim has not been identified,” I said.
“It’s not Chantale. So the field now narrows to three.”
“How can you know that?”
“My daughter has perfect teeth.”
The Specters’ sources were very good.
“Did Chantale see a dentist?”
“She went for cleanings and checkups. The police have her records. Unfortunately, my husband does not approve of unnecessary X rays, so the file contains none.”
“The Paraíso skeleton may be none of the missing girls we are searching for,” I said.
“Or it may be my daughter.”
“Do you have a cat, Mrs. Specter?”
I felt more than saw her tense.
“What an odd question.”
So the Specters’ sources weren’t infallible. She didn’t know about Minos’s findings.
“Cat hairs were rolled into the jeans recovered from the septic tank.” I didn’t mention the sample I’d collected from her home. “You told Detective Galiano that you have no pets.”
“We lost our cat last Christmas.”
“Lost?”
“Guimauve drowned.” The black fingernails danced on the black pearls. “Chantale found his little body floating in the pool. She was heartbroken.”
She fell silent a few moments, then, “It’s late, and you must be very tired.”
She stood, smoothed imaginary wrinkles from the perfect gray silk, and stepped onto the path. I joined her.
She spoke again when we’d reached the sidewalk. In the pale orange light of a street lamp I could see that her carefully decorated face had returned to its diplomat’s wife appearance.
“My husband has made a few calls. The DA will contact you to make arrangements for your analysis of the Paraíso remains.”
“I’ll be allowed access?” I was stunned.
“Yes.”
I started to thank her.
“No, Dr. Brennan. It is I who should thank you. Excuse me.”
She drew a cell phone from her purse, and spoke a few words.
We continued in silence. Music edged from open doors as we walked past bars and bistros. A bicycle clicked by. A drunk. A granny with a shopping cart. I wondered idly if she was the old woman we’d seen in the park.
As we approached the hotel, a black Mercedes glided to the curb. A dark-suited man climbed out and opened the rear door.
“I will be praying for you.”
She disappeared behind tinted glass.
* * *
At ten the next morning the Kaminaljuyú skeleton lay on stainless steel at the Morgue del Organismo Judicial in Zone 3. I stood over it, Galiano at my side. Dr. Angelina Fereira was at the end of the table, flanked by an autopsy technician.
On Fereira’s instructions, the remains had been photographed and X-rayed before our arrival. The clothing had been removed and spread on the counter at my back. The hair and body bag had been searched for trace evidence.
Cold tile, stainless steel table, shining instruments, fluorescent lights, masked and gloved investigators. All too familiar a scene.
As was the process about to commence. The poking and scraping, the measuring and weighing, the stripping of tissue, the sawing of bone. The relentless exposure would be a final indignity, an assault after death to exceed any she might have endured at the end of life.
A part of me wanted to cover her, to wheel her from these sterile strangers to the sanctity of those who had loved her. To allow her family to put what remained of her in a place of peace.
But the rational part of me knew better. This victim needed a name. Only then could her family bury her. Her bones deserved an opportunity to speak, to scream silently of the events of her last hours. Only then could the police hope to reconstruct what had befallen her.
So we gathered with our forms, our blades, our scales, our calipers, our notebooks, our specimen jars, our cameras.
Fereira agreed with my assessment of age, sex, and race. Like me, she found no fresh fractures or other indicators of violent attack. Together we measured and calculated stature. Together we removed bone for possible use in DNA profiling. It wasn’t necessary.
Ninety minutes into the autopsy Hernández arrived with Claudia de la Alda’s dental records. One look told us who lay on the table.
Shortly after Galiano and his partner left to deliver the news to the De la Alda family, the door opened again. In came a man I recognized from the Paraíso as Dr. Hector Lucas. His face was gray in the harsh light. He greeted Fereira, then asked that she leave the room.
Surprise flashed in the eyes above her mask. Or anger. Or resentment.
“Of course, Doctor.”
She removed her gloves, tossed them into a biological waste receptacle, and left. Lucas waited until the door swung shut.
“You are to be allowed two hours with the Paraíso skeleton.”
“That’s not enough time.”
“It will have to be. Four days ago seventeen people were killed in a bus accident. Three more have died since. My staff and facilities are overwhelmed.”
While I felt sympathy for the crash victims and their families, I felt more for a pregnant young woman whose body had been flushed like last week’s refuse.
“I don’t need an autopsy room. I can work anywhere.”
“No. You may not.”
“By whose order am I limited to two hours?”
“The office of the district attorney. Señor Díaz remains of the opinion that an outsider is not needed.”
“Outsider to what?” I asked in a rush of anger.
“What are you implying?”
I drew a deep breath, exhaled. Steady.
“I am implying nothing. I am trying to help and don’t understand the DA’s efforts to block me.”
