exit drain.”
“When was the system last inspected?”
“Seems the owners are a bit lax on upkeep. But minor maintenance was done last August, so the body probably went in after that.”
I agreed but said nothing.
“The victim may be a young woman.”
“I couldn’t possibly express an opinion based on these photographs.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
We stared at each other in the stuffy heat of the room. Galiano’s eyes were extraordinary, brown with a luminous red cast, like amber caught in sunlight. The lashes might have landed him a Maybelline contract, had he been of the female gender.
“Over the past ten months, four young women have gone missing in this city. The families are frantic. We suspect the disappearances may be linked.”
Down the corridor, a phone sounded.
“If so, the situation is urgent.”
“Lots of people go missing in Guatemala City.”
I pictured Parque Concordia, where orphans gathered each night to sniff glue and sleep. I remembered stories of children being rounded up and killed. In 1990, witnesses reported armed men snatching eight street kids. Their bodies were found a few days later.
“This is different.” Galiano’s voice brought me back. “These four young women stand out. They don’t fit the usual pattern.”
“What does this have to do with me?” I had a pretty good idea.
“I described your work to my superiors, told them you were in Guatemala.”
“May I ask how you knew that?”
“Let’s just say SICA is kept apprised of foreign nationals entering Guatemala to dig up our dead.”
“I see.”
Galiano pointed at the photos. “I’ve been authorized to request your help.”
“I have other commitments.”
“Excavation is finished at Chupan Ya.”
“Analysis is just beginning.”
“Senor Reyes has agreed to the loan of your services.”
First the reporter, now this. Mateo had been busy since our return to the city.
“Senor Reyes can examine these bones for you.”
“Senor Reyes’s experience and training don’t compare to yours.”
It was true. While Mateo and his team had worked on hundreds of massacre victims, they’d had little involvement with recent homicide cases.
“You coauthored an article on septic tank burial.”
Galiano had done his homework.
Three years back, a small-time drug dealer was busted in Montreal for supplying product to the wrong buyer. Not fancying a long separation from his medicine chest, the man offered the story of an associate floating in a septic tank. The provincial police turned to my boss, Dr. Pierre LaManche, and LaManche turned to me. I learned more than I ever wanted to know about human waste disposal, and LaManche and I spent days directing the recovery. We’d written an article for the
“This is a local problem,” I said. “It should be handled by local experts.”
The fan hummed. Galiano’s cowlick did plies and pirouettes.
“Ever hear of a man named Andre Specter?”
I shook my head.
“He’s the Canadian ambassador to Guatemala.”
The name rang a very distant bell.
“Specter’s daughter, Chantale, is one of those missing.”
“Why isn’t this being handled through diplomatic channels?”
“Specter has demanded absolute discretion.”
“Sometimes publicity can be helpful.”
“There are”—Galiano groped for a word—“extenuating circumstances.”
I waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. Outside, a truck door slammed.
“If there’s a Canadian link, liaison between jurisdictions will be useful.”
