“Did Senora De la Alda recognize the voice?”
“No.”
As we flew through the city, the neighborhoods grew increasingly tired and run-down. Eventually, Galiano shot onto a narrow street with
Turning left we faced a bleakly familiar scene. Patrol cars lined one side, lights flashing, radios spitting. A morgue van waited on the opposite shoulder. Beside the van, a metal guardrail; beside the rail, a steep drop into a
Twenty yards ahead, the pavement ended at chain linking. Yellow crime scene tape ran ten feet out, turned left, then paralleled the fence on its plunge into the ravine.
Uniformed cops moved about within the cordoned area. A handful of men watched from outside, some holding cameras, others taking notes. Behind us, I could see cars and a television truck. Media crew sat half in, half out of vehicles, smoking, talking, dozing.
When Galiano and I slammed our doors, lenses pointed in our direction. Journalists converged.
“
“
Ignoring the onslaught, we ducked under the tape and walked to the edge of the ravine. Shutters clicked at our backs. Questions rang out.
Hernandez was five yards down the incline. Galiano began scrabbling toward him. I was right behind.
Though this stretch of hillside was largely grass and scrub, the grade was steep, the ground rocky. I placed my feet sideways, kept my weight low, and grasped vegetation as best I could. I didn’t want to turn an ankle or stumble into a downhill slide.
Twigs snapped in my hands. Rocks broke free and skipped down the slope with sharp, cracking sounds. Birds screamed overhead, angry at the intrusion.
Adrenaline poured through my body from wherever it waited between crises. It may not be her, I told myself.
With each step the sweet, fetid stench grew stronger.
Fifteen feet down, the ground leveled off before taking one final downward plunge.
A crank call, I thought, stepping onto the small plateau. De la Alda’s disappearance was reported in the press.
Mario Colom was passing a metal detector back and forth across the ground. Juan-Carlos Xicay was photographing something at Hernandez’s feet. As at the Paraiso, both technicians wore coveralls and caps.
Galiano and I crossed to Hernandez.
The body lay in a rainwater ditch at the juncture of the slope and plateau. It was covered by mud and leaves, and lay atop torn black plastic. Though skeletonized, remnants of muscle and ligament held the bones together.
One look and I caught my breath.
Arm bones protruded like dry sticks from the sleeves of a pale blue blouse. Leg bones emerged from a rotting black skirt, disappeared into mud-stained socks and shoes.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
“The skull’s farther up the gully.” A sheen covered Hernandez’s forehead. His face was flushed, his shirt molded to his chest like the toga on a Roman sculpture.
I squatted. Flies buzzed upward, their bodies glistening green in the sunlight. Small round holes perforated the leathery tissue. Delicate grooves scored the bones. One hand was missing.
“Decapitated?” Hernandez asked.
“Animals,” I said.
“What sort of animals?”
“Small scavengers. Maybe raccoons.”
Galiano squatted beside me. Undeterred by the smell of rotting flesh, he pulled a pen from his pocket and disentangled a chain from the neck vertebrae. Sunlight glinted off a silver cross as he raised the pen to eye level.
Returning the necklace, Galiano stood and scanned the scene.
“Probably won’t find much here.” His jaw muscles flexed.
“Not after ten months of ground time,” Hernandez agreed.
“Sweep the whole area. Hit it with everything.”
“Right.”
“What about neighbors?”
“We’re going door to door, but I doubt we’ll get much. The dump probably took place at night.”
