A Solitary Reaper

by Rachael Wright

  Savva shut the door, padded down the quiet hallway to the bedroom, gathered clean clothes from the oak wardrobe, and shuffled to the bathroom. He unbuttoned his trousers, which were soaked with sweat from his groin to his knees. After he pried the wet clothes from his body, Savva tossed them out into the hall and stalked into the shower. Oh heaven, to stand under a stream of warm water as it washed off the dirt and grime.

  A full ten minutes later, he shut off the water, and opened the bathroom door to let out the prodigious amount of steam. Savva put a towel to the mirror to wipe it clean. The man reflected back was no catch. In the past few years a bulge had taken up residence around his stomach and where his upper body had once been strong and bronze from hours of sailing and swimming, it was now wrinkled and soft and shivered with every movement. Still, there remained a flicker of the young man he had once been–in the eyes: a hunger, inquisitiveness, a backbone.

  Savva poked his bicep and watched it jiggle. It was horrible to get old, to watch youth and strength slide away, and still have the memory of what life once was. These days he never had enough energy to make it through the day. Perhaps exercise was the key, it's what all the American magazines Shayma read (to ostensibly practice her English) said. Perhaps he'd eat better ... he'd tell Shayma that from now on no more sweets and less wine. Awful. There must be an easier way. Ditch the car and walk?

  Lifestyle habits sorted, Savva pulled a comb through his still thick hair and brushed his teeth. The floors shifted and outside a car backfired. He pulled on clean blue trousers, buttoned a white shirt, and notched a brown belt around his waist. A heavy knock fell on the door.

  Stelios stood on the front step. He held out a bag of calamari, a loaf of kalamata olive bread, and a small wheel of ladotyri cheese. "You look better, Sir."

  Savva threw open the door. "I will be after that."

  Savva grabbed plates and glasses of water from the kitchen counter and lead Stelios out to the back garden: Shayma's pride and joy. Of course it couldn't rival the garden at the Fitzroy mansion, but theirs had the wonder of intimacy, and every corner burst with life and color. Years ago, in an effort to add more, Shayma'd hung overflowing baskets of flowers from the stone walls.

  Stelios flopped onto a chair. "I almost fainted when I got home."

  Savva placed the glasses on a thick wooden table at the edge of the stone patio. "My whole neighborhood watched behind their curtains ... in case they could regale their friends with the story of my collapse."

  Next door, the neighbor's radio blasted from their first floor bedroom, a strange accompaniment to what sounded like foreplay. Stelios poked the blue and white striped cushion and groaned as Savva set out the food. They fell to without another word and ate like ravenous wolves. Stelios shoved a thick slice of ladotyri cheese into his mouth and sank back, tussling his still damp hair.

  Savva, meanwhile, rolled an olive between his fingers as he forced his thoughts beyond the Mt Lepetimnos corpse. "Why was he up there?"

  "Meeting someone perhaps?" Stelios mused.

  "And they needed to climb for an hour to do so?"

  "Perhaps it was the clandestine sort?"

  "A clandestine meeting ... with whom?"

  "Take your pick; a woman, the mafia, a government official."

  "No one that important lives on Lesvos, and anyway why not a taverna?" Stelios shrugged. "Do you think a woman is capable of bashing a man's head in?"

  "Yes," Stelios seethed.

  Savva rested his head against the warm metal chair, tore off a chunk of bread, sandwiched it with cheese, and shoved it into his mouth. "What happened?"

  "Are we still discussing the body?" Stelios asked innocently.

  "Last night, with your fiancé. What happened?"

  "I'd rather not talk about it, Sir."

  Savva turned so he had a clear view of Stelios' stormy face. "What happened? Don't make me ask again."

  Stelios stared at the last slice of bread, an olive hung onto its side by a thin strip of gluten. The back garden hummed with life, cicadas thrummed, the purple flowers on the bougainvillea in the corner twisted and danced, and bees moved among them, like men swirling around a group of chattering women. Savva's amorous neighbors turned down the warbling tones of the radio broadcaster to a dull roar.

  "Do you remember what you told me last year during the Fitzroy investigation?"

  "About?"

  "About women. About how much they give up when they marry?"

  Savva grunted in affirmation.

  "I think I let her wait too long."

