“Or for the national social security institute, the Instituto Guatemalteco de Seguridad Social, IGSS. But yes, forensic doctors are under the authority of the judiciary. It’s not like Brazil, for example, where the state-run medico-legal institutes work for the police. Here forensic doctors have very little interaction with the police.”
“How many are there?”
“Around thirty. Seven or eight work at the judicial morgue here in G City, the rest are spread out across the country.”
“Are they well trained?”
He ticked points off on his fingers. It took only three.
“You must be a Guatemalan citizen by birth, a medical doctor, and a member of the medico-legal association.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Hell, USAC doesn’t even have a residency program in forensic medicine.” He referred to the University of San Carlos, Guatemala’s only public university.
“Frankly, I don’t know why anyone does it. The status is zip and the pay sucks. Have you been to the G City morgue?”
I shook my head.
“It’s like something out of the dark ages.”
He used a torn tortilla to sponge sauce, then pushed his bowl aside.
“Are forensic doctors full-time employees?”
“Some are. Some work for the courts just to supplement their earnings. Especially in rural areas.”
Galiano’s eyes darted left as the waitress entered. She cleared dishes, asked about dessert and coffee, left.
“What’s the drill when a body is found?”
“You’ll love this. Until about ten years ago, stiffs were collected by the fire department. They’d arrive on scene, examine the body, take pics, then call it in. Central dispatch would notify the police, and we’d notify the judge. Police investigators would then gather evidence and take statements. Eventually the judge would show up, release the body, and the firemen would take it to the morgue. Today police vehicles are used for transport.”
“Why the policy change?”
“Fireman Friendly and his colleagues were helping themselves to money and jewelry.”
“So forensic doctors don’t usually go to the scene?”
“No.”
“Why Lucas?”
“Diaz probably gave him no choice.”
The coffee arrived, and we sipped in silence for a few moments. When I looked out at the old woman, Galiano’s eyes followed mine.
“Here’s something else you’ll find appalling. In Guatemala, forensic doctors are only required to determine cause, not manner.”
Galiano referred to the four terms used to categorize the circumstances of death: homicide, suicide, accident, natural. A body is found in a lake, and an autopsy determines that sufficient water filled the lungs to have halted breathing. Cause of death is drowning. But did the deceased fall, jump, or was he pushed? Those are issues of manner.
“Who determines manner?”
“The judge. DA.”
Galiano observed a couple being seated on the far side of the room. Then he turned his chair slightly, leaned in, and lowered his voice.
“Are you aware that many of those who were involved in atrocities remain in command of the military?”
He spoke in a voice that sent goose bumps crawling up my arms.
“Do you know that many of those performing investigative work today were or are direct participants in extrajudicial executions?”
“Are?”
His eyes held steady on mine.
“The police?”
Not a flicker.
“How can that be?”
“Although nominally under the jurisdiction of the Interior Ministry, the police here remain effectively under army control. The criminal justice system is permeated by fear.”
“Who’s afraid?”
Another visual sweep. Not a movement was going unnoticed. When Galiano turned back to me his face was a harder version of the one it had been.
