Human Sacrifice

by Cindy L Hull

  Roberto and Claire walked along a tiled veranda to a small government office, a miniature of those in Motul and Merida. Finding no one there, they joined a line at a market refreshment kiosk and listened to the distinctive mono-syllabic tone of the Mayan language. A multitude of deep brown eyes turned toward them, assessing the appearance of strangers in their midst.

  Claire purchased a soft drink from the owner, a man wearing traditional Mayan clothing, and asked where they might find the village president.

  “His name is Don Pedro Cuca,” the storekeeper said, but before he gave directions, Roberto felt a tug on his shirt.

  “Señor?” Roberto looked around and down. He smiled at an ancient woman wearing a stained huipil, her colorful shawl thrown over her shoulder. She smiled, displaying a toothless grin and deep facial crevices. Her long gray hair was knotted at the nape of her neck and the top of her head barely reached Roberto’s chest.

  “Señor, my granddaughter, Maria, can show you.”

  A young girl, taller than her grandmother, came forward and nodded. “He lives near my house,” she said.

  Claire thanked them all in Mayan, which caused a twitter among them. She gave the soft drink to the young girl who walked slightly ahead of them, her spindly legs protruding from a skirt that hung to her calves, a hand-me-down she hadn’t grown into yet.

  The sun radiated down on them as they made their way across the plaza. Maria led them through the rocky soccer field adjacent to the church and toward a cluster of cement-block houses. Their short journey followed the electrical power line.

  Maria stopped at a house where a scrawny dog lazed in the meager shade of a papaya tree. She called out a greeting from behind the stone wall, and a girl about Maria’s age came to the door.

  Before Roberto could speak, Maria shouted out, “Berta, these people are here to see your papa.”

  Berta, short and stocky with a round face and long black braid, stared at her guests. “Mama is at grandma’s house. Papa’s in the back.” Maria pushed open the gate and motioned the visitors in, but Roberto turned to the young girl before she could follow them.

  “Thank you very much, Maria. You have been very helpful.”

  Maria frowned, her attempt at obtaining valuable gossip thwarted. She thanked them for the soft drink and hurried back to the village to give her assessment of the strangers.

  Berta led them through the house, past an indoor kitchen, past several tiny bedrooms and a bathroom, then back outdoors to the rear of the house where Don Pedro reclined in a hammock strung between two mamote trees. A small boy nestled with him in the hammock, and together they read a shiny new picture book.

  “Papa, some people are here.”

  The president looked up from the book, startled at the guests.

  Roberto said, “I am sorry to bother you, Don Pedro. I am Detective Salinas, and this is Profesora Claire Aguila. I am investigating the death of Benito Suarez in Motul.”

  “I didn’t know him,” Don Pedro said, his eyes wary.

  “Could we go inside and talk? I can explain.”

  The president lifted the child out of the hammock. “Berta, take your brother to Grandma’s house.”

  “Okay, Papa.” She took her little brother’s hand. “Vamos.”

  Pedro extricated himself from his hammock and led them back into the house. He took time rearranging wooden chairs in the living room, and directed Claire to the only cushioned chair, situated in front of the television.

  “What can I help you with?” Pedro asked, situating himself in a chair and clasping his hands between his knees.

  “It’s complicated to explain,” Roberto said, “and I’m not here to accuse anyone of a crime.”

  Don Pedro’s shoulders relaxed a little, and he sat back in his chair, but his hands remained tightly clasped.

  “Have you heard about Benito Suarez?” Roberto asked. “He owned a souvenir store near Motul.”

  “I heard that a vendor named Benito was killed in Motul. Es todo.”

  “Do you know anything about his business?” Roberto asked.

  “He sold souvenirs.” Pedro gave a sideways glance at Claire.

  Roberto looked at Claire, then at Don Pedro. “Professor Aguila is in Merida for an anthropology meeting and several people from her group have also died this week. We are looking for a connection between these deaths.”

