The Lords of Time

by Eva García Sáenz

  “Anything else, Doctor Guevara?”

  “Well, yes, but it’s a bit off-topic. I have the DNA results from the blood found at the scene of the Nájera sisters’ disappearance.”

  “Tell us,” Estí urged.

  “All of the blood we found on the bedroom carpet belongs to the younger sister. I don’t know if that helps you at all. We took DNA samples from the girls’ parents, and forensics brought me both the sisters’ dirty laundry. The blood matches the DNA we found on three pieces of the younger sister’s clothing. That’s all I have for now.”

  Just then, Alba’s cell phone began to vibrate. She looked at the message and frowned.

  “Doctor Guevara, please let us know when you have more information for us. And thanks for everything.”

  She shot Estíbaliz and me a worried look.

  “It’s Superintendent Medina. He’s calling an emergency meeting. That can’t be a good sign.”

  We left the room in silence. We now had two cases on our hands, and there was too much to process, too much to resolve.

  We walked into a dark room. A projector cast photographs of the two sisters onto the wall. Estefanía looked shy and was slightly overweight. Oihana had extraordinary hair that reached her waist. It was her defining feature. Her image was the one featured on the posters plastered on every wall in the city. The superintendent waved his hand brusquely, indicating that we should take a seat. He remained standing.

  “We’ve been working on Operation Frozen for two weeks, and we’ve had no success. Now we have a new death to investigate. You can imagine how quickly the brass wants us to clear up the mystery surrounding Antón Lasaga’s death. Was it natural causes, suicide, accident, or homicide? So let’s go over everything case by case: first, bring me up to speed on the disappearance of the two girls?”

  “We’re looking for two minors,” Estíbaliz replied, stepping in. “Estefanía and Oihana Nájera. Sisters—sixteen and twelve years old, respectively. The older one is a responsible girl. The younger one is still very much a child and rebellious. Their parents are young, and both of them teach at the Jesús Guridi Conservatoire. Bassoon and cello. They own their own home on Calle Pintorería, middling income. The father says his daughters got along well. However, the mother admits the two girls argued a lot, which she attributes to differences in age and personality. On the night the girls disappeared, the parents went out for dinner with their cuadrilla and left the younger one in the care of her older sister. They returned home at twenty past one, and the girls were gone. Nobody came through that entrance between the time the parents left for dinner and the time they returned. We’ve checked all the security cameras in the nearby shops. I don’t know how to explain it, and I know you’ll say it’s impossible and you’ll tell us to watch the footage again, but we’ve already gone over it multiple times—”

  “Before you ask your next question,” I butted in, “there wasn’t much traffic in the street. The girls disappeared at the end of August, on a weeknight. Vitoria was empty: most people hadn’t returned from their holidays. There are no vehicles blocking the doorway—we had a clear view. When it comes to the home itself, that’s where things start to seem strange. When the parents got back to their apartment, the second on the right, the front door was locked from the inside. That isn’t odd, they always did that when they left the girls on their own. And the windows were closed. Also, Estefanía’s cell phone was switched off at 10:38, which seems strange for a teenager, unless she went to bed early, but her parents didn’t think that was likely. The younger sister didn’t have a phone. But the most worrying thing of all is the trace of blood on the carpet in the older girl’s bedroom. Doctor Guevara has just confirmed that it’s Oihana’s.”

  “How much blood?”

  “Barely twelve milliliters. Not life-threatening, if that’s what you’re wondering. She didn’t bleed to death, at least not in the apartment. Forensics also inspected the stairs and the entrance to the building, but they didn’t find any more blood. No money or clothes were taken. The parents don’t think the girls ran away. They were good students, no drug problems, and there was nothing unusual in the older daughter’s social media accounts. The idea that this was a kidnapping for ransom grows weaker as more time goes by: No one has tried to contact the family. Both Inspector Ruiz de Gauna and I have been in constant communication with the parents, and we don’t think they’re lying. We’ve also been tracking them, and Officer Milán Martínez is monitoring their bank accounts. There are no transfers that imply that they’re receiving money behind our backs or asking friends for help. That trace of blood makes me fear the worst. An assailant could have hit Oihana on the head to subdue her and keep Estefanía in line, or the two sisters could have argued. It’s difficult to reconstruct the events, and we can’t establish why they disappeared. We’re not convinced that it was a kidnapping for ransom or that the two of them ran away: they would have nowhere to go, and no way to earn money.”

  I listened to Estíbaliz walk the superintendent through the investigation. I was extremely concerned about the direction our suspicions were leading us.

  “What do you think, Inspector López de Ayala?” the superintendent asked. He sat on the table in front of the projector’s light. The girl’s pictures flashing across his body were disturbing.

  “We need to let the crime scene speak.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I sounded crazy. Sometimes I talk through things as though I am alone.

  “What’s that?”

  Alba looked at me as if to say, Please don’t rile him up.

  “The scene is staged,” I corrected myself.

  “Can you explain?”

