by Kathy Reichs
Twigs snapped in my hands. Rocks broke free and skipped down the slope with sharp, cracking sounds. Birds screamed overhead, angry at the intrusion.
Adrenaline poured through my body from wherever it waited between crises. It may not be her, I told myself.
With each step the sweet, fetid stench grew stronger.
Fifteen feet down, the ground leveled off before taking one final downward plunge.
A crank call, I thought, stepping onto the small plateau. De la Alda’s disappearance was reported in the press.
Mario Colom was passing a metal detector back and forth across the ground. Juan-Carlos Xicay was photographing something at Hernández’s feet. As at the Paraíso, both technicians wore coveralls and caps.
Galiano and I crossed to Hernández.
The body lay in a rainwater ditch at the juncture of the slope and plateau. It was covered by mud and leaves, and lay atop torn black plastic. Though skeletonized, remnants of muscle and ligament held the bones together.
One look and I caught my breath.
Arm bones protruded like dry sticks from the sleeves of a pale blue blouse. Leg bones emerged from a rotting black skirt, disappeared into mud-stained socks and shoes.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
“The skull’s farther up the gully.” A sheen covered Hernández’s forehead. His face was flushed, his shirt molded to his chest like the toga on a Roman sculpture.
I squatted. Flies buzzed upward, their bodies glistening green in the sunlight. Small round holes perforated the leathery tissue. Delicate grooves scored the bones. One hand was missing.
“Decapitated?” Hernández asked.
“Animals,” I said.
“What sort of animals?”
“Small scavengers. Maybe raccoons.”
Galiano squatted beside me. Undeterred by the smell of rotting flesh, he pulled a pen from his pocket and disentangled a chain from the neck vertebrae. Sunlight glinted off a silver cross as he raised the pen to eye level.
Returning the necklace, Galiano stood and scanned the scene.
“Probably won’t find much here.” His jaw muscles flexed.
“Not after ten months of ground time,” Hernández agreed.
“Sweep the whole area. Hit it with everything.”
“Right.”
“What about neighbors?”
“We’re going door to door, but I doubt we’ll get much. The dump probably took place at night.”
He pointed to an old man standing outside the tape at the top of the hill.
“Gramps lives one block over. Says he remembers a car prowling around back here last summer. Noticed because this is a dead end street and there’s usually not much traffic. Says the driver returned two or three times, always at night, always alone. The old guy figured it might be a pervert looking for a place to jack off, so he kept his distance.”
“Does he sound reliable?”
Hernández shrugged. “Probably a weenie whacker himself. Why else would he think that? Anyway, he remembers the car was old. Maybe a Toyota or Honda. He’s not sure. Took this in from his front porch, so he didn’t really get a good look, didn’t get a plate.”
“Find any personal effects?”
Hernández shook his head. “It’s just like the kid in the septic tank. Clothing on the vic, but nothing else. The perp probably offloaded the body from the road, so he might have heaved something into the barranca. Xicay and Colom are going down when we finish here.”
Galiano’s eyes probed the small crowd on the bank above.
“Nothing, and I mean nothing to the media until I talk to the family.”
He turned to me.
“What do you want to do here?”
What I didn’t want to do was repeat my blunder at the Paraíso.
“I’m going to need a body bag and several hours.”
“Take your time.”
“But not too much,” I said, self-recrimination sharpening my words.
“Take as long as you need.”
I sensed from his tone that Díaz wouldn’t be bothering me this time.
Taking surgical gloves from my pack, I walked to the end of the plateau, dropped to hands and knees, and began crawling the length of the ditch, sifting leaves and dirt through my fingers. As at the Paraíso, Xicay trailed me with his Nikon.
The skull lay six feet from the neck of the corpse, nudged or tugged by scavengers until they’d lost interest. Beside the skull, a mass of hair. Two feet beyond the hair, scattered phalanges led to a concentration of hand bones.
When Xicay had taken pictures and I’d recorded exact locations, I returned the displaced parts to the main body site, finished my survey of the ditch, and walked the plateau in a grid pattern. Then I walked it again, my second grid perpendicular to the first.
Nothing.
Returning to the skeleton, I dug out a flashlight and ran the beam over it. Hernández was right. After ten months, I doubted I’d find trace evidence, but hoped the plastic might have provided some protection until torn by animals.
I spotted zip.
Though trace recovery seemed hopeless, I was careful to work directly over the sheeting. If there were fragments, hairs, or fibers, we’d find them at the lab.
Laying the flashlight aside, I eased the skeleton onto its back. The odor intensified. Beetles and millipedes skittered in every direction. Xicay’s shutter clicked above me.
In a climate like that of the Guatemala highlands, a body can be skeletonized in months or even weeks, depending upon access by insects and scavengers. If the cadaver is tightly wrapped, decomposition can be slowed significantly. Muscle and connective tissue may even mummify. Such was the case here. The bones held together reasonably well.
I studied the shriveled corpse, remembering the photos of eighteen-year-old Claudia de la Alda. My back teeth ground together.
Not this time, Díaz. Not this time.
