A Solitary Reaper

by Rachael Wright

  "Captain Savva. What a disappointing surprise."

  An impish smile slid onto Savva's face and he smiled serenely at the frustrated man in front of him. Anthony Goldstein could be definitively described as a grey man; grey hair parted with a ruler, flat grey eyes, and a lined neglected Renaissance-painting face. Beyond the lack of color or life, lay a man in control, of everything from his garden to his businesses: a spider at the center of a thick ever-expanding web.

  But Savva did not smile because Anthony Goldstein was so obviously frustrated. His left eye was a swollen mass of purple and yellow and his left arm was in a pristine white sling. What happy chance of fate had brought this about?"

  "Kalimera, Mr. Goldstein. If I may say so, you look terrible."

  Goldstein sunk into a sofa opposite; uninjured arm flung out, like a bird in flight, along the back, and smoothed his burgundy velvet smoking jacket. "Just a small accident."

  "Did a fist accidentally end up in your eye?"

  Anthony Goldstein shook his head. "What happy occasion has brought you to my home, Captain Savva? Certainly you're not here to discuss a minor fall I had?"

  "Murder."

  "Another one?"

  Savva perked. "Another one?"

  "Poor John Fitzroy."

  Savva shook his head. "One couldn't describe John Fitzroy as poor; literally or figuratively."

  Goldstein's bushy eyebrows cocked in amusement. "No. He couldn't be."

  "Are you still in contact with the mafía, Mr. Goldstein?"

  Goldstein blinked once, sighed, and shook his head. "Is this an interrogation?"

  "Are you in contact with any current or former members of the mafía?"

  "Alas, I can't answer with any degree of certainty," Goldstein said. "In my life I've found people are rarely truthful."

  "And your injuries?"

  "Not mafía related, happily."

  "What do you know about a man named Matthias Papatonis?"

  "Papatonis? It's not an uncommon name."

  "He worked for the mafía in Athens."

  Goldstein cocked his head. "Did he? I'm sure you know far more than I do."

  "I doubt it. I think that world is exceedingly familiar to you."

  Goldstein looked askance at Savva. "It is a world which is illegal, Captain."

  "Have you ever heard of Matthias Papatonis?"

  Goldstein cocked his head and stared beyond Savva to the razor edges of the garden. "As I said the surname isn't uncommon. It's possible I've met him before. Why?"

  It was Savva's turn to stare at the garden as Goldstein's eyes bored into his. "He was murdered."

  Goldstein inhaled audibly. "Was he?"

  "You've lost your touch, Anthony. A few years ago you knew everything that happened on this island. Is the strangle-hold slipping?"

  Goldstein's lined face inexplicably smoothed out. "You flatter me, Alexandros. Imagine me ... a head of some criminal enterprise. Why it's so ludicrous it's dangerously close to libel."

  "Remember what I promised you after Fitzroy died?"

  Goldstein leaned forward, his hands collapsed into fists, his eyes flat. "You don't have a thing on me."

  "Oh, but I do. You can, however, defer your sentence, for a while, and incur my goodwill, if you provide information on Matthias. And not just any information."

  The air between them rippled. One man a coil of anger and energy and the other languid and peaceful on the comfortable couch. Savva raised his brows. He let the silence draw out, let it fester and ferment.

  "Fine. I'll get you what you need."

  "You have three days."

  "Fine," Goldstein grunted.

  Savva rose and walked across to Goldstein and placed a heavy hand on the man's velvet jacket. He whispered into Goldstein's ear. The lines and wrinkles sprung back into place and Goldstein glanced.

  "You couldn't know that."

  Savva beamed, he patted the Goldstein's shaking shoulder, and left, taking care to slap his boots across the terrace.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning found Savva saying goodbye to his wife once more in the driveway of Davonna's pink and white mansion. He watched her saunter across the drive to the house and sighed. Worry battered his mind, an insidious, unexplainable mounting sense of impending drama. Was it unprofessional to call in sick to work to hover around Shayma all day ... just to make sure she was safe?

