“Now what?”
“Today Elena will keep watch at the hospital while we continue at Chupan Ya.” He tossed coffee dregs onto the grass. “And we all pray.”
My grandmother used to say that God’s tonic for sorrow was physical labor. She also felt toads caused infertility, but that was another issue.
For the next six days the team ingested megadoses of Gran’s elixir. We worked at the well from sunrise until sunset, hauling equipment up and down the valley, troweling, hoisting buckets, shaking screens.
In the evenings we dragged ourselves from our
hospedaje
to one of the restaurants lining Lake Atitlán. I enjoyed these brief respites from death. Though darkness obscured the water and the ancient volcanoes on the far shore, I could smell fish and kelp and hear waves lapping against rickety wooden piers. Tourists and locals wandered the shore. Mayan women passed with impossible bundles on their heads. Notes drifted from distant xylophones. Life continued.
Some nights we ate in silence, too exhausted for conversation. On others we talked of the project, of Molly and Carlos, of the town in which we were temporary residents.
The history of Panajachel is as colorful as the textiles sold on its streets. In another age, the place was a K’akchiquel Mayan village settled by ancestors of the current citizens when a force of rival Tzutujil warriors was defeated by the Spanish. Later, the Franciscans established a church and monastery at “Pana,” and used the village as a base for missionary operations.
Darwin was right. Life is opportunity. One group’s loss is another’s gain.
In the sixties and seventies the town became a haven for gringo gurus, hippies, and dropouts. Rumors that Lake Atitlán was one of the world’s few “vortex energy fields” led to an influx of cosmic healers and crystal watchers.
Today Panajachel is a blend of traditional Mayan, contemporary Guatemalan, and nondescript Western. It is luxury hotels and hospedajes; European cafés and comedores; ATMs and outdoor markets;
güipils
and tank tops;
mariachis
and Madonna; Mayan
brujos
and Catholic priests.
By late Wednesday we’d finished our excavation at Chupan Ya. In all, we’d removed twenty-three souls from the well. Among the skeletons we’d found thirteen projectiles and cartridge casings and two broken machete blades. Every bone and object had been recorded, photographed, packaged, and sealed for transport to the FAFG lab in Guatemala City. The cultural anthropologist had recorded twenty-seven stories, and taken DNA samples from sixteen family members.
Carlos’s body had been transported to the Guatemala City morgue, where an autopsy confirmed the impression of the local police. Death was due to gunshot wounding at close range.
Molly remained comatose. Each day one of us made the drive to the San Juan de Dios Hospital in Sololá, sat by her bedside, reported back. That report was always the same. No change.
The police found no prints or physical evidence, located no witnesses, identified no suspects. The investigation continued.
After dinner on Wednesday, I went by myself to visit Molly. For two hours I held her hand and stroked her head, hoping that the fact of my presence would penetrate to wherever it was her spirit had gone. Sometimes I talked to her, recalling shared times and acquaintances from our years before Guatemala brought us back together. I told her of the progress at Chupan Ya and spoke of her role in the work ahead. Otherwise, I sat silent, listening to the muted hum of her cardiac monitor, and praying for her recovery.
On Thursday morning we loaded the trucks and Jeep under the indifferent eye of Señor Amado and set out for the capital, winding our way up the precipitous road from Panajachel. The sky was flawless, the lake blue satin. Sunlight speared the trees, turning leaves translucent and glistening in the spiderwebs overhead.
As we made the hairpin turn high above Lake Atitlán, I gazed at the peaks on her far side.
Vulcan San Pedro. Vulcan Tolimán. Vulcan Atitlán.
Closing my eyes, I said one more silent prayer to whatever god might be willing to listen.
Let Molly live.
The FAFG is headquartered in Guatemala City’s Zone 2. Built on a spit of land between steep ravines, or
barrancas
, the lovely, tree-shaded neighborhood was once an enclave for the well-to-do. But the grand old quarter had seen better times.
