Grave Secrets

“It’s a wonderful program.” I reached for my glass. The bubbles made soft fizzing sounds as the ice settled. “Was there something you wanted to tell me about the case?”

“Yes.”

He smiled, sipped his martini.

“You have a daughter, correct?”

“Yes.”

“I have a son. He’s seventeen.”

I said nothing.

“Alejandro, but he prefers Al.”

Galiano continued, unconcerned by the lack of feedback.

“Bright kid. He’ll start college next year. Probably ship him up to Canada.”

“St-F.X.?” I hoped to blow a hole in his unassailable self-confidence.

Galiano grinned.

“That’s where you scored the Bat tidbit.”

So he had caught my use of his nickname at headquarters.

“Who?” he asked.

“Andrew Ryan.”

“Ay, Dios.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

“What the hell’s Ryan up to these days?”

“He’s a detective with the provincial police.”

“Using his Spanish?”

“Ryan speaks Spanish?”

Galiano nodded. “We used to discuss passing members of the opposite sex and no one knew what we were saying.”

“Commenting on their intelligence, no doubt.”

“Sewing skills.”

I drilled him with a look.

“It was a different time.”

The waitress arrived, and we both set to seasoning stew. Then we ate in silence, Galiano’s eyes roving the restaurant. Had someone been watching, they’d have thought us a couple grown bored with each other. Finally, “How well do you understand the Guatemalan justice system?”

“Obviously, I’m an outsider.”

“You know you’re not working in Kansas here.”

Jesus. This guy was just like Ryan.

“I know about the torture and assassination, Detective Galiano. That’s why I’m in Guatemala.”

Galiano took a bite of stew, pointed his fork at mine.

“It’s better hot.”

I resumed eating, waited for him to go on. He didn’t. Across from our catacomb, an old woman cooked tortillas on a comal. I watched her toss dough, lay it on the flat clay pan, and place it over the fire. Over and over her hands moved through the motions, her face a wooden mask.

“Tell me how the system works.” It came out sharper than I intended, but Galiano’s evasiveness was starting to irritate.

“We don’t have jury trials in Guatemala. Criminal matters are investigated by judges of the first instance, primera instancia, occasionally by magistrates appointed by the Supreme Court. These judges, you’d call them DAs, are supposed to seek both exculpatory and incriminating evidence.”

“Meaning they act as both defense and prosecution.”

“Exactly. Once the investigating judge decides that there’s a case against an accused, he passes the matter on to a sentencing judge.”

“Who has the power to order an autopsy?” I asked.

“The judge of the first instance. An autopsy is mandatory in a violent or suspicious death. But if cause can be determined by external exam, there’s no Y incision.”

“Who’s in charge of the morgues?”

“They’re directly under the authority of the president of the Supreme Court.”

“So forensic doctors really work for the courts.”