Grave of Hummingbirds (15 page)

TWENTY-FIVE

F
inn left the room with a last long look at all he could see of his mother: her pale, thin arm, delicate and brittle as a bird’s, her wrist jutting at an odd angle against the blanket. As he pulled the door closed, he heard Gregory ask Isabella to empty the humidifier and refill it with a bottle of distilled water that she would find under the sink. He spoke in English, probably for Finn’s benefit.

Finn was the best witness the police had, and huddled in a blanket, he gave his statement to two homicide detectives from Búho, who stood at the table in Gregory’s kitchen.

They asked him the same questions over and over, and when Finn threw up his hands and asked why they couldn’t accept his answers, they said it was a language issue.

“How is it a language issue?” Finn asked. “Your English is way better than my Spanish. But hey, we can try Spanish. The answers are still going to be the same. Why don’t you believe me?”

The lead investigator, a long, bald man whose arms jutted out of his shoulders like knitting needles, said, “But you understand your story seems—what’s the word? Implausible.” He liked his choice of vocabulary and allowed himself a satisfied smile. “Implausible. You say,” he said, bending over the other detective’s notes, “you say that you happened to find your mother. Just like that. You somehow discovered a cave so cleverly hidden and out of the way that no one else has stumbled upon it, not even a stray animal, a lost sheep perhaps, or, I don’t know, a llama.”

“Every animal that lives up there has probably stumbled across it,” Finn said. More softly, he added, “They’re smarter than we are.”

“Hmm. Animals are smarter than we are. An odd thing to say.” The detective’s sharp eyes made Finn squirm. “How did you manage to see in the dark? You’re sure you had no prior knowledge of this place?”

“I’m sure. I had my phone with me.” Finn placed it on the table. “It has a flashlight.”

“And you made all these mathematical and engineering decisions, about how to open the door . . .”

“There was no math or engineering involved. Anyone with half a brain could have figured it out. Go see for yourself.”

“We will.” The lead investigator loomed, and Finn had to look up at him. “And these bodies. You’re sure they were bodies?” He and the second man exchanged a look.

“Why don’t you ask the others, if you don’t believe me?”

“We will.” After a pause, the tall detective asked, “And when you got into the cave, who did you find there?”

“My mother.”

“No one else?”

Finn hesitated. “Alberto was there,” he murmured.

“Alberto Pacheco Chavez?”

Finn nodded.

“You’re sure it was him? You’ve only been here a few days. How can you be sure?”

Finn’s voice rose in spite of his fear. “You know what? My mother was abducted, and it’s a miracle I found her, when none of you could have. You have no idea . . . you can’t even imagine what I’ve been through . . . you don’t even care what she’s been through.”

The detective placed his arms on the table and leaned in close, his face inches away from Finn’s. “Now, you listen to me. You’re hiding something, and we’ll get to the bottom of it. An important man was murdered in the last twenty-four hours, and we’re going to find out who did it. Do you understand?”

Finn drew back, his heart pounding. “I’m not hiding anything. And I don’t know anything about a murder. Why should I?”

Just then, Gregory stepped through the door. “Yes, I’d be interested to hear the answer to that myself. Why should he?”

The lead investigator said, “Ah, Dr. Vásquez Moreno. Good of you to join us. How’s your patient?”

Finn got out of his chair and moved over to Gregory, who placed a hand on his shoulder. “Is she awake? Can I go see her?”

“Not yet, Finn. Isabella’s with her. She’ll be fine. She’s sleeping.”

Finn returned to the table, and Gregory shook the detectives’ hands. They flashed their badges at him.

“Detectives Alba and Muniz. Please, sit. I’m sure you gentlemen would like some coffee. It’s very early in the morning. I use arabica beans from Colombia. Slightly sweeter. You’ll catch a hint of berries.” Gregory got busy at the counter preparing a pot. “You’ve been driving and must be exhausted,” he said. “I see you have a new police commissioner. Sit, sit.”

