Human Sacrifice

by Cindy L Hull

Claire flinched. “No, I won’t give it to you, but I’ll take it to the authorities if required.” She would not relinquish her camera, or even her memory card, unless she was attached to it.

  The two officers turned away and discussed the stubbornness of the anthropologist in their indigenous language. The ancient Mayan language didn’t have the vocabulary to discuss such modern concepts as camera, memory card, or uppity anthropologists, so their conversation consisted of both Mayan and Spanish.

  Claire listened carefully to their exchange. She mustered her Mayan language skills and broke into their huddle, saying, “I did what I thought was right.”

  The officers stared at her and then smiled. Their mood altered, as suddenly there existed kinship, of a sort, between them.

  Constable Pech said, “Señora, you can take your camera. But the Merida police may request it and you will have to obey.”

  “Entiendo, I understand,” Claire said, and gave him her name, hotel, and phone number. “Perhaps you need the information for other witnesses?”

  Pech nodded, “Ni’bo’olal.” Thank you.

  Claire explained the request to the tourists who remained, and Deputy Tun made his way around the circle to collect contact information. The tourists had wandered off by the time Tun approached the Keane College group. After Cody provided his contact information, Claire asked him if he knew how to contact Paul’s family.

  “What?” Cody asked, confused, as Claire explained her question to the deputy.

  “Paul’s parents. Do you have their phone numbers?”

  “I’m not sure.” Cody reached into his pocket, retrieved his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He sniffled and nodded. Tun handed him his notebook and pencil.

  The chore of writing the parents’ names and checking his own phone for phone numbers calmed him, but he raised his head in a jerk when he saw the medics carry the body away.

  “Wait! Wait for me!” He stood, dropping the pad and paper, and ran after the medics.

  “No, Señor,” said Constable Pech, reaching for Cody’s sleeve. “No puede ir!”

  Jamal ran to Cody’s side and urged him back to the officer. “Cody, you can’t go with them.”

  “He can’t go alone!”

  “They’ll take care of him,” Claire said, handing him the pad and pencil. Cody watched as the ambulance started up and crept down the walkway toward the parking lot. He took a deep breath and concentrated on his chore. When he finished, he passed the notebook to the constable.

  Jamal announced that they should hurry for the buses, but this news didn’t increase the sense of urgency for the Keane College entourage. They proceeded toward the Cultural Center like refugees, exhausted and dragging their feet along the path, the tragedy of the event weighing on them.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Monday Morning

  Claire glanced at her watch as she waited for the elevator. She was late for breakfast with her colleagues, and the elevators were unusually slow as the conferees descended to the lobby for morning sessions. Claire squeezed in among the scholars who, credential badges dangling around their necks, shifted their positions to allow her in. As she settled into her allotted twelve inches of space, conversations that had paused as she entered resumed. It didn’t surprise her that they were discussing the poor man who fell from the pyramid. Claire listened, but did not join the muted conversation.

  A short, round man, who took up more than his share of the elevator, added, “I heard the guy was giving his paper today.”

  The elevator stopped on the next floor, the door opened, and three anthropologists groaned as they realized they wouldn’t fit. The door closed, and the elevator jerked into action.

  A young man, whose badge identified him as a graduate student from Florida, picked up the conversation. “Today? Really?”

  Those who could access their programs in the cramped space opened them up to the morning sessions and someone read off the male presenters: Sturgess, Muñoz, DeHaan.

  Another woman said, “Do you think it’s the distinguished lecturer, Eduardo Ramirez?”

  “It’s Paul Sturgess,” Claire said quietly.

  The door opened on the lobby, and Claire plunged into the chaos of anthropologists reacquainting themselves with fellow scholars they saw only at conferences. Claire paused at a tall easel that held a poster with the daily presentations. The first presentation, by Paul Sturgess, was marked: “Canceled.”