  “On one hand, it’s a typical locked-room mystery. The doors were locked from the inside, and the victims vanished into thin air….On the other hand, we have the younger sister’s blood, which suggests a struggle, violence of some kind, and also points us toward the older sister, leading us to believe that she may have hurt the younger one or accidentally caused her death. But we’ve inspected the furniture, the walls, and the floor, and there’s no trace of the girl’s DNA on any other surface. Nor have we found a weapon. It must have been a weapon of convenience, something with enough weight to open her scalp. That’s why I’m saying the scene is staged to confuse us—it takes us in two completely different directions.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “We keep looking for them, alive or dead. But we must avoid committing to any theory about what happened until they turn up or their bodies are found. The scene of their disappearance is deceptive; it’s designed to distract us from what’s really important, which is finding them. But we’re not going to be distracted. We’re going to continue Operation Frozen.”

  We were interrupted by a timid knock at the door.

  “Milán, you don’t have to knock,” Alba told her for the umpteenth time. “You’re part of the team.”

  Officer Milán Martínez had been with us for three years. She was still a clumsy giant who covered her desk in garish Post-it notes. She had become close friends with Estíbaliz and Alba. The three went hiking in the hills every weekend to try to forget the strain of their jobs. Deputy Inspector Manu Peña adored Milán—treated her like she was a goddess of love, sex, and romance—but she had dropped him. Now I often found myself consoling the violinist over drinks in the city center.

  Milán slipped into the darkened room without opening the door all the way and took an orange Post-it out of her pocket.

  “I’ve got a message,” she said, doing her best to read it even though none of the lights in the room were on. “Cantharis. The toxicology lab just called Doctor Guevara and confirmed that they found two grams of Lytta vesicatoria in the victim’s body.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” the superintendent pressed.

  “The victim was killed with cantharis, also known as blister be
etle, or Spanish fly.”

  6

  THE OLD FORGE

  DIAGO VELA

  Winter, the Year of Our Lord 1192

  When I regained consciousness, a beak was pecking at my head.

  “Stop, for heaven’s sake! That’s enough,” I shouted.

  “You’re alive!” Alix de Salcedo said.

  “Can you get this beast off me?” I begged, pushing aside the timbers that had fallen on top of me.

  I looked at the confusion all around: people were moaning and crying and trying to help each other.

  “How did you find me?”

  “It was Munio. He remembers you from yesterday,” Alix said in a concerned tone. “I can see you’re as blue as ever, so I know you’re all right.”

  “I’m blue? Like a dead person?” I asked, puzzled.

  “No, it’s not that,” she explained hastily. “It’s just…well, don’t tell anyone, they’ll think I’m mad, but…my senses are linked: colors have a smell, and sounds have a taste. To me, everyone has a distinct color. I’ve always been this way.”

  “And I’m blue?” I asked, smiling. I reached up to feel a huge lump forming on the side of my head.

  “It’s as though you have a slice of the sea in your eyes. The blue anchors you and weighs you down, but also defines you. It’s so strange that you come from a town in the interior.”

  “What about the others? Or am I the only walking rainbow?”

  “Gunnarr is white. Your cousin Héctor, the Lord of Castillo, is earth-colored. Count Nagorno is red—do you want me to go on?”

  “I would, you know,” I said, as she helped me to my feet, “but first let’s determine who’s alive and who’s dead, and help the wounded if we can.”

  I was still slightly dizzy, but I tried to assist everyone I could. As I was tending the injured, I overheard enough to make it clear that some people from Nova Victoria were blaming those from Villa de Suso for the accident.

  “We hear such things every day now.” Alix sighed. “Whenever a misfortune strikes, we all accuse one another.”

  * * *

  —

  Four locals died, and news of the calamity spread so rapidly along the road to Pamplona that the next day the inhabitants of nearby villages came to the funeral carrying candles.

  A procession of priests and nuns entered the North Gate, accompanying García de Pamplona, a protégé of the Count de Maestu and the youngest bishop ever appointed. He was only seventeen, but his diplomatic skills made him welcome at any court. I had met him in Tudela and thought highly of him. We considered ourselves cousins. He felt the same way about Onneca, and we could all see that the affection was mutual when she flung herself into his arms the moment he dismounted. Even though the snowfall had brought a chill to the air, the bishop wore only a chasuble. He didn’t seem to need anything more. The nuns accompanying him on their donkeys looked at him adoringly.

  “So much misfortune all at once, cousin! I came as soon as I heard. I will officiate at your father’s funeral and the ones of those who perished here.”

  “I thank you, cousin,” she replied, maintaining her composure.

  * * *

  —

  The funerals over, I called in at the family forge on the way to my home in Rúa de la Astería.

  Alix was giving orders to apprentices who were unloading ore from our mines at Bagoeta. Lyra ruled her blacksmiths with a firm hand.

  “You haven’t yet told me all that’s going on in town, Lyra. It seems quite different now. The two neighborhoods are at each other’s throats.”

  She nodded and motioned for Alix to come over. I kept a close eye on Munio; the owl glared at me threateningly but didn’t move from the courtyard roof.

  “My brother wants to know about the town, Alix. Tell him what worries us as inhabitants of Villa de Suso.”