Today, businesses and public offices sit cheek to jowl with residences hanging on by suction cups. The National Baseball Stadium looms over the far end of Calle Siméon Cañas, and multicolored buses stop at graffiti-covered shelters along both curbs. Vendors hawk fast food from pushcarts and metal huts with slide-up windows. From one, Pepsi. From another, Coke. Tamales.
Chuchitos.
Hot dogs plain. Hot dogs
shuco.
Dirty. With avocado and cabbage.
The FAFG labs and administrative offices are located in what was once a private family home on Siméon Cañas. The two-story house, complete with pool and walled patio, sits across four lanes of traffic from a similar domicile now housing the Kidnapping and Organized Crime Unit of the Public Ministry.
Arriving at the compound, Mateo pulled into the drive and sounded the horn. Within seconds a young woman with an owl face and long dark braids swung the gate wide. We entered and parked on a patch of gravel to the right of the front door. The other truck and Jeep followed, and the woman closed and locked the gate.
The team spilled out and began unloading equipment and cardboard boxes, each coded to indicate site, exhumation date, and burial number. In the weeks to come we’d examine every bone, tooth, and artifact to establish identity and cause of death for the Chupan Ya victims. I hoped we’d finish before professional commitments required my return home in June.
I was going back for my third box when Mateo pulled me aside.
“I have a favor to ask.”
“Of course.”
“The
Chicago Tribune
plans to do a feature on Clyde.”
Clyde Snow is one of the grand old men of my profession, the founder of the subspecialty of forensic anthropology.
“Yes?”
“Some reporter wants to interview me about the old man’s involvement in our work down here. I invited him weeks ago, then completely forgot.”
“And?” Normally reluctant to deal with the press, I didn’t like where this was going.
“The guy’s in my office. He’s very excited that you’re here.”
“How does he know that I’m in Guatemala?”
“I might have mentioned it.”
“Mateo?”
“All right, I told him. Sometimes my English is not so good.”
“You grew up in the Bronx. Your English is perfect.”
“Yours is better. Will you talk to him?”
“What does he want?”
“The usual. If you’ll talk to the guy I can start logging and assigning the Chupan Ya cases.”
“O.K.”
I would have preferred measles to an afternoon of baby-sitting an “excited” reporter, but I was here to do what I could to help.
“I owe you.” Mateo squeezed my arm.
“You owe me.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada.”
But the interview was not to be.
I found the reporter working on a nostril in Mateo’s second-floor office. He stopped trolling when I entered, and feigned scratching the scraggly trail of hair tinting his upper lip. Pretending to notice me for the first time, he shot to his feet and stuck out a hand.
“Ollie Nordstern. Olaf, actually. Friends call me Ollie.”
I held palms to chest, wanting no part of Ollie’s nasal booty.
“I’ve been unloading the trucks.” I smiled apologetically.
“Dirty job.” Nordstern dropped his hand.
“Yes.” I gestured him back into his chair.
Nordstern was dressed in polyester from his gel-slicked hair to his Kmart hiking boots. His head turtled forward on a neck the size of my upper arm. I guessed his age at around twenty-two.
“So,” we began simultaneously.
I indicated to Nordstern that he had the floor.
“It is an absolute thrill to meet you, Dr. Brennan. I’ve heard so much about you and your work in Canada. And I read about your testimony in Rwanda.”
“The court actually sits in Arusha, Tanzania.”
Nordstern was referring to my appearance before the United Nations International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda.
“Yes, yes, of course. And those cases you did with the Montreal Hells Angels. We followed that very closely in Chicago. The Windy City has its own biker boys, you know.” He winked and pinched his nose. I hoped he wasn’t going back in.
“I’m not the reason you’re here,” I said, glancing at my watch.
“Forgive me. I digress.”
Nordstern pulled a notepad from one of the four zillion pockets on his camouflage vest, flipped the cover, and poised pen above paper.
“I want to learn all I can about Dr. Snow and the FAFG.”
Before I could respond, a man appeared at the open door. He was dark-skinned, with a face that looked as if it had taken some hits. The brows were prominent, the nose humped and slightly off angle. A scar cut a tiny white swath through his left eyebrow. Though not tall, the man was muscular and carried not an ounce of fat. The phrase Thugs Are Us popped to mind.