Constantly shifting to find more comfortable work positions, I began at what had been the body’s head and inched toward the feet, my whole being focused on my task. Time passed. Others came and went. My back and knees ached. My eyes and skin itched from pollen, dust, and flying insects.
Somewhere along the way I noticed that Galiano was gone. Xicay and Colom expanded their search down into the gorge. I worked on alone, now and then hearing muffled conversation, birdsong, a shouted question from above.
Two hours later the remains, plastic sheeting, hair, and clothing lay in a body bag. The crucifix was sealed into a Ziploc baggie. My inventory form told me I was missing only five phalanges and two teeth.
This time I hadn’t merely identified bones and distinguished left from right. I’d taken a long, hard look at every skeletal element.
The remains were those of a female in her late teens or early twenties. Cranio-facial features suggested she was of Mongoloid ancestry. She had a well-healed fracture of the right radius, and restorations in four of her molars.
What I couldn’t tell was what had happened to her. My preliminary exam revealed no gunshot wounds, no fresh fractures, no blunt or sharp instrument trauma.
“De la Alda?”
Galiano had returned.
“Fits the profile.”
“What happened to her?”
“No blows. No cuts. No bullets. No ligatures. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Hyoid?”
Galiano referred to a horseshoe-shaped bone that floats in the soft tissue at the front of the throat. In older victims, the hyoid may crack during strangulation.
“Intact. But that means nothing with someone this young.”
This young. Like the kid in the septic tank. I saw something flicker in Galiano’s eyes, and knew he was sharing the same thought.
I tried to rise. My knees rebelled and I stumbled forward. Galiano caught me as I fell against him. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. My cheek felt hot against Galiano’s chest.
Surprised, I stepped back and concentrated on peeling off glov
es. I sensed Guernsey eyes on my face, but didn’t look up.
“Did Hernández learn anything else?” I asked.
“No one saw or heard zilch.”
“Do you have De la Alda’s dental records?”
“Yes.”
“Should be a straightforward dental ID.”
I glanced up at Galiano, back down at the gloves. Had the embrace lingered after I was safely on my feet, or had I imagined it?
“Finished here?” he asked.
“Except for digging and screening.”
Galiano looked at his watch. With Pavlovian promptness, I looked at mine. Five-ten P.M.
“You’re going to start that now?” he asked.
“I’m going to finish that now. If there’s some sick bastard out there preying on young women, he could be choosing his next victim even as we speak.”
“Yes.”
“And the more people tramping around here, the more this scene is compromised.”
The name Díaz did not need saying.
“And you’ve seen that mob up top. This story is going to break like a tropical thundershower.”
I tucked the gloves into the body bag.
“The transport team can take the body. Be sure they strap it down.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Was the bastard grinning? Was I imagining that?
Colom, Xicay, and I spent the next hour excavating and sifting six inches of topsoil from the portion of gully that had held the remains. The screen produced both missing teeth, three phalanges, several finger and toe nails, and one gold earring.
When Galiano returned, I showed him the stud.
“What is it?”
“It’s what we call a clue.” I sounded like Fredi Minos.
“De la Alda’s?”
“That’s a question for her family.”
“She wore no jewelry in any of her photos.”
“That’s true.”
Galiano dropped the baggie into his pocket.
Night was falling as we crested the ridge and stepped onto the road. The press trucks were gone, the obligatory body bag footage safely on tape. A few reporters lingered, hoping for a statement.
“How many, Galiano?”
“Who is it?”
“Is it a woman? Was she raped?”
“No comment.”
As I got into Galiano’s cruiser, a woman snapped me with one of three cameras draped around her neck.
I hit the lock, leaned back against the headrest, and closed my eyes. Galiano climbed in and started the engine. I heard a tap on my window, ignored it.
Galiano shifted into reverse. Then he draped an arm over the seat, turned his head, and shot backward. His fingers brushed my neck as he swiveled forward.
My skin tingled.
My eyes flew open.
Jesus, Brennan. A young woman is dead. A family will be devastated. You are working the case. This is not a date.
I stole a peek at Galiano. Headlights slid across his face, altering the size and shape of his features.
I thought of the pansies in the produce binder. Had Galiano felt me flinch when my cheek pressed against his chest? Had he really clasped me longer than necessary?
I thought of the Volkswagen bouquet in my hotel room.
Jesus.
“Goddamn sharks.” Galiano’s voice startled me. “No, they’re worse than sharks. They’re like hyenas circling a carcass.”
He cracked his window. I reeked of mud and rotting flesh, and wondered if I was the cause.
“Did you get what you needed?” he asked.
“I did a prelim, but need to confirm.”
“She’s headed to the morgue.”
“Does that mean I won’t see the body again?”
“Not if I have anything to say.”
“There are four molar restorations for the dental ID. Plus there’s the old arm fracture for additional confirmation.”
We drove in silence a few moments.
“Why wasn’t Díaz all over this one?” I asked.
“Maybe Monday is his lawn bowling day.”
Twenty minutes later Galiano pulled up at my hotel. I had the door open before the wheels stopped turning. His hand closed around my arm as I reached for my pack.