  "What happened?"

  "She said she'd made a mistake. We argued about where to live. She wanted to be near her parents and I'd rather get a place where we don't live by either. You know, the way the rest of the western world does it. She brought up an old school friend who thinks I work too much and don't satisfy her needs, whatever that means. I know he's arranged 'work lunches' for the two of them."

  "And then what happened," Savva asked.

  "She dropped the ring on the floor and walked out. I can't remember what else I said. I called her this morning, with the mistaken belief ... I don't know, maybe we'd come to some sort of agreement or compromise, but then dispatch called, it was the last straw. She screamed that work came first; she said she'd be by to collect her things at my place. So it's over. Two decades of my life ... wasted."

  "It could've been forty," Savva mumbled through a mouthful.

  Stelios' eyes bulged. "What does that mean?"

  "A woman who screams and makes your life miserable isn't worth it. Believe me, it's much better to be alone than to be stuck with a wife like that."

  "Your wife isn't like that."

  "No, but my brother, in Scotland, his wife is. The only person whose blood that woman can't curdle is Shayma. Apparently Syrians are much hardier than Greeks."

  "I don't feel any better."

  "You will."

  Savva relaxed back into his chair and listened as Stelios let out a long petulant sigh. He recognized the acceptance when it came. He fell back to the food and took a long swig of wine, tipping back the delicate glass as though it were beer.

  "Any news on the victim?" Savva asked. Paternal duty done, he was desperate to leave the murky waters of feelings and emotions behind and return to the solid ground of murder.

  Stelios relaxed. He plucked a piece of lint from the chair. "We bagged his shoes and hands; both were crusted with dirt."

  "Relevance?"

  "When I went home I noticed dirt had worked its way into my shoes, and not just my shoes, it covered my socks and my ankle. It's proof he walked up on his own power."

  "Likely."

  "Yes, but we need to eliminate the possibility he was transported there much the same way he was transported down. A helicopter or a vehicle of some sort."

  "I doubt a helicopter was involved, although I would have been glad of one myself." Savva's hand went to the beard hairs under his bottom lip. He curled them toward his lips. "From dirt on the body we know he hiked up Mt Lepetimnos on his own accord. But did he hike up with his killer or did he meet him at the top? The murder weapon wasn't at the scene, so the killer must've brought it with him, which suggests it was thought out. What had our victim done to warrant that level of ferocity? How did he scare the killer so completely? What was he afraid of losing? What was it for our last murderer?"

  "Who? John Fitzroy?" Stelios asked.

  Savva nodded. "He framed his own wife. What was he afraid of?"

  "I guess he was afraid of exposure."

  "Why?"

  "He stood to lose a lot: wife, business, cash flow." Stelios plowed on. "What does John Fitzroy have to do with this case?"

  "The killer wanted the body to be found. But he didn't put it in a public park. He chose a secluded and remote location. He didn't want to be overheard and he couldn't transport the body off the mountain afterwards."

  "The victim went willingly," Stelios repeated, shoving a hunk of bread down his t
hroat.

  "Polle Kalo, good. He went without any suspicions."

  "But he was moved. The blood trails on the face tell us as much. Surely the autopsy will confirm."

  Savva rubbed his finger over the sweating water glass, seeing only the dead man, propped against a rock, in a cruel imitation of slumber. "What if the killer didn't move him?"

  "Who else could've?"

  "We don't know Adam Harris found him first. He was just the first to call," Savva said.

  "So you're saying another person hiked up Mt. Lepetimnos, saw the body, couldn't be bothered to call the police, but had enough compassion to prop him up against a rock? Why?"

  "It doesn't have to be someone else. It could be Adam Harris."

  "The Amerikanó?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you find a tiléfono at the scene?"

  "No, Sir. I called the medical examiner's office. They didn't find one either."

  "Now that's interesting," Savva mused.

  Stelios let out his breath in one huge huff. "Let's hope forensics comes back with information on the victim. Or else we have nothing."

  "We have considerably more than nothing."

  "Fysiká. Whatever you say, Sir."

  "The victim himself is evidence, he died for a specific reason. He tells us as much as fingerprints or DNA."

  "I need a week off to recover from that hike."