  As Shayma mounted the wide marble steps and he contemplated the ramifications of what Kleitos would call 'dereliction of duty'. Savva lingered in the drive long after his wife had disappeared into the house. His sense of unease had not lessened and he felt no particular urge to present himself at work this morning. Other cars arrived as he stared at the mansion entrance. They crushed around the Saab to the side of the house. Women exited these cars, their heads cocked towards each other, clutching lattes and manila folders, which they used to fan themselves. They didn't look at the silver Saab or at its ambivalent driver but moved with singular purpose. Savva started the car, turned out of the drive, and drove down the winding sea road. The weight of Matthias' murder settled on his shoulders with a groan.

  They knew nothing about Matthias Papatonis–except for one word, one small word, a word so full of insidious meaning and innuendo. But Savva wasn't convinced. Thanos and Eleni were right; the murder didn't have the hallmarks of a mafía hit. And why now? Why on the top of a mountain? Why not in a back alley in Athens? Why on Lesvos? There was an answer to each of these questions and once they were answered everything would fall into place, until then he slogged on.

  The phone rang and Savva listened to a nasally assistant asking him to come by the medical examiner's office at Dr. Panteleon's request. He agreed, put down the phone, and stopped to let a gaggle of bright-eyed, sweaty tourists cross the road. A tour guide, wearing a red hat and clutching a yellow flag, was the last of her group to cross the road. The Saab groaned forward. Savva turned down a one-way side street that led to Efstratiou Vostani and the hospital.

  Apart from its size little enough set apart Mitilini's hospital from its neighbors. It had the same white stucco, and the same red-orange tiled roof: icons of the island, which radiated across Mitilini like ripples on a garden pond. Savva trudged across the lot, stepping over potholes and cracks, ignoring the whimpering stares of those walking past, hobbling on crutches, or holding an arm, or grimacing with each step.

  In the lobby, where a collective whirr of four white fans was insufficient to dispel the heat, he passed nurses in blue scrubs, kitchen aides pushing carts filled with the desiccated remains of lunch trays, and walked through wide over-bright corridors, to descend to the morgue. It wasn't the chill, but the silence, that pricked him–that sent his spine tingling. The silence weighed heavily on police officers who made crude jokes, on orderlies who spoke in monosyllables, and on doctors who chain-smoked in a tight circle next to the dumpsters.

  He opened the grey door at the bottom of the staircase and stepped into another white corridor. Bodies wrapped in black bags lined both sides of the hallway. Savva held his breath as he stepped out of the safety of the doorway. The cemeteries were filled. Lesvos was an island caught in perpetual mourning and Matthias Papatonis had found the only shred of urgency the government had left. The island was being buried alive under with the weight of the fleeing masses, pulled beneath the waves by the drowning.

  "You're quick!" Dr. Panteleon materialized out of the shadows and Savva jumped out of the way, hitting his hip against a gurney.

  "Warn someone next time," Savva grumbled, smoothed his jacket, and put his 'weary of ineptitude' mask back on.

  "You're the most fun to rattle."

  "I shall inform my colleagues of their shortcomings," Savva said as they weaved their way through the hallways. "Aren't you a little cliché? A pathologist trying to scare people to death?"

  "Isn't a grumpy cop also cliché? How many times has Hollywood done that?"

  "Touché."

  "Are you ready?" Lena a
sked.

  Her bright white, straight teeth shone in the dim lighting and she neither scanned nor seemed to notice the bodies grouped around them.

  "Lead on," Savva said.

  Dr. Panteleon motioned Savva into a small room with four occupied stainless steel gurneys. She squeezed between them and the wall, her white coat caught on a hook, which held a pair of pruning shears, and she pulled it free. At the furthest gurney from the door, Dr. Panteleon laid her hand on the exposed metal rail by which it was maneuvered. With a small sigh she pulled the white sheet down to expose Matthias' head and chest.

  "Rigor mortis had begun to pass by the time he was found. Lividity settled all down the front of his body. You can see where his body touched the ground," she said pointing to white patches on the tops of Papatonis' thighs, chest, and arms. "It's called contact flattening. The pressure has prevented gravitation of blood to these areas. He spent enough time prone on his stomach that the blood pooled. He didn't die where we found him–on that rock."

  "Adam Harris admitted to moving him."