  “One of the anthropologists is Jamal Kennedy,” Claire said. “He lived here several years ago, no?”

  “Jamal died?” Don Pedro asked, his eyes wide.

  “He is fine,” Claire said. “But Detective Salinas thinks he knew Don Benito.”

  Don Pedro shook his head. “No…no…Jamal wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Have you seen Jamal recently?” asked Roberto.

  “Cierto. He was here Monday.”

  Salinas and Claire exchanged glances. “Jamal was here Monday?” Salinas asked.

  “Yes, just before lunch. He brought gifts!”

  Pedro pointed to a large cardboard box in the corner of the room. Claire stood to examine its contents, a collection of new Spanish language children’s books.

  Don Pedro said, “He’s giving them to the library.”

  Claire squatted to look through the books, admiring the generous gift. “You have a library?”

  Pedro laughed. “We built a room behind the school, but we hope to build a real library soon.”

  When Claire had settled back into her chair, Roberto asked, “What was it like to have an anthropologist in your village?”

  “Sometimes it was fine, and other times…” he smiled, “you have to teach them everything. They think they know everything but know nothing.” Pedro laughed at his joke and Claire smiled because she knew the truth in what he said.

  Roberto asked, “Did everyone like Jamal?”

  “Yes,” Pedro said, remembering. “Children were afraid of him at first, rubbing his skin and touching his hair. He took it very well, he braided the girls’ hair like his, and played futball with the boys. The young girls all liked him. They had—how do Americans say—crush?”

  Claire laughed at his pronunciation—cruush. Jamal had the same effect on young American coeds.

  Pedro added, “Children followed him around all the time. He taught them English.”

  Roberto waited a moment, considering his words. “We understand that he was studying with the h-men, and that he was interested in medicinal and ritual drugs?”

  Pedro tensed again. “I don’t want to make trouble for him.”

  Roberto shook his head. “Nor do we.”

  Pedro’s eyes moved from Roberto to Claire as he considered his answer. “I don’t really know about drugs. The h-men would know, but he died, and we don’t have one now.”

  “When Jamal lived here, did you hear about him using drugs?”

  Pedro thought about this. “Jamal…that is…people thought that Jamal used drugs. Some thought that he was interested in healing and ritual because he thought they involved drugs. But h-menob don’t use hallucinogens or drugs.”

  “What kind of drugs was Jamal interested in?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps marijuana.”

  “Any other drugs?”

  “People said he asked about mushrooms, but I don’t know.”

  “Do you know where he might have bought marijuana?” Roberto asked.

  “No sé,” Pedro said. I don’t know.

  “Don Benito, perhaps?” Salinas asked.

  Don Pedro shrugged but looked away from the detective. “Perhaps.”

  Roberto folded his hands on his lap and leaned forward. “I’m not interested in what Don Benito or Jamal did. I only want to know who killed Don Benito.”

  Pedro took his time. “He sold artifacts…but I heard he also sold drugs.”

  “Do yo
u know that for sure?”

  “No, but people say that is why there were always young Americans hanging around. Not all of them were buying Mayan pots.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Thursday Morning/Afternoon

  Claire held her hair back from her face as it blew in the wind, the open car windows bringing both hot breezes and dirt particles into her face. Like her rental car, Roberto’s state-issued sedan had no air-conditioning, and her dress stuck to the back of the car seat. They sped down a major road back toward Tixbe, Brad’s research village. They drove past Motul and turned onto a secondary road that took them past another hacienda and abandoned henequen fields.

  Salinas said, “So Jamal was there Monday. He could have stopped in Motul first.”

  “Do you actually think Jamal would kill Paul or Don Benito to hide marijuana use?” Claire protested. “Who cares?”

  “You know Jamal. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think so, but, of the KC faculty, he seems the most insecure about his position.”

  “How so?” Roberto slowed as they passed through a tiny pueblo. The car plodded slowly over speed bumps as they both watched for children and dogs that might cross in front of them.