  Claire quickened her pace, her leather sandals squeaking on the polished tile floors. She had tried for years to overcome the “Mexican Time” gene that she blamed for her predisposition of rushing into department meetings and classrooms at the last moment. She tried to be prompt, but something always delayed her—that last-minute student demanding a grade change or an email requiring a quick response. She strode past a spacious meeting room set aside for exhibits and the conference book sale. She would have to explore it later.

  She paused for breath at the entrance to the hotel restaurant that spilled out onto a large outdoor terrace. As she suspected, she was the last to arrive at the table where Tanya’s shrill voice dominated. Claire’s colleagues turned toward her with wistful gazes, as if they wished they too had just arrived. When Tanya stood on her soapbox, even George couldn’t quell her hyperactive monologues.

  “You’re late,” Tanya said, with barely a pause in her narrative. “We need your input.”

  “Coffee first, then input,” Claire pleaded as she lowered herself into a chair between George and Madge. The group heaved a collective sigh of relief. Their waiter approached immediately, left a menu, took Claire’s coffee order and departed. The men had already delved into huge portions of huevos rancheros. Madge moved her fork around a mound of scrambled eggs, and Tanya nibbled pineapple from her tropical fruit plate as she waited for Claire to settle in.

  When Claire’s coffee arrived, and she had ordered her breakfast, Tanya spoke, as if there had been no gap in the conversation. “I’m trying to find out who talked to Paul and what they learned about him.” She pointed her fork at Madge. “It’s your turn.”

  Madge sipped her coffee. “We all talked to him, Tanya. He was applying for a job.” She finished her coffee and looked around for the waiter. “I talked to Laura too. They both thanked me for the interview, gushed about my archaeological excavations in Guatemala…yada yada…they’re hungry for a job.”

  Tanya ignored Madge and turned to Claire. “What did you think of Paul?”

  “Socially awkward…naive,” Claire responded. She remembered their conversation and regretted her subtle reprimand. “Cody seemed bored…the political spouse at a cocktail party.”

  Tanya’s fork went to Jamal. “Jamal saw Paul and Cody arguing after the reception yesterday.”

  “I’m not sure they argued,” Jamal protested. “They both looked unhappy and Cody walked away from him. They seemed fine at dinner.”

  The waiter returned with Claire’s breakfast and a carafe of hot coffee for the table. Coffee cups replenished, Claire buttered toast and shook pepper on her scrambled eggs as she considered how much to contribute. “I saw Cody and Paul just before the show, near the vendor tables,” she said at last.

  “And I saw Cody hurrying back from the archaeological site toward the Cultural Center as I returned to the site for the program,” Jamal said, “And…”

  George sighed heavily. “Can we eat in peace?”

  Jamal peered at George. “But there’s more.”

  George glared at Jamal over his coffee cup.

  Jamal continued, “After the program, when I heard the screaming, I ran to the Cultural Center…”

  Tanya interrupted, “I wondered about that, Jamal. Why did you run away?”

  “Can I finish, Tanya?” Jamal squinted his eyes. “I looked for security, but I think they were all out in the parking lot, directing traffic. Cody w
as in the Cultural Center, writing in his tablet and sniffling. I ignored him because I was looking for someone in authority. Then that female security guard arrived, yelling into her radio. She disappeared into an office, and a few minutes later a student rushed in and said that someone had fallen off the pyramid. The guard and the student ran from the building. Cody’s face turned white, he picked up his backpack and ran for the door.” Jamal paused for effect. “Like he knew what had happened.”

  “What did you do?” Madge asked.

  “People were coming in from the archaeological site, chattering over each other about someone falling off the Magician’s Pyramid, and I realized that we might not be leaving anytime soon. I checked with our bus driver, but the drivers already knew about it.”

  “It’s possible that Claire was the last one of our group to see Paul last night,” Madge said, pensively.

  The group sat silently, concentrating on their food and coffee. Tanya’s eyes narrowed as she surveyed the table. Her fork returned to Jamal, the last chunk of papaya dripping onto the table. “I thought I saw you talking to Paul near the pyramid.”