  "One question answered," she nodded.

  "When'd he die?"

  "I'd estimate he died twenty-four to twenty-six hours ago."

  "Just a day?" Savva asked quietly, still staring at the strange white patches of skin.

  "You're lucky it wasn't a week. Moving him would have been perilous to say the least."

  Savva shook his head. "Cause of death?"

  "Blunt force trauma to the occipital bone," she pointed. "It caused such irreversible damage that his brain wouldn't have been able to function. I've cataloged every scratch, bruise, and scar on his body, but none of them are what you'd classify as defensive wounds. There are some scratches on his knees and palms. He probably fell to his knees and then tried to crawl away from his attacker. Unfortunately he didn't have the chance. Poor man."

  Dr. Panteleon and Savva leaned together over the body, but while Lena saw answers, he only saw more questions. Why was there a small v-shaped scar on the man's left hand in the groove where his thumb met his pointer finger? Why was his hair so well groomed? Why were his hands devoid of calluses?

  Savva leaned against the neighboring gurney. "Anything else?"

  "There is one this," Lena said. She walked over to a desk in the corner. "I found particles in the wound cavity."

  "From what?"

  "I'm not sure. I sent it to forensics. It looked red. It's most likely from the murder weapon."

  Savva blinked, picturing the back of the head and the mess it was. "How on earth did you find it?"

  "I am an expert, Captain. I can tell the difference between the red of tissue and blood and a foreign substance."

  "My apologies," Savva said. "Any guesses on what it is?"

  Dr. Panteleon sighed and bit her lip. "I came across particles like this when I worked in Athens after the earthquake. I'd put good money on a brick."

  "A brick?"

  "You'll have to wait for forensics to confirm."

  "Where's it from?"

  Dr. Panteleon turned away from the desk and gave a Savva a withering look. "How on earth would I know? You're the detective, Alexandros, go out and detect. I have more bodies to get through."

  "I'll leave you to it. Thanks."

  Savva stole one last look at Matthias' body before Lena covered it. He couldn't see the Y shaped incision on Matthias' chest nor could he see the back of the head where the brain had already been removed. But he could see a healthy man with decades ahead of him. His hands in to the pockets of his slacks, walked the hallways of the dead, flew up the stairs, across the lobby, over the parking lot, opened the car door, and collapsed into the seat.

  The brick. There were none on the trail. Not a fragment.

  * * *

  Savva started the car, blasted the air conditioning, and stared at an olive tree which hung over his car like a weighted fishing pole. The leaves twisted and shuddered and the shade they provided was meager. With the air conditioning running and the soft hum of the leaves he could fall asleep, but as though God must've heard this: his phone went off like a canon blast. He answered it without bothering to check whom the caller was.

  "Savva."

  "Captain Savva," an unfamiliar voice said, "Colonel Kleitos has asked that you to brief him on your current case. At your convenience, of course."

  "Which one?"

  "I ... um?"

  "I have thirteen cases on my desk right now. Which one does Colonel Kleitos want to discuss? I'd like to be properly prepared," Savva said.

  On some days this was his only source of joy: playing dumb with Kleitos and his lackeys–it was obvious by this new voice that Kleitos had replaced his last secretary. While some greased the wheel of corruption, Savva liked to think of himself as baking soda, gently and invisibly wiping the grease away.

  "The murder, Sir."

  "Ah, yes," Savva said as though he'd completely forgotten yesterday's trudge up the side of Lesvos to retrieve a dead body. "When would he like to meet?"

  "Tomorrow morning at eight."

  "Eight am?" Kleitos rarely, if ever, trudged into headquarters before eleven, and a morning meeting might be a sign of the second coming.

  "Colonel Kleitos has a meeting with the Inspector General in the afternoon."

  "Ah." It all made such sense. "I'll be there at eight," Savva said and hung up.

  Ten minutes later he pulled up outside of headquarters to find Stelios propped up against the building like a ladder. He appeared thinner than yesterday and peered around corners like a mid-level drug dealer.

  "Kalimera, Sir."