  "That can't be managed. Call Adam Harris and have him come in to the station this afternoon."

  "Will you ask him about the body?"

  "No, I'm going to ask him how his wife is."

  Savva thumped his glass on the table, motioned for Stelios to clear the table, and walked inside. Both men sighed with delight, at the coolness of the kitchen. Stelios lurched in the direction of the couch.

  "I need to change my shirt, we can't bloody well match," Savva muttered.

  When he exited the bathroom, in a light grey shirt, holding a paper cup of mouthwash, he found Stelios by the wide front windows, which overlooked the front garden and the street. Between gaps in the houses, one could dimly make out a thin strip of the ocean and a boat bobbing like a cork in the shifting sea.

  "Are you moping again?" he barked.

  Stelios drew away from the window and hid his hands behind his back. "No, Sir."

  "Good. You're worthless when you mope."

  "What you want me to bring tonight?"

  Savva swirled the mouthwash around. "Wine's fine. Kupía Savva would hate me if you brought more."

  "Should we go?" Stelios prodded.

  Savva rolled his eyes, gargled the mouthwash, but nodded. He spat out the blue liquid and threw away the cup. In the entryway he turned to look into the mirror of the hall tree. He didn't look at all like a cop, but rather like those paddoúdes, those old men, grouped together in twos or threes, playing chess and talking about fish. His eyes were lined, his beard had greyed about his chin, and his neck was starting to sag. At least he still had his hair and it hadn't gone the way his alcoholic father's had. Who cared though? There was naught to be done about aging.

  "Sir," Stelios said, bounding up the steps, "forensics got a hit on the victim."

  "Brilliant." Savva nudged Stelios out of the way and closed the door.

  * * *

  Stelios trailed in his boss' wake, a greyhound to Savva's bulldog. Five minutes later, they swung into police headquarters. Officers in light blue shirts glanced up, recognized the vehicle, and scattered. One jumped back into his car and left the lot, though he'd only just parked. Savva let out a huff of laughter.

  Inside headquarters, heads skulked over paperwork. Fingers typed on keyboards that were previously silent. Shaking hands enveloped phones. Alexandros Savva strode past them all: toward answers.

  They descended to the garden level, where, in the windows, the sandal-clad feet of tourists and locals alike paraded by. Forensic Supervisor Iason Rallis sat hunched over a microscope, a thin man with short thick fingers; a bald spot had begun to seep across the crown of his head. Rallis' right hand twirled a black dial on the side of the microscope.

  Savva strode over to Rallis' desk and stood expectantly by the man's shoulder but the dark head remained bent over the silver microscope. Twenty seconds passed; Savva glared at Stelios, who shrugged and backed away. He leaned over and only then did he notice the minuscule ear bud in Rallis' ear. With a boyish grin he tugged it out.

  "Rallis!" The poor man fell off his chair. Savva's smiled in maniacal glee.

  "Gamóto," Rallis cursed. He hauled his shirt and black lanyard, white I.D. card swinging, back into place and settled onto his stool like a ruffled mother hen. "What in heaven is wrong with you?"

  "I'm exhausted–not on my best behavior," Savva said with a honeyed smile. Rallis grunted and dropped the headphones on the desk. "What do you have?"

  "A name."

  "A name is great."

  "Matthias Papatonis. We ran the prints through Greece's criminal records database first. It produced an interesting result. "

  "You're as bad as he is," Savva said, he thrust his thumb in Stelios' direction. "Get to the point, please."

  "Matthias Papatonis is, or rather was, mafía."

  "What?"

  Rallis nodded and walked over to his desk where the file lay. Their victim, very much alive, glared from a fifteen-year-old photograph. Stelios leaned over, nose to nose with the paper.

  "What did he do for them?"

  "I'm not sure. It's not like the mafía puts advertisements in the newspapers with job descriptions."

  "Guess."

  "According to the arrest reports, I'd postulate your victim was some sort of enforcer."

  "Enforcing what?" Stelios asked, still hunched over the photo.

  "Not sure. It could've been anything from burglary to murder, but you can bet whatever it was, it wasn't legal."

  "I haven't heard of a Matthias Papatonis," Savva said.

  "I'm not surprised. Most of these guys fly under the radar."

  "Send this along will you?"