  “Jamal has a joint position in anthropology and biology. To earn tenure, he has to be approved by two departments.”

  “Wasn’t that Tanya’s situation also?”

  “Yes, linguistics and anthropology. They’re both academically vulnerable, but their strategies are different. Jamal is deferential, especially to Brad, but also to George. He rarely makes a stand on an issue. Tanya was demanding, irreverent. She didn’t pander to the senior faculty.”

  While Roberto concentrated on the road, Claire’s mind wandered. A week ago, her life had seemed so empty that she had considered leaving her profession and becoming what…a photographer, a writer? But suddenly, she felt energized and alive. This worried her. How could she feel invigorated by a murder investigation that might involve her friends and colleagues? Or was it something else, or someone else, who brought back that sense of adventure she had lost in the pursuit of her career?

  She jerked back to reality as Roberto approached Tixbe, and once again they crept over speed bumps toward the plaza. Tixbe resembled Yaxpec, with a large plaza and impressive church along one side. Unlike Dzab, the government office doors were open. Roberto stepped into the large room, once part of the colonial government building. Claire remained just outside the door.

  Claire heard a booming voice from within: “Pasen ustedes.” Come in.

  Claire gazed up at the high cement walls and corrugated tin roof. Industrial-sized electrical lights hung from exposed ceiling wires, and huge fans blew the hot air down from makeshift shelves along the high walls. Several smaller floor fans redirected the stale air toward the desk where a middle-aged man with graying hair and a mustache sat, a newspaper opened on his desk.

  “I am looking for the president,” Roberto said.

  “You have found him,” the man said, smiling. He stood to shake Roberto’s hand. “I am Juan Chavez.”

  Salinas introduced himself and Claire, providing the reason for their visit.

  Juan’s face sobered. “You are here about Benito?”

  “Yes. Did you know him?”

  Don Juan squinted slightly. “Yes, I knew him.” He called to a young man wearing a Texas Rangers baseball cap and a brown shirt adorned with a tin deputy’s badge.

  “This is Raul,” Juan said, “our one and only deputy.”

  “A su servicio,” Raul said as he offered them chairs.

  “I understand that an anthropologist lived here some years ago,” Roberto said. “Bradley Kingsford?”

  Juan’s face became more solemn with each question. He smoothed his mustache with his hand and looked at the deputy. “Bradley?” He pronounced it “Bladley.”

  Salinas said, “I can show you a photograph.”

  Roberto had asked Claire to bring certain photographs with her. She pulled the one he requested from her purse. Juan studied the photograph of the Keane College faculty and pointed to Brad. “That’s Jaime.”

  Roberto said, “We know him as Bradley Kingsford. Why do you call him Jaime?”

  The president laughed. “Because no one could pronounce it, so he said to call him Jaime…and we did. I forgot his real name.”

  “Do you know why he chose Jaime?”

  Juan shrugged. “No, Señor.”

  “Have you seen him lately?”

  “We thought he would come. Raul’s brother saw him in Motul Monday, but he never came.” Juan sat forward and looked at Salinas with concern. “That was the day my cousin was killed.”

  “Benito Suarez was your cousin?” Roberto asked, startled.

  “Sí, Señor,” he admitted. “My distant cousin.”

  “Ah,” Roberto said. “Did Jaime know Señor Suarez?”

  “I think so. In fact, I told him about Benito’s souvenir shop. Jaime was interested in religious items.”

  “Have you heard that Benito might have sold real artifacts, legally or illegally?”

  “No, Señor Detectivo. Nothing like that.”

  “What about drugs?”

  “Drogas? No, nada.”

  Roberto repeated his mantra. “I only want to find out who killed your cousin.”

  Juan studied his hands before returning his gaze to the detective. “I didn’t know him too well. His family left Tixbe many years ago. And I don’t think Jaime would be involved in anything illegal. He was a good person.”

  Roberto asked, “Were you president when Brad—Jaime—lived here?”