“I am sorry, Dr. Brennan. This is not my call.” He handed me a slip of paper. “The bones will be brought to this room at a time of your choosing. Phone that number.”
“This makes no sense. I am allowed full access to the Kaminaljuyú remains, but practically barred from those recovered at the Paraíso. What is Señor Díaz afraid I might find?”
“It is protocol, Dr. Brennan. And on
e more thing. You may not remove or photograph anything.”
“That’ll leave a gap in my souvenir collection,” I snapped. Like Díaz, Lucas was bringing out the worst in me.
“Buenos días.”
Lucas walked from the room.
Seconds later Fereira reappeared, smelling of cigarette smoke and wearing a scrap of paper on her lower lip.
“An audience with Hector Lucas. Your lucky day.” Though we’d stuck to Spanish throughout the autopsy, she now spoke English. It sounded Texan.
“Yeah.”
Fereira rested elbows on the counter, leaned back, and crossed her ankles. She had gray hair, cut very short, Pete Sampras eyebrows over dark brown eyes, a body like a Frigidaire.
“He may look like a bird dog, but he’s an excellent doctor.”
I didn’t reply.
“You two butting heads?”
I told her about the septic tank. She listened, face serious.
When I’d finished, Fereira took in what remained of Claudia de la Alda.
“Galiano suspects these cases are linked?”
“Yes.”
“I hope to God they’re not.”
“Amen.”
She thumbnailed the paper from her lip, inspected then flicked it.
“You think the Paraíso skeleton could be the ambassador’s kid?”
“It’s possible.”
“Suppose that’s the reason Díaz is stonewalling? Diplomatic embarrassment?”
“It doesn’t make sense. Specter’s the one who got me access.”
“For two hours.” Her voice dripped sarcasm.
Fereira was right. If Specter was powerful enough to overrule Díaz, why not obtain full clearance?
“If there’s even a remote chance it is his daughter, why wouldn’t Specter want to be sure?” Fereira posed the exact question that was in my mind.
“Could Díaz have other reasons for not wanting me near those bones?”
“Such as?” she asked.
I could think of no “such as.”
“Lucas claims it’s the bus crash,” I said.
“It’s been pretty crazy around here.” She pushed to her feet. “If it’s any comfort, it’s not you. Both Lucas and Díaz abhor interference.”
When I started to object, she raised a hand.
“I know you’re not interfering. But that may be how they see it.” She looked at her watch. “When do you plan to examine the bones?”
“This afternoon.”
“Anything I can do?”
“I have an idea, but it would require help.”
“Shoot.”
I told her my plan. Her eyes slid to Claudia de la Alda, returned to mine.
“I can do that.”
* * *
Three hours later Fereira and I had finished the De la Alda autopsy, eaten a quick lunch, and she’d moved on to one of the bus victims. Claudia de la Alda had been wheeled to a refrigerated compartment, and the Paraíso skeleton occupied the same table. The autopsy tech sat on a stool in the corner of the room, helper turned observer.
The bones were as I remembered, though clean now of muck and debris. I inspected the ribs and pelvis, recorded the state of fusion of every crest, cap, and cranial suture, and examined the teeth.
My gender and age estimates remained unchanged. The remains were those of a female in her late teens.
I’d also been correct in my impression of Mongoloid ancestry. To confirm my visual observations, I took skull and facial measurements for computer analysis.
I searched for evidence of peri-mortem trauma, but found nothing. Nor did I spot any skeletal peculiarities that might be of use in identification. The teeth showed no anomalies or restorations.
I’d just finished recording long bone lengths for stature calculation, when a phone rang in the anteroom. The technician answered, returned, and told me my time was up.
I stepped back from the table, lowered my mask, and stripped off my gloves. No problem. I had what I needed.
Outside, the sun was dropping toward cotton candy clouds billowing from the horizon. The air smelled of smoke from a trash fire. A light breeze floated wrappers and newspaper across the sidewalk.
I took a deep breath and gazed at the cemetery next door. Shadows angled from tombstones and from dime-store vases and jelly jars holding plastic flowers. An old woman sat on a wooden crate, head veiled, withered body swathed in black. A rosary dangled from her bony fingers.
I should have felt good. Though it was incomplete, I’d scored a victory over Díaz. And my initial assessment had been right on. But all I felt was sad.
And frightened.
Three months had passed between the day Claudia de la Alda was last seen alive and the day Patricia Eduardo went missing. Just over two months had passed between the disappearances of Patricia Eduardo and Lucy Gerardi. Chantale Specter vanished ten days after Lucy Gerardi.
If one maniac was responsible, the intervals were growing shorter.
His blood lust was increasing.
