Human Sacrifice

by Cindy L Hull

  “What do you mean? As a job candidate? As a murder suspect?”

  “Laura has been everywhere, talking to everyone.”

  Jamal followed closely on Tanya’s heels as she hurried though the meat section, catching up with her at the jewelry kiosks near the edge of the market. “That’s what people do at conferences,” he said, huffing to a halt.

  “She talked to Paul several times at the archaeological site, and she sat with him and Cody at dinner that evening.”

  Jamal shrugged. “So?”

  “We know that she and Paul both attended the same university in Chicago. They might have a history.”

  “Laura might have a motive to push Paul off a pyramid? Really? That’s your theory?”

  Tanya turned her attention to the jewelry displays, ignoring Jamal. She took her time examining several silver bracelets. Jamal’s frustration surfaced as she patiently purchased two bracelets and a necklace.

  When she had placed her wallet and purchases in her purse, Jamal demanded, “What’s her motive?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I just can’t see it. Besides, how could she steal a backpack? She had one of those Mexican woven purses.”

  “So, you paid attention to her,” Tanya said, raising her eyebrows again. “But there’s something else. Before the cops came, and while Claire was doing her CSI routine, Laura climbed up the pyramid. Her purse looked heavy, and she also used the flashlight function on her phone, like she was looking for something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something she might have dropped? Or Paul dropped? She came down and acted casual, like no one would notice.”

  “This is crazy.”

  Tanya smiled, showing her small white teeth and a tip of tongue. “Perhaps she just went up to talk to him…and he fell. That could happen, right?” She took his arm again in a flirting motion. Jamal tilted his head toward her, lifting her sunglasses so he could look into her eyes.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “Are you on the pills again?”

  She pushed her sunglasses back down over her eyes. “Don’t change the subject.”

  “There is no subject. This is ridiculous. No one killed that guy!” Jamal stepped out from the covered market into the sunlight. He turned toward the central plaza as Tanya struggled to keep up with him.

  “I’ve only taken a few oxys this week,” she said as she reached him at the corner. “It’s your fault, you know.”

  “Just a few? That’s impossible.”

  “I thought we would discuss things this week…about us. We’ve become so obsessed with the death, we haven’t talked at all.”

  “We? You’re the only one obsessed. Everyone else thinks it was an accident…which it was.” Jamal looked over at her, their eyes level. “Besides, I thought we had talked Sunday. You were more concerned with getting Madge’s job than with our relationship, as I recall.”

  They retraced their route to the hotel, Tanya one step behind Jamal. “So, it’s over?”

  “You don’t think so?” Jamal asked, harshly.

  “No,” Tanya pleaded. “I thought everything was fine, really. You’re the one acting differently, and I don’t know why. What has changed?”

  “I think we made a mistake.”

  “We or you?”

  “Me. You don’t love me. You never did.”

  “That’s not true!” Tanya protested. “I…I really do love you.”

  “Too late, Tanya.”

  Tanya sniffed. “Will this affect your recommendation for my application to be curator of the museum?”

  Jamal stopped and pulled her down onto a bench at the edge of the central plaza. “Listen to what you’re saying.” Jamal clenched his jaw, then sighed and softened his tone. “This is exactly why intra-department relationships are dangerous. We need to do this like adults, and without drama. It can only hurt both of us professionally.”

  “You promised.”

  “I kept my promise. I talked to George, as you asked—demanded.” He took her hands in his and looked closely at her eyes through her tinted glasses. “The chances have always been slim for you,” he said. “I told you that on Sunday. George hired Madge as curator, and you know that Claire will support her. Brad doesn’t like the idea that Madge was crowned curator before his arrival, but he’s stuck with her. Frankly, I don’t think Brad would support you anyway. Who would he choose—you, a linguist, or Madge, an archaeologist with eons of experience?”

  “You would have a vote,” Tanya pressed. “But it appears that you have already made up your mind.” She stood and crossed her arms. “Does this have anything to do with Paul? You seemed flustered by him.”

  Jamal glared at Tanya but stood to walk with her. “I am not flustered by Paul, or his death. But I’m fucking pissed that you won’t let this go. The police are in charge. We are here for a conference, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  Tears sprang to Tanya’s eyes. She pushed her glasses up onto the top of her head to wipe her eyes.

  “Tanya, we’ve been having these circular arguments for months. We just met Paul two days ago. He has nothing to do with me, or you.”

  She reached into her purse and pulled out a prescription bottle. “I don’t want to lose my chance for the curatorship.” She looked at Jamal, shook a pill from the bottle and swallowed it without water.

  “What the hell?”

  Tanya became still, replacing the bottle in her purse. “I saw you talking to Paul. Did he tell you about Tom Freeman?”

  “I met Tom Sunday afternoon, at the Uxmal reception. We had a chat. He told me a few things about you, not knowing about our relationship. He said you broke up his marriage, but I don’t believe that. It was probably already broken, but it told me something about you.” Jamal studied Tanya closely, watching her eyes dilate and her mouth relax. “Is that what Paul knew about you?”

  Tanya’s eyes misted over momentarily. Then, they hardened. “I never told you about my second theory.”