Oh, boy.
“You did a hell of a job today.”
“Thanks.”
“If there is some twisted psycho out there, we’ll nail him.”
“Yes.”
He released my arm, brushed hair from my cheek with his fingertips.
More tingling.
“Get some sleep.”
“Oh, yeah.”
I flew from the car.
Dominique Specter had other plans.
She was waiting in the lobby, half concealed by its one rubber plant. She rose when I entered, and a copy of Vogue slid to the tile.
“Dr. Brennan?”
The ambassador’s wife was wearing a pantsuit of pale gray silk, a black pearl choker around her neck. She looked as out of place in that hotel as a cross-dresser at a Baptist convention.
I was too stunned to answer.
“I realize this is a bit irregular.”
She took in my hair, my mud-caked nails and clothes. Perhaps my scent.
“Is this absolutely too terribly inconvenient?” The practiced smile.
“No,” I said warily. “Detective Galiano just dropped me off. Maybe I can catch him.”
I dug for my cell phone.
“No!”
I looked up. The electric-green eyes were wide with alarm.
“I—I’d prefer talking to you.”
“Detective Galia—”
“Alone. Comprenez-vous?”
No. I didn’t understand. But I agreed.
12
MRS. SPECTER RETURNED TO HER VOGUE, WHILE I went upstairs. I wasn’t sure if her patience derived from courtesy or from distaste for my state of hygiene. I didn’t care. I was filthy, itchy, exhausted, and depressed from six hours of recovering a body. I needed a shower.
I took advantage of everything my toilet kit had to offer. Chamomile shampoo and conditioner, citrus bath gel, honey and almond body cream, green tea and cypress mousse.
As I dressed, I looked longingly at my bed. What I wanted was sleep. What I didn’t want was an intense, prolonged conversation with a wounded and suffering mother. But I was caught by what-ifs. What if Mrs. Specter had held back and was now willing to bare herself? What if she was about to make revelations that might unlock one or more cases?
What if she knew where Chantale was?
Dream on, Brennan.
I rejoined Mrs. Specter, smelling like a Caswell-Massey shop. She suggested a park two blocks north of the hotel. I agreed.
Parque de las Flores was a small square framed by rosebushes and divided by paths cutting diagonally from corner to corner. Trees and wooden benches occupied the four triangles formed by the gravel X.
“It’s a beautiful evening,” said Mrs. Specter, removing a newspaper and settling onto a bench.
It’s eleven o’clock, I thought. “It reminds me of a summer night in Charlevoix. Were you aware that that’s my home?”
“No, ma’am. I wasn’t.”
“Have you ever visited that part of Quebec?”
“It’s very scenic.”
“My husband and I keep a little place in Montreal, but I try to visit Charlevoix as often as I can.”
A couple passed in front of us. The woman pushed a stroller, its wheels crunching softly on the gravel. The man’s arm was draped around her shoulder.
I thought of Galiano. My left cheek burned where his fingers had touched me. I thought of Ryan. Both cheeks burned.
“It’s Chantale’s birthday.” Mrs. Specter’s words brought me back. “She’s seventeen today.”
Present tense?
“She’s been gone more than four months now.”
It was too dark to read her expression.
“Chantale would not have allo
wed me to suffer as I am. If she was anywhere from where she could communicate, she would have done so.”
She fidgeted with the tab on her purse. I let her go on.
“This past year has been so terribly difficult. What did Detective Galiano call it? A rough patch? Oui, a rough patch. But even when Chantale went a fait une fugue—How do you say that?”
“Ran away.”
“Even when she ran away, Chantale always let me know that she was well. She might refuse to come home, refuse to tell me her whereabouts, but she’d call.”
She paused, watched an old woman rummage though trash one triangle over.
“I know something dreadful has happened to her.”
Her features were lit by a passing car, then receded into darkness once more. Moments later she spoke again.
“I fear it was Chantale in that septic tank.”
I started to say something, but she cut me off.
“Things are not always as they seem, Dr. Brennan.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“My husband is a wonderful man. I was very young when we married.” Choppy. Throwing out thoughts as they came to her. “He is a decade older than I. In the early years there were times—”
She paused, fearful of the telling but needing to dig something out of her heart.
“I was not ready to settle down. I had an affair.”
“When?” I had my first inkling why I was here.
“In 1983. My husband was posted to Mexico City, but traveled incessantly. I was alone most of the time, started going out in the evenings. I wasn’t looking for anyone, or anything, I just wanted to fill the hours.” She drew a deep breath, let it out. “I met a man. We began seeing each other. Eventually, I considered leaving André to marry him.”
Another pause, sorting through what to say, what to hold back.
“Before I made that decision, Miguel’s wife found out. He ended it.”
“You were pregnant,” I guessed.
“Chantale was born the following spring.”
“Your lover was Mexican?”
“Guatemalan.”
I remembered Chantale’s face in the photographs. She had deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, a broad jaw. The blonde hair had distracted me. Preconceived notions had colored my perception.
Jesus. What else would I bungle?