  “No. I worked in Motul—in a factory—I wasn’t around during the week. But Jaime played futbal with us on the weekends. We are close to the same age, but I was married and had two children. He was married but had none. I joked about that…that maybe he didn’t know how to do it.” He laughed at his joke. “But then his wife wasn’t here with him—that’s not a good thing.”

  “Did he buy souvenirs from Don Benito?”

  “Sí, but all Americans buy that stuff to take home. They love it.”

  “Do you know for sure he only bought souvenirs?”

  Don Juan tipped his head slightly and looked down at his desk. “Cierto. I don’t think Benito sold real artifacts…or drugs.” He looked at his hands again. “But it’s possible.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Back on the highway, Roberto and Claire were silent, both digesting the information they had obtained.

  Finally, Roberto said, “Did you notice how Don Juan reacted when I asked if Brad bought items from Benito?”

  “Yes, he seemed surprised at the question,” Claire said. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking he expected a different question.” He glanced at her briefly. “I think he expected me to ask if Brad sold artifacts to Benito.”

  Roberto’s cellphone rang. He listened and ended the call. “Do you mind a detour?”

  Claire looked at her watch and calculated the time she would need to get to Merida. She had hoped for a shower before Jamal’s presentation. “I need to be in Merida by three-thirty.”

  “I can drop you off at your car,” Roberto said, “but you might want to see the scene of the crime?” He glanced at her again, his eyes teasing. “I promise a quick stop. Rosa—Sergeant Garza—is at Don Benito’s store.”

  This news piqued Claire’s curiosity, and she agreed. They turned back onto the highway toward Motul, but instead of stopping in town, they continued to a small plaza and cluster of buildings that resembled a rural truck stop in the United States. At the corner of the plaza Claire saw a small grocery store and café. Don Benito’s artisan shop sat between the store and a gas station. Several cement block houses filled the gaps.

  They parked alongside a Merida
Police car, a beat-up Ford Fairlane with the seal of the City of Motul, and a black Volkswagon Beetle that Claire guessed must belong to the young detective sergeant. Inside, Sergeant Garza perched on a stool behind the counter, examining a composition book identical to the one Paul had used. Garza looked up and raised her eyebrows when she saw Claire enter with the detective.

  “Profesora Aguila gave me a tour of the countryside today,” he said lightly, as they joined her at the counter. “We visited the villages where Doctor Kingsford and Doctor Kennedy worked.”

  Garza’s frown indicated a suspicion that a tour wasn’t the only thing Claire had offered. While Claire felt an affinity to the young sergeant, she feared that the feeling wasn’t mutual.

  Roberto leaned on the counter. “Sergeant, what have you learned?”

  “We have new information about the cars and visitors.” Garza looked at Claire and then at Salinas, indicating her hesitancy to talk in front of the intruder.

  Roberto reassured her. “Doctor Aguila has been very helpful and understands the situation.”

  Garza nodded gravely. “The rental agency confirmed that Doctor Ramirez rented a black sedan; Doctor Kingsford rented a tan-colored Ford Focus, and Doctor Kennedy rented the white Fiesta. So, it’s possible that all three were here, but we can’t confirm it.”

  “Who identified the drivers?” Roberto asked.

  Garza pulled her copy of the Keane College group photograph from her satchel and placed it on the counter. “Señor Masa at the gas station saw a man in a straw hat knock on the door of the store and then go around to the back. He couldn’t see the man’s face or hair because of the hat, but he drove a tan-colored car. It could have been Doctor Kingsford.

  “Señora Mendez, the café owner, identified Doctor Kennedy as the black man in the white Fiesta. Several men saw the black car early in the morning, but no one got a good enough look to describe him, and I didn’t have a photograph.”

  “Good job,” Salinas said. “We have a witness who saw Doctor Kingsford in Motul sometime Monday morning, and Jamal may have passed through on his way to Dzab. What about Paul? Did he rent a car?”