  “You mean in case the Laura Lorenzo theory doesn’t pan out?” Jamal glared at Tanya. “You have got to get off the pills. You’re not making sense.”

  Tanya smiled a crooked smile. “Perhaps you’re worried about something else.”

  “What?”

  “Something Paul might have known about you.”

  Jamal’s jaw tightened, and his hand went to his earring. “What?”

  “You know,” she turned toward him. “You have secrets, too.” She put her index finger and thumb close together at her lips and inhaled.

  “I’ve made mistakes, but I no longer have a problem. But it’s clear that you do.” He leaned toward her and whispered, “My only problem seems to be you.”

  Tanya clenched her hands together. “Don’t you think it’s interesting that all of us…all Keane College faculty…were there at the scene of the fall, except you?”

  Jamal stared at her. “You’re crazy.”

  “I’m worried about you, Jamal. I didn’t write anything about you in my statement. I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

  “No, Tanya. It’s all about you. You’re wondering how it will affect your career if I killed someone.” Jamal stood. “Be careful about making accusations. You can get yourself and others in a lot of trouble. Paul’s death is none of our business.”

  Tanya faced him. She replaced her glasses over her eyes and clenched her fists. “Is that a threat?” Tanya weaved slightly, then caught herself. “Don’t worry. I won’t be climbing pyramids with you anytime soon.” She turned on her heel and strode away, stumbling as she made her way through the crowd.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Tuesday Afternoon/Evening

  George stood in the semi-dark, the large screen behind him. He clicked the remote, and an image of a large archaeological site, deep trenches crisscr
ossing the landscape, filled the screen.

  “This is Río Azul, Guatemala,” George said. “The American archaeologist, Richard Adams, visited the site in 1962. At that time, they found several looters’ trenches. The site was so remote that archaeological excavations had not been feasible, yet by the time Adams raised the funds to excavate the site in 1983, a very wealthy Guatemalan collector had moved onto the site and employed workers to open the tombs and scavenge them. They found 125 open looted trenches and twenty-eight looted tombs. This represents not only the loss of artifacts, but the loss of historical context, as sites are destroyed.”

  George clicked off the slideshow and motioned for the lights to come on. He squinted at the audience. “But, of course, this is not a problem only in the New World. If you visit any museum, you can be assured that many of the items, the beautiful antiquities that we enjoy, have been stolen or, more delicately, transported from the ancient world to the coffers of the conquerors.” George picked up his notes, straightened them, and tapped them on the podium. “Until we address the ownership of ancient history and culture, we will continue to allow the rich and powerful the ability to buy and sell that history.”

  George looked out at the audience. “Thank you. Are there any questions?”

  Eduardo Ramirez stood, his voice resonating through the auditorium, startling George. “Surely, Doctor Banks,” Ramirez said, “you’re not saying all private collectors hold stolen property. That would be an egregious misstatement.”

  George cleared his throat. “I would not presume to claim that. But the truth is that until developing and undeveloped nations had recognized the theft of their history, thousands of valuable items had already left their countries to fill a growing international demand for ancient art and artifacts.”

  “But most of those items ended up in museums,” Eduardo argued. “What is the difference?”

  “There may be little difference historically, except that museums display artifacts so that history can be shared. Private collectors and auction houses profit from the sale of antiquities. Sometimes, demand increases value, and increased value creates incentive to steal. Profit is the difference.”

  Brad raised his hand and stood. “We can’t forget that without museums, most people would know nothing about ancient history and indigenous cultures.”

  “You are correct, I am sure,” George replied. He looked at his watch. “I would like to remind everyone that Doctor Eduardo Ramirez is sponsoring a reception tonight at the Casa Montejo. All members of the Society of Mayanist Studies are invited to attend. Thank you.”

  As the audience filed out of the auditorium, Claire and Madge stayed behind to discuss their dinner plans. Claire watched as Tanya left the room with Brad; she was speaking to him, but he looked distracted, placing a folded manila envelope into his blazer pocket. Claire looked toward the stage where Jamal was assisting George in dismantling his computer and digital projector. But Jamal was also watching Brad and Tanya.

  “La Paloma, again?” suggested Madge. “Or La Chaya?”

  “La Chaya,” Claire said, looking at her watch. “Do you mind checking the Exhibit Room first?” Claire explained how she had found the room unattended the previous afternoon.

  Madge stood, straightened her skirt, and hoisted her bag over her shoulder. “I wish you had told me.”

  “I’m sorry, Madge. I did remind the bookseller and I told the manager. He promised the room would be locked at four o’clock.”

  “Well, let’s hope it is,” she said, looking at her watch. “It’s five-thirty now.”

  The Exhibit Room was dark, but when Madge turned the knob, it opened. She flipped on the light and cursed as she examined the two cases.

  “Something’s gone,” Madge said, her eyes wide.

  Claire followed her gaze, expecting to find that Eduardo’s statue had been taken. But it wasn’t the statue that had disappeared. It was Keane College’s sacrificial dagger.

  “Shit!” exclaimed Madge as she reached out to touch the glass door that had been left ajar.

  Claire pulled Madge’s hand back. “Don’t touch anything.”