Awkwardly, they sat. The second man, Detective Muniz, had hair precisely parted in the center and high, tense shoulders that obscured his neck. He cleared his throat and tapped his pen on his notebook, first the nib, then the cap, then the nib, then the cap . . .

Gregory put a plate of Isabella’s oatmeal cookies in front of him. Muniz dropped the pen and reached for one.

Finn and the detectives watched and listened as steaming coffee splashed into the five ceramic mugs on the table.

Gregory held two out to Finn. “On second thought, go see your mother. And take this for Isabella, will you?”

Finn didn’t want coffee, definitely not without cream and sugar, but he took the mugs and hurried out of the kitchen.

After the door had closed behind Finn, Gregory handed coffee to both of the men. “He’s told you everything he knows,” he said. “He’s not about to lie to you. He’s far away from home—a stranger—and I think he’s probably still in shock. I hope he drinks that coffee.”

“Coffee’s good for shock?” Muniz said. He mumbled into his mug when Detective Alba glared at him.

“Isn’t it good for everything?” Gregory asked and smiled. “So, how can I help you?” He stirred his own coffee.

“We have questions for the boy, his mother, and you,” Alba said.

Gregory considered the man. “You know, I have a feeling you’ll get more information from the crime scene. Finn was with me for most of the day, and when we got back to Colibrí, he went looking for his mother. The rest I’m sure he told you.”

“Dr. Vásquez Moreno, Rufo Merida Salazar was murdered last night,” Alba said.

“I know that. I’m sorry about it.”

“We were told that you had a fight with the governor the same morning. Is that true?” asked Muniz.

“Well, yes, of course it’s true. At least fifty people saw us. But you have to understand, detectives, Rufo and I had a long history. Now and again, we argued, but we also worked together on many projects. He made me crazy, but I had no reason to kill him. And as I say, I was here with the boy for much of the afternoon.” Gregory scraped a hand though his hair, suddenly dizzy with fatigue, reeling from everything he’d seen and Finn’s claim that Alberto was behind Sophie’s abduction. He knew what would have happened to Sophie if Finn hadn’t found her. The depth of Alberto’s betrayal and deception made fools of both him and Nita, and he still couldn’t assimilate it all.

“We know who’s responsible for the governor’s death,” Alba said. “We have evidence you need to take a look at. Something we found in his pocket.” He opened his briefcase and pushed a clear Ziploc plastic bag across the table.

In it was a note, the kind a butcher would write while parceling meat. The paper had been crumpled and smoothed flat inside the bag. Its creases were brown and spotted with blood, the writing small and neat but difficult to decipher.

“This is Rufo Merida Salazar’s handwriting?” Alba said.

Gregory peered at the stained paper. “I can’t tell.”

It was part confession, part last will and testament. The words, written in Spanish, scuttled like spiders over Gregory’s fingers, under the sleeves of his sweater, up his neck, into his nostrils and eyes and ears, to leave indelible tracks on his brain.

I, Rufo Merida Salazar, Governor of Colibrí, confess my sins before God and whoever will judge me. I know of the cave where the bodies of Penelope Pacheco, Mama Mamani, Grandfather Vilca, Miguel Gorrión, and others are buried. I’ve known for many years but kept it a secret as part of a trade agreement, silence for security and progress. I leave all my possessions to Manco Pacheco, except for my horses, which I give to Dr. Gregory Vásquez Moreno. I apologize to the doctor for my jealousy and disrespect and request that he continue to care for the people and animals of Colibrí the way he has always done.

Signed RUFO MERIDA SALAZAR, Governor of Colibrí.

Alba reclaimed the bag, and slowly Gregory raised his eyes.

“Manco Pacheco’s whereabouts are accounted for. His son’s are not. So can you tell us whose handwriting you think this is?”

“Rufo would not have written this. No one could have forced him to write it. He was a stubborn son of a bitch. And I don’t believe he knew of the cave.”

Gregory recognized Alberto’s careful script from the exercise books Nita had brought home from school now and then. She was proud of the sketches Alberto had drawn every few pages, self-portraits and studies of her, Coco, and the birds in the aviaries. Alberto had been younger then, sixteen, but the