“Dr. Brennan?”
“Sí.”
The man held out a badge. SICA. Special Crimes Investigative Unit, Guatemala National Civil Police. My stomach went into free fall.
“Mateo Reyes directed me here.” The man spoke in unaccented English. His tone suggested the call was not social.
“Yes?”
“Sergeant-detective Bartolomé Galiano.”
Oh, God. Was Molly dead?
“Does this have to do with the shooting near Sololá?”
“No.”
“What is it?”
Galiano’s eyes shifted to Nordstern, returned to me.
“The subject is sensitive.”
Not good, Brennan. What interest could SICA have in me?
“Could it wait a few minutes?”
His dead gaze gave me the answer.
SERGEANT-DETECTIVE GALIANO TOOK THE CHAIR RELUCTANTLY
“What is this about, Detective?” I forced my voice steady, scenes from
Midnight Express
rolling through my head.
Galiano’s eyes held me like a bug on a pin.
“We at the National Civil Police are aware of your activities, Dr. Brennan.”
I said nothing, lowered hands to lap, leaving two sweaty palm prints on the plastic blotter.
“I am largely responsible for that.” A small oscillating fan ruffled a half dozen hairs on the crown of his head. Otherwise, the man was motionless.
“You are.”
“Yes.”
“Why is that?”
“Part of my youth was spent in Canada, and I still follow the news up there. Your exploits do not go unnoticed.”
“My exploits?”
“The press loves you.”
“The press loves to sell papers.” He may have heard my irritation. “Why have you come to see me, Detective Galiano?”
Galiano withdrew a brown envelope from his pocket and placed it in front of me. Hand-printed on the outside was a police or coroner dossier number. I looked at but did not reach for it.
“Take a look.” Galiano resumed his seat.
The envelope contained a series of five-by-seven color photographs. The first showed a bundle on an autopsy table, liquid oozing from the edges to form a brown puddle on the perforated stainless steel.
The second showed the bundle untangled into a pair of jeans, the lower end of a long bone protruding from one ragged cuff. The third featured a watch, and what were probably pocket contents: a comb, an elastic hair binder, two coins. The last photo was a close-up of a tibia and two metatarsals.
I looked at Galiano.
“That was discovered yesterday.”
I studied the skeletal elements. Though everything was stained a deep chocolate brown, I could see flesh clinging to the bones.
“A week ago toilets began backing up at the Pensión Paraíso, a small hotel in Zone One. Though the place ain’t the Ritz, guests grumbled, and the owners went poking in the septic tank. They found the Levi’s blocking the exit drain.”
“When was the system last inspected?”
“Seems the owners are a bit lax on upkeep. But minor maintenance was done last August, so the body probably went in after that.”
I agreed but said nothing.
“The victim may be a young woman.”
“I couldn’t possibly express an opinion based on these photographs.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
We stared at each other in the stuffy heat of the room. Galiano’s eyes were extraordinary, brown with a luminous red cast, like amber caught in sunlight. The lashes might have landed him a Maybelline contract, had he been of the female gender.
“Over the past ten months, four young women have gone missing in this city. The families are frantic. We suspect the disappearances may be linked.”
Down the corridor, a phone sounded.
“If so, the situation is urgent.”
“Lots of people go missing in Guatemala City.”
I pictured Parque Concordia, where orphans gathered each night to sniff glue and sleep. I remembered stories of children being rounded up and killed. In 1990, witnesses reported armed men snatching eight street kids. Their bodies were found a few days later.
“This is different.” Galiano’s voice brought me back. “These four young women stand out. They don’t fit the usual pattern.”
“What does this have to do with me?” I had a pretty good idea.
“I described your work to my superiors, told them you were in Guatemala.”
“May I ask how you knew that?”
“Let’s just say SICA is kept apprised of foreign nationals entering Guatemala to dig up our dead.”
“I see.”
Galiano pointed at the photos. “I’ve been authorized to request your help.”