  “In your absence, the noble families from the surrounding villages have taken control of the town gates,” Alix explained, taking a break from her hammering. “The Mendoza family, whose tower is at Martioda to the north, have just won the right to charge a tithe on fruit, despite opposition from the deceased Count de Maestu. Your brother, Nagorno, in his capacity as Count Vela, won over the council. People are angry here because on Calle de las Pescaderías, they’re now only allowed to sell fish from the sea. To avoid paying the toll, the women must sell river fish in the Santa María Cemetery outside the walls. You left a well-governed town, but I’m afraid that the Victoria you missed so much no longer exists.”

  7

  ARMENTIA

  UNAI

  September 2019

  “What does that mean?” asked Superintendent Medina.

  “Antón Lasaga ingested a lethal dose of a substance that has been used as an aphrodisiac since the Middle Ages,” Alba explained. “We’ll open a new line of inquiry with that in mind. What else, Milán?”

  “Boss, the victim’s two sons are at the front desk. They’re eager to speak to Inspector Kraken.”

  I sighed. To my chagrin, I had been the visible face of the Criminal Investigation Unit for three years, since Tasio Ortiz de Zárate had uploaded my photograph onto the Internet. As a result, anyone who had a problem with the law, or something to report, or even a suspicion turned up at police headquarters at Portal de Foronda and asked for Inspector Kraken. Estí concealed a smile, the rat.

  “I can see you’ve got your work cut out for you. I expect you’ll have some answers for me soon,” said the superintendent, leaving the room, cell phone in hand.

  “Have them sent up. Let’s see if they have anything interesting to tell us. Estí, Milán, you come with me,” I said, dragging them downstairs.

  “So we have a dead man with an erection,” said Estíbaliz.

  “He didn’t have an erection. That only happens with hanged men,” I retorted.

  “Yes, but he wanted to get one. He took a medieval Viagra.”

  “That’s what we’re going to check. I’m not convinced.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m worried about the statistics. Most homicides that target women are sexual attacks or incidents of domestic violence. When men are killed, it’s usually the result of a physical assault, a settling of accounts, or…God forbid, a random predatory attack.”

  “No one wants to see predators in Vitoria. If it turns out that Antón Lasaga was a random victim, it’s going to make it impossible for us to find a link that leads to the perpetrator.”

  “My fear exactly, Estí. What we saw in the restrooms in Villa Suso…the victim hadn’t been restrained, immobilized, or even hit. He went to the bathroom of his own accord,” I said. Just then, we arrived at the small interview room where the Lasaga brothers were waiting for us.

  They were both much shorter than me and appeared to be in their early thirties. The one with the darker complexion—curly hair, business-school handshake—took the initiative.

  “Inspector Kraken, I believe?”

  “Inspector López de Ayala, in fact. I’m sorry for your loss. I imagine you must have a difficult day ahead of you.”

  “Indeed. And because of that, I’ll come straight to the point. I am one of four siblings: five, counting my sister. The others are handling the funeral arrangements. My brother and I came because…”

  He tapped me on the arm in a gesture that implied a trust we didn’t yet share. “Why don’t you sit down? That way we’ll be more comfortable.”

  “Of course.” I glanced at Estíbaliz and nodded. “This is my colleague, Inspector Ruiz de Gauna. We were the ones who found your father. You already know Officer Milán Martínez.”

  “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.” He cleared his throat and ignored Estí and Milán, who remained on their feet behind him.

  The other brother also sat down, silent as a statue, his face solemn.
<
br />   I turned to the more talkative brother. “Take it away…?”

  “Andoni. I’m Andoni Lasaga, Antón’s eldest son.”

  “I see. I’d love to hear more about why you were so eager to talk to me, but first, maybe you can tell us a little bit about your father and the rest of your family.”

  “Well, my mother died a few months ago. She and my father were close. We’re a traditional family, and they had an old-fashioned marriage. My father was devastated when she died.”

  I nodded. I believed he was telling me the truth—at least, that’s what the wedding ring we found on a chain around the victim’s neck implied. If a recently widowed man wanted to use an aphrodisiac before a date, wouldn’t he take off his dead wife’s ring? It seemed like a counterintuitive way of moving on.

  “What I’m trying to say is…everything is happening very quickly. First my mother, in a car accident. Then my father…”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Not to trust her,” he breathed in a whisper that cracked like a whip.

  “Andoni!” his younger brother exclaimed in horror.

  “It’s true! They need to know, don’t they?”

  “Who is ‘her’?” asked Estíbaliz.

  “Our sister, Irene, the middle child. She was our father’s favorite, his only daughter, always purring on his lap. She brainwashed him. She’s a fortune hunter; she wants it all for herself.”

  “Andoni, this is too much! I thought you wanted me to come to the police station with you to ask about our father, not so that you could accuse our sister. My God, you’re really obsessed!”

  “She’s brainwashed you, too. That’s what she does. She’s a born manipulator, a psychopath. You’re an expert in psychopathy, why don’t you talk to her, Inspector Kraken?”