“And I’ve spent time in septic tanks.”
“A rare claim. And you’ve done cases for Canadian External Affairs.”
“Yes.” He really had done his homework.
It was then Galiano played his trump card.
“My department has taken the liberty of contacting your ministry in Quebec, requesting permission to engage you as special consultant.”
A second item emerged from Galiano’s pocket, this one a fax with a familiar fleur-de-lis logo. The paper came across the desk.
M. Serge Martineau, Ministere de la Securite Publique, and Dr. Pierre LaManche, Chef de Service, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale, had granted permission, pending agreement on my part, for my temporary assignment to the Special Crimes Investigative Unit of the Guatemala National Civil Police.
My bosses in Montreal were part of the ambush. There would be no end run around this.
I looked up at Galiano.
“You have a reputation for finding the truth, Dr. Brennan.” The Maybelline eyes were relentless. “Parents are in agony not knowing the truth about their missing kids.”
I thought of Katy and knew the fear I’d experience should my daughter disappear, the absolute terror that would grip me should she vanish in a place with unknown language, laws, and procedures, peopled by unfamiliar authorities who might or might not exert genuine effort to find her.
“All right, Detective. I’m listening.”
Zone 1 is the oldest part of Guatemala City, a claustrophobic hive of rundown shops, cheap hotels, bus terminals, and car parks, with a sprinkling of modern chain outlets. Wimpy’s and McDonald’s share the narrow streets with German delis, sports bars, Chinese restaurants, shoe stores, cinemas, electrical shops, strip joints, and taverns.
Like many ecozones, the sector follows a diurnal rhythm. Come dark, the vendors and pedestrians clogging its streets yield to cigarette sellers and hookers. The shoeshine boys, taxi drivers, buskers, and preachers vanish from Parque Concordia, and homeless children gather to bed down for the night.
Zone 1 is broken pavement, neon, fumes, and noise. But the quarter also has a grander side. It is home to the Palacio Nacional, the Biblioteca Nacional, the Mercado Central, Parque Central, Parque del Centenario, museums, a cathedral, and a spectacular Moorish post office. Police headquarters is located in an outlandish castle at the intersection of Calle 14 and Avenida 6, one block south of the Iglesia de San Francisco, famous for its carving of the sacred heart and for the banned books discovered in a roof cavity, hidden decades earlier by rebellious clergy.
Ninety minutes later Galiano and I were seated at a battered wooden table in a conference room on the castle’s third floor. With us were his partner, Sergeant-detective Pascual Hernandez, and Juan-Carlos Xicay, head of the evidence recovery team that would process the septic tank.
The room was a cheerless gray, last painted about the time the padres were stashing their books. Putty- colored stuffing sprouted from my chair, and I wondered how many nervous, bored, or frightened buttocks had squirmed in that same seat.
A fly buzzed against the room’s single window. I felt empathy, and I shared the insect’s desire for escape. Beyond the window, through filthy blinds, I could see one of the castle’s battlements.
At least there was an upside. I was safe from attack by medieval knights.
Sighing, I shifted for the billionth time, picked up a paper clip, and began tapping the table. We’d been waiting twenty minutes for a representative from the DA’s office. I was hot, tired, and disappointed to be pulled from my FAFG work. And I was not hiding it well.
“Shouldn’t be long.” Galiano looked at his watch.
“Couldn’t I outline the procedure?” I asked. “It may take Senor Xicay some time to line up the equipment.”
Xicay scratched an eyebrow, said nothing. Hernandez gestured his powerlessness by raising a hand and dropping it onto the tabletop. He was a heavy man, with black wavy hair that crawled down his neck. His forearms and hands were also layered with dark, wiry hair.
“I’ll check again.” Galiano strode from the room, his gait indicating annoyance.
With whom? I wondered. Me? The tardy DA? Some higher-up?
Almost immediately, I heard Galiano arguing in the corridor. Though the Spanish was rapid fire, and I missed many words, the animosity was clear. I caught my name at least twice.
Moments later the voices stopped, and Galiano rejoined us, followed by a tall, thin man in rose-pink glasses. The man was slightly stooped, with a soft belly that pooched over his belt.
Galiano made introductions.
“Dr. Brennan, may I present Senor Antonio Diaz. Senor Diaz heads up the criminal investigative section of the office of the district attorney.”
I rose and held out a hand. Ignoring it, Diaz crossed to the window and spun toward me. Though colored lenses obscured his eyes, the hostility was palpable
“I have been a prosecutor for almost twenty years, Dr. Brennan. In all that time, I have never required, nor have I requested, outside help in a death investigation.” Though heavily accented, Diaz’s English was precise.
Stunned, I dropped my hand.
“While you may view our forensic doctors as inadequately trained hacks laboring in a Third World medico- legal system, or as mere cogs in an antiquated and ineffective judicial bureaucracy, let me assure you they are professionals who hold themselves to the highest standards.”
