The optimism plunged like an elevator in free fall.
“Can’t you determine if one of the other samples matches the hairs from the jeans?” Galiano asked.
“Both display similar characteristics. Individualization is impossible based on hair morphology.”
“What about DNA?” I asked.
“That can probably be done.”
Minos tossed the folder onto the counter, removed his glasses, and began cleaning them on the hem of his lab coat.
“But not here.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a six-month backlog on human tissue cases. You’ll have a birthday waiting for results on cat hair.”
I was wrapping my mind around that when Galiano’s cell phone sounded.
His face tensed as he listened.
He was silent a full minute, then his eyes met mine. When he spoke again he’d gone back to English.
“Why wasn’t I called sooner?”
A long pause.
“Xicay’s there?”
Another pause.
“We’re on our way.”
11
AT 3 P.M. THE STREETS WERE ALREADY IN GRIDLOCK. LIGHTS FLASHING, siren screaming, Galiano snaked forward as drivers edged over to allow us to pass. He kept his foot on the accelerator, barely slowed at intersections.
Shotgun Spanish crackled over the radio. I couldn’t follow, but it didn’t matter. I was thinking about Claudia de la Alda in her plain black skirts and pastel blouses. I tried to remember her expression in the photos, came up blank.
But other images flooded back from the past. Shallow graves. Putrefying bodies rolled in carpets. Skeletons covered with fallen leaves. Rotten clothing scattered by animals.
A sludge-filled skull.
My stomach knotted.
The faces of distraught parents. Their child is dead, and I am about to tell them that. They are bewildered, stricken, disbelieving, angry. Bearing that news is an awful job.
Damn! It was happening again.
My heart tangoed below my ribs.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
Senora De la Alda had received a phone call about the time I was heading out to learn more about cat hair. A male voice said Claudia was dead and told her where to find the body. Hysterical, she’d called Hernandez. He’d called Xicay. The recovery team had located bones in a ravine on the far western edge of the city.
“What else did Hernandez tell you?” I asked.
“The call was placed at a public phone.”
“Where?”
“The Coban bus station in Zone One.”
“What did the caller say?”
“He told her the body was in Zone Seven. Gave directions. Hung up.”
“Near the archaeological site?”
“On the back steps.”
Zone 7 is a tentacle of the city that wraps around the ruins of Kaminaljuyu, a Mayan center that in its heyday had over three hundred mounds, thirteen ball courts, and fifty thousand residents. Unlike the lowland Maya, the builders of Kaminaljuyu preferred adobe to stone, an unwise choice in a tropical climate. Erosion and urban sprawl had taken their toll, and today the ancient metropolis is little more than a series of earth-covered knolls, a green space for lovers and Frisbee players.
“Claudia worked at the Ixchel Museum. Think there’s a connection?”
“I’ll definitely find out.”
A stench filled the car as we sped past the dump.