  “Why?” asked Madge, though she pulled her hand back to her side. “How many people have touched that door, do you think?”

  “What should we do?” Claire asked.

  “Yell at the hotel manager for one thing.” Madge stomped her foot and crossed her arms. She looked behind the cabinet. “Where’s the key?”

  “There, on the floor.” Claire looked in the second case again, assuring herself that nothing had been taken from it. She said, “Call Brad and tell him what happened. I’ll hurry back and see if Jamal and George are still in the auditorium.”

  Madge pulled her phone from her purse and Claire returned to the auditorium. Jamal had left, but George remained, speaking to several anthropologists whom Claire recognized but did not know. George introduced them as Carlos Gonzalez and Pablo Perez, retired archaeologists who had worked with George in Guatemala many years before. Claire hesitated, not wanting to make her report in front of the two men.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Claire said, “but we have a problem in the Exhibit Room.” The archaeologists moved back a few steps but didn’t leave. “The room was unlocked, and the sacrificial dagger is missing.” She explained how she and Madge had decided to check on the room.

  Carlos Gonzalez, a portly man with a white beard and tufts of white hair erupting Einstein-like from his round head, pulled his unseasonable tweed jacket over his ample belly. “Was the dagger valuable?” he asked.

  Claire shook her head. “It’s only a classroom teaching item, and nothing else appears to be stolen.”

  Pablo Perez adjusted thick glasses over his wide nose. Unlike Carlos and George, Pablo was tall and lean, with neatly trimmed hair and narrow brown eyes. Pablo said nothing but looked intently at his colleague, Gonzalez.

  Claire continued, “Madge is calling Brad. Should we call the police?”

  George looked at his colleagues. “It’s likely a hotel staff person or graduate student wanted a souvenir.” He smiled weakly at his friends. “In any case,” he added, “Brad can decide what to do.”

  Madge and Claire stepped out of the restaurant and into the cool evening breeze. It was after six-thirty when they entered the central plaza, humming with activity: families with children running and laughing, young couples sitting closely together on park benches, and tourists perusing the indigenous and not-so-indigenous handicrafts, spread out on plastic sheets along the ground.

  Hammock and toy vendors competed for the attention of tourists, and in the center of the park a mariachi band played tinny music, heavy on the trumpet and accordion. Along the edges, vendors sold fruit drinks and panuchos, luscious deep-fried puffed tortillas stacked with black beans, turkey, lettuce, avocado, and onions. The rich aroma of grilling meat and onions followed them as they passed.

  Their destination was the Casa Montejo, located across the plaza, where Eduardo Ramirez would be hosting the reception sponsored by his family business, Misterios Indígenas and its galleries, Gallerías Indígenous.

  As they dodged families and tourists, Madge quipped, “It’s a mystery where they found the indigenous artifacts.”

  Claire laughed and returned to the topic that had dominated their dinner, what to do about the missing dagger. “You haven’t heard from Brad?” Claire asked.

  Madge stopped, rummaged in her bag and pulled out her phone. She checked her messages and missed calls. “Not yet.” She dropped her phone into her bag. “I’ll tell him at the reception.”

  “We should tell Detective Salinas,” Claire urged.

  “Why? It’s a minor theft.”

  Claire struggled with her conscience. She had promised Roberto she would keep their conversation private, but she sighed and pulled her friend close. “There’s more going on,” she said. “And you hav
e to promise not to tell anyone.”

  Madge’s face dropped. “Not even George? I have to tell George.”

  “Why?” Claire asked, puzzled.

  “Because he’ll know I am keeping something from him. It’s a skill he has.”

  “Oh, Madge,” Claire said. “I suppose, but no one else.”

  Claire told her about Paul’s missing computer and backpack.

  “What does it mean?”

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe someone saw it lying on the ground and took it—an opportunistic theft. Or it could mean something important.”

  “A motive?” Madge said.

  “This can’t all be coincidence,” Claire insisted. “Paul’s death, a missing computer, and a disappearing artifact…”

  Madge interrupted, “Don’t let Tanya’s dramatics influence you. Someone wanted that dagger. It’s as simple as that.”

  They passed the crowd listening and dancing to the mariachi band. Claire saw Jamal ahead of them. She pointed him out to Madge.

  “I wonder what’s going on with Jamal and Tanya,” Claire asked.

  “Feels like high school to me,” Madge responded, pulling her shawl over her shoulders. “Forget them. I want to know about you and that handsome detective.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t give me that innocent look. You were my student. We’ve known each other for years. I saw how you two looked at each other at the police station when he introduced himself. And I saw you look at his photographs. It’s a good thing you’re not a criminal, but I expected more reserve from a detective.”

  Claire looked at her friend, miserable. “Oh, Madge.”

  “So, tell me, Claire,” Madge persisted.

  “We met here during my internship year. Because I was bilingual, I was assigned to the university as an English teacher for professionals. Roberto—Detective Salinas—was a recruit attending one of my classes. The university strongly discouraged dating locals…too many potential complications, you know.” Claire held her hair up as she walked, letting the evening air tickle her neck. “However, I broke the rules and we dated from time to time.”