I pulled out my cell and punched in Galiano’s number. Before I hit send, the thing rang in my hand. It was Mateo Reyes.
Molly Carraway had regained consciousness.
13
SHORTLY AFTER DAYBREAK, MATEO AND I WERE rollercoastering the blacktop to Sololá, shooting through pink, slanted sunshine on the ups, plunging through pockets of fog on the downs. The air was chilly, the horizon blurred by a damp morning haze. Mateo pushed the Jeep full out, face deadpan, hands tight on the wheel.
I rode in the front passenger seat, elbow out the window like a trucker in Tucson. Wind whipped my hair straight up, then forward into my face. I brushed it back absently, my thoughts focused on Molly and Carlos.
Though I’d met Carlos only once or twice, I’d known Molly a decade. Roughly my age, she’d come to anthropology late in life. A high school biology teacher grown frustrated with cafeteria duty and bathroom patrol, Molly had shifted direction at age thirty-one and returned to graduate school. Upon completion of a doctorate in bioarchaeology, she’d accepted a position in the Anthropology Department at the University of Minnesota.
Like me, Molly had been drawn into medical examiner work by cops and coroners oblivious to the distinction between physical and forensic anthropology. Like me, she donated time to the investigation of human rights abuses.
Unlike me, Molly had never abandoned her study of the ancient dead. Though she did some coroner cases, archaeology remained her main focus. She had yet to achieve certification by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology.
But you will, Molly. You will.
Mateo and I wound through the miles in silence. Traffic lightened when we drew away from Guatemala City, increased as we approached Sololá. We raced past deep green valleys, yellow pastures with scruffy brown cows grazing in clumps, villages thick with roadside vendors laying out that morning’s stock.
We were ninety minutes into the drive when Mateo spoke.
“The doctor said she was agitated.”
“Open your eyes to a two-week hole in your life, you’d be agitated, too.”
We flew around a curve. A pair of vehicles rushed by in the opposite direction, blasting air through our open windows.
“Maybe that’s it.”
“Maybe?” I looked at him.
“I don’t know. There was something in that doctor’s voice.”
He crawled up the bumper of a slow-moving truck, shifted hard, passed.
“What?”
He shrugged. “It was more the tone.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“Not much.”
“Is there permanent damage?”
“He doesn’t know. Or won’t say.”
“Has anyone come down from Minnesota?”
“Her father. Isn’t she married?”
“Divorced. Her kids are in high school.”
Mateo drove the remaining distance in silence, wind puffing his denim shirt, reflected yellow line
s clicking up the front of his dark glasses.
The Sololá hospital was a six-story maze of red brick and grimy glass. Mateo parked in one of several small lots, and we walked up a tree-shaded lane to the front entrance. In the forecourt, a cement Jesus welcomed us with outstretched arms.
People filled the lobby, wandering, praying, drinking soda, slumping or fidgeting on wooden benches. Some wore housedresses, others suits or jeans. Most were dressed in Sololá Mayan. Women swathed in striped red cloth, with burrito-wrapped babies on their bellies or backs. Men in woolen aprons, gaucho hats, and wildly embroidered trousers and shirts. Now and then a hospital worker in crisp white cut through the kaleidoscope assemblage.
I looked around, familiar with the atmosphere, but unfamiliar with the layout. Signs routed patrons to the cafeteria, the gift shop, the business office, and to a dozen medical departments. Radiografía. Urología. Pediatría.
Ignoring posted instructions to check-in, Mateo led me directly to a bank of elevators. We got off on the fifth floor and headed left, our heels clicking on polished tile. As we moved up the corridor, I saw myself reflected in the small rectangular windows of a dozen closed doors.
“¡Alto!” Hurled from behind.
We turned. A fire-breathing nurse was bearing down, hospital chart pressed to her spotless white chest. Winged cap. Hair pulled back tight enough to cause a fault line down the center of her face.
Nurse Dragon extended her arm and the chart and circled us, the crossing guard of the fifth floor.
Mateo and I smiled winningly.
The dragon asked the reason for our presence.
Mateo told her.
She drew in the chart, eyed us as though we were Leopold and Loeb.
“¿Familia?”
Mateo gestured at me. “Americana.”
More appraisal.
“Numero treinta y cinco.”
“Gracias.”
“Veinte minutos. Nada mas.” Twenty minutes. No more.
“Gracias.”
Molly looked like a still life of cheated death. Her thin cotton gown was colorless from a million washings and clung to her body like a feathery shroud. One tube ran from her nose, another from an arm bearing little more flesh than the skeletons at the morgue.
Mateo inhaled sharply. “Jesucristo.”
I placed a hand on his shoulder.
Molly’s eyes were lavender caverns. She opened them, recognized us, and struggled to raise herself higher on the pillows. I hurried to her side.