  Savva schlepped out of forensics and up the flights of stairs to his office. He opened the door. All that was visible in the dark outline was his desk on one wall and the wardrobe on the other. The blinds were closed. The air was stuffy and bland. Savva flung open the curtains, shoved open the stiff window, and gestured for Stelios to sit.

  "Is Adam Harris coming in?" Savva asked as he fell into his black leather desk chair.

  Stelios reposed against the doorjamb. "Should be here in about a half hour."

  Savva examined his watch. "Make sure you leave today in enough time to buy wine."

  "Fyskiá."

  Stelios fled the office before Savva could ask any more. Savva, however, leaned closer to his computer and opened the email Private Kaikas had sent with the photos of the crime scene. He studied them until they blurred into unrecognizable squares and rectangles. Stelios poked his head into Savva's office and announced that Adam Harris had been escorted upstairs.

  * * *

  Savva strode into the small interview room. It was tiled in a faded grey linoleum and had only one small window that gazed onto the burnt red stucco building opposite, and was furnished with a small round table, that wobbled from one too-short leg, and three black chairs. Adam Harris stood and shook Savva's hand.

  "Mr. Harris. Welcome. Thank you for coming."

  "It's the least I could do."

  Savva scooted closer to their guest. Adam Harris wore a green linen button up shirt, brown trousers, and a pair of mahogany colored loafers, all of excellent quality. But his face was pale and his fingers cracked; blood tricked from a cut on his thumb next to his shapely fingernail.

  "How is your stay?" Stelios asked when the silence grew to an uncomfortable breadth.

  Savva glared, reducing Stelios to a silent bystander.

  "It was fine until this morning, Sergeant."

  "Of course, I apologize."

  Adam Harris nodded graciously. He pivoted to Savva, hand
s outstretched, eyes wide, and waited for the arbiter of his fate to speak.

  "Why'd you go hiking this morning, Mr. Harris?"

  "Call me Adam," he said. "I suppose I wanted to get out and see the island."

  "Why that particular hike?"

  Adam frowned, his lips parted, and then shut again. "I didn't plan on it. My wife spoke to an employee at our hotel and he told her some trails to try. He said the ... the mountain was particularly splendid. And it was. Until ..."

  "It does have a magnificent view of the island," Savva said. Adam heaved a sigh; he covered his face with a shaking hand. "What time did you arrive at the trailhead?"

  "Six fifteen ... six thirty. I stretched and ate a protein bar before I started."

  "What time did you arrive at the summit?"

  "About eight."

  "Forgive me, what time did you find the body?"

  "Eight o'clock."

  "Are you sure?" Savva pressed.

  Adam leaned away, hooked his right leg over his left, and shook his head. "Of course I'm sure."

  "Mr. Harris, I hiked that trail at eleven am, in the sun. I'm an old man, and I managed to finish in an hour. Why did it take you an hour and a half?"

  "I took my time," Adam sputtered.

  Savva leaned forward so his fingers rested on Adam's chair. "Why don't you tell us what happened?"

  "I am!" Adam sputtered.

  Savva sat contentedly as though he had all the time in the world. He nudged Stelios under the table so he wouldn't interrupt. Minutes passed. Sweat broke out on Adam's forehead; he studied the ceiling, the table, the floor, everything but the policemen's eyes. His chair screeched and squealed on the linoleum floor as he sought to make himself comfortable.

  "I found him at seven thirty," he whispered.

  Savva smiled as benevolently as Pope Francis. "Then what happened?"

  "It took me an hour; like you said. When I finished I dangled my feet over the edge. From above Mitilini is gorgeous and so silent. My wife and I have had difficulties, not the typical marital strife. I craved silence."

  "Go on," Savva prompted.

  "It seemed a shame to hike all the way and not explore. I almost slipped off the edge in one spot. I think I dislodged a loose rock. That's when I saw him. I jumped out of my skin. I couldn't breathe or think. I shut down." Adam buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook. When he spoke again the words were muffled. "He was sprawled out on the ground, one leg at an angle, arms splayed out; like he'd tried to crawl away. I don't know what happened. I took a step closer and before I knew it he was against the rock. I don't remember moving him ... but I did." Adam collapsed against his chair, and clutched his arms to stop the shaking.