  Savva glanced sideways at his sergeant, taking in the rumpled shirt and the belt put on the wrong way. It should be one continuous line, from shirt to belt to trousers. The army had drilled it into him when he'd had done his required two years of military service. His lips twitched with the burning desire to tell Stelios to fix it.

  "Kalimera," Savva said, his usual grunt more of a kindly growl.

  "It a bit of deja vu; interviewing more hotel employees."

  Savva grunted noncommittally. Stelios made a comment about the heat but all that Savva could think of was the imminent arrival of the Inspector General for the North Aegean Region: the man who'd permanently stalled his career. One day Stelios and Kaikas would be promoted above him ... and the baking soda would remain a captain.

  It was with this unhappy thought that Savva turned into The Loriet Hotel's cobblestone drive and hopped out of the Saab. Stelios meanwhile, poured himself out, like molasses.

  "Captain Savva." Maria Iliadou strode out of the hotel, her hands clasped elegantly in front of a white sheath dress with a black velvet ribbon tied around her thin waist. "I've gathered my employees. Do you wish to speak to them individually or all at once?"

  "All at once," Savva said. He closed the door of the Saab with a thrust of his hip and nodded to Stelios who was intent on tucking in his shirt. "This is my sergeant, Stelios Booras."

  "Maria Iliadou," she said, holding out a manicured hand.

  "Pleasure," Stelios croaked.

  Maria strode in front of them. Savva leaned over and hissed into his sergeant's ear. "What was your fiancé's name?"

  "I can't remember."

  Savva smiled and followed Maria's swaying hips through the wide lobby and out to the courtyard–the far end of which held the pool. A great group of staff, outfitted mostly in white, milled about in small clusters; like olives on the branch. Maria's beige heels clicked across the cobblestones until she came to stand under a squat palm tree. Every eye turned to her with stares of readiness, admiration, and thinly veiled lust.

  "This is Captain Savva and Sergeant Booras from the Hellenic Police. They have a few questions for you. You've all been asked to add your name and contact details to this list." She pointed to a clipboard being passed around in the front row. "Captain Savva?"

  Savva stepped forward and watched as the group reoriented themselves to face him. "Two days ago, one of your guests,
Mr. Adam Harris, found a body at the top of Mt Lepetimnos. His wife Jane remembers a male member of staff recommending the hike to her. Mrs. Harris does not recollect when this was or the man's name. If any of you remember discussing this with either of them, I ask you to inform us."

  Blank looks met Savva's question and many frowning faces turned to their neighbor and quietly asked to be reminded who the guest in question was. "Who died, Sir?" a broad voice said.

  Savva and Booras leaned forward as one. "Who asked that?"

  A man, in his late-thirties stepped forward. "I did, Sir."

  His face was lined and weather-beaten, a well-trimmed beard framed a pair of shrewd green eyes. Short black hair stood on end, it had begun the slow process of greying, and the sides were sprinkled with white. The hands were the size of dinner plates.

  "And you are?"

  "Kostas."

  Savva threw back his shoulders. "Kostas, we are in the early stages of the investigation and haven't released the name yet."

  Silence fell again. The white uniformed staff shuffled from foot to foot, but no one stepped forward. Savva could hear Stelios deflating next to him.

  "No one?" Blank faces were reflected back to him, like satellite dishes. "Thank you for your time, if you remember anything, please contact either myself or Sergeant Booras."

  Savva gave them the number he could be reached at and as one, they turned and dispersed, their white tennis shoes padding over the cobblestones.

  "And you, Ms. Ilaidou, did the Harris' ask you about trails to hike in the area?"

  "No, they didn't. I'm not much of a hiker. I'd rather be at the beach," she said and smiled at Stelios as though he'd understand. Stelios was only too happy to oblige.

  "Thank you for your time, Ms. Iliadou." Savva extended his hand, shook Maria's, and turned on his heel.

  Long moments ticked by before he heard Stelios' ungainly step behind him. As they crossed the sheltered drive, a curtain twitched on the second story. Mrs. Harris' face was framed in the late-morning light, her forehead creased, and her lips pursed. Savva touched an invisible hat brim in salute and smiled at her glowering visage. It was only when he'd put his hand on the door of the Saab did he realize that Maria had followed them out.