  “When?” Jamal asked.

  “Before the show,” Tanya said. She wiped papaya juice from her chin with her free hand, but her eyes stayed focused on Jamal.

  “No,” Jamal said. He glared at Tanya across the table. “I talked to Laura before the show, but you know that.”

  “Ah,” Tanya shrugged. “It must have been someone else.”

  Jamal sat back in his chair and picked up his coffee cup with shaking fingers. His eyes moved from face to face around the table.

  Brad shoved his coffee cup aside. “What the hell does it matter who talked to whom? The poor pathetic creature fell to his death.”

  “But aren’t you curious about him?” Tanya asked.

  Brad looked at George as if to challenge the department chair to speak. George pursed his lips as if in deep thought, so Brad turned his attention to Tanya. “None of us knows anything about him or his death. Besides, if anyone is responsible it would be his boyfriend. He could have killed him and returned to the Cultural Center as if nothing happened.”

  Madge raised her eyebrows. “He could kill him in Chicago anytime he wanted to, theoretically.”

  “This is silly,” Jamal said. “He fell. Listen to us trying to accuse a stranger of murder.”

  Brad turned his attention back to Tanya. “You never told us what you know about Paul.”

  Tanya pushed her empty fruit bowl away. “I talked to him at the reception, just for a few minutes. He asked about my work in linguistics and my research,” she said, her posture defiant. “I assume we all had similar conversations.”

  “Then, why are you asking all these questions?” Claire asked.

  Tanya sat back, her body folding in on itself. “Because he seemed so odd. And everyone is acting strangely since we met him.”

  “You mean, since he died,” Madge said.

  “Perhaps,” Tanya conceded. “George, what do you think?”

  George leaned back, closed his eyes and pursed his lips, gestures Claire knew signified that either he was trying to remember something or control his temper. When his eyes opened, they locked onto each faculty member, one by one, and finally fell onto Tanya. He moved his plate away and pushed himself up from the table. “This isn’t a parlor game.” He turned away from the table and strode back into the hotel, out of sight.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The group sat in silence, staring at Madge as if she could explain George’s behavior. Madge leaned back in her chair, the creases in her face deepening in concern.

  “I don’t think you appreciate the seriousness of this,” Madge said, her eyes darting from one colleague to another.

  Tanya blushed, Brad and Jamal looked at each other, and Claire sat back, feeling the reprimand. She resented the inclusive “you,” but she understood Madge’s meaning.

  Before anyone spoke, the waiter brought checks to the table and retreated. Madge picked up George’s check, and the others signed for their meals. It was into this vacuum that Cody Detwyler arrived. He approached their table in a crab-like pattern, as if he might turn and run at any moment.

  As Claire watched him approach, she thought about Paul. How would his family cope with this tragedy? Could she have done something to avert this disaster? You can’t fix this. Aaron’s words came back at her. Her husband had often reproached her for internalizing everyone else’s problems and trying to solve them. She always denied it, but now she admitted to herself he had been correct in his assessment.

  Everyone had been preparing to leave, but the appearance of the grieving lover changed their minds, and they resettled themselves. Claire invited Cody to sit with them. Anthropologists are, after all, avid gossips.

  “I wanted to talk to Doctor Banks,” Cody said, “but he just rushed past me.” He collapsed into George’s abandoned chair.

  A waiter came for the signed checks and to take an order from the newcomer. Cody shook his head, so the waiter took the checks and cleared the table, leaving the coffee carafe and cups.

  “We are very sorry about Paul,” Claire said. A chorus of agreement circulated the table.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Cody said. “The police have contacted Paul’s family. I don’t know how he…his body…will be sent home.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I wish we hadn’t come. I don’t know why he wanted to leave Chicago.”

  “Why did Paul apply to Keane College?” Jamal asked.

  “He was born in Western Michigan. I think he wanted to be closer to his family. When he heard of your new program, he became very excited. He seemed confident he could get a teaching job at Keane.”

  “You didn’t want to move?” Madge asked.

  “I love Chicago. I’m a writer…an aspiring writer.”

  “A writer can write anywhere, so they say,” Claire said, trying to be helpful.

  Cody smiled for the first time. “Yeah, that’s what Paul says…said. He tried to interest me in his work. We’ve been together a year, and this was my first trip to Mexico with him. He took me to the town where he worked and introduced me to some of the people he interviewed for his research.” Cody paused, collecting his thoughts.

  “We talked a lot yesterday, but then…last night…he said he wanted some time alone and told me he would meet me back at the Cultural Center before the show. But he never came. When that guy ran in and said someone fell…I had a terrible feeling, you know how you just know something? Anyway, I knew that it had to be him.”

  Cody’s eyes filled with tears, and his shoulders slouched forward. Madge, closest to him, reached over and touched his hand. Claire, who thought he had given more of an explanation than he needed, heard Brad say, “Oh Lord,” under his breath as he rose from the table. Jamal, taking the opportunity to do the same, excused himself, giving condolences to Cody, who turned his attention to the women who remained.

  Claire opened her mouth to speak when suddenly the room grew quiet. She and her companions followed the gaze of patrons to the restaurant’s street entrance. Two policemen entered, scanned the room, and moved resolutely toward their table. Cody gasped and shrank into his chair as the officers approached, their eyes hidden in wrap-around sunglasses, their hands resting ominously on their belts, near their revolvers.

  “Oh, my God,” Cody said. His eyes widened in fear. “What’s happening?”

  Madge leaned forward. “It’s okay,” she said quietly.

  “Señor Detwyler?” The older man, identified as Sergeant Juarez by his badge, addressed Cody. He was large in height and width, his ample girth spilling over his gunbelt. He dwarfed his younger counterpart.

  Cody nodded, sweat dripping from his hairline. He pressed his lips together to control their quivering.

  Sergeant Juarez removed his hat and sunglasses and
introduced Deputy Chan. Chan stood ramrod straight, his facial features unreadable, hat and sunglasses intact, and his hand near his gun.

  Madge spoke for Cody, in Spanish. “What is this about, Señores?”

  The sergeant stepped aside, allowing Deputy Chan to speak. The latter stood even straighter and adjusted his sunglasses. “We have orders to take Señor Detwyler to the police station to answer questions.”

  When Cody looked at him blankly, he added, in accented English, “Do you speak Spanish?”

  Cody shook his head and looked to Claire, who switched to English for Cody’s benefit. “Is this about Paul Sturgess?” she asked.

  “Who are you?” Chan turned his dark glasses toward Claire.

  “We are here for a conference. We met Paul and Cody yesterday.” Claire looked from Chan to his superior officer.

  Sergeant Juarez ran his hand through his graying hair and stroked his matching gray mustache. Unlike his deputy, Sergeant Juarez stood casually, holding his hat and sunglasses in both hands. He spoke softly, in a conversational style. “Our business is with Señor Detwyler,” he said.

  Tanya directed her attention to Chan. “Can’t you ask your questions here? We could help you.”

  “No,” Chan said, his voice cracking a little under Tanya’s gaze. “Detective Salinas may ask to see you and your friends later.”

  “Salinas?” Claire asked.

  “A detective?” Cody said.

  Tanya’s blue eyes focused on Deputy Chan. She softened her tone and brought her hands to her chest in a gesture of surprise. “Really?”

  Chan raised his hat momentarily to rub his hand over his hair, and Claire thought he might remove his glasses, but he regained his self-control, returned his hat to his head and said, “We’re following orders.” For a moment, Claire thought she saw the sergeant roll his eyes.

  Madge stood to her complete five-foot-three inches and stared up at the sergeant. “Surely you don’t suspect him of hurting his friend?”“Sin embargo…” the deputy answered, shrugging his shoulders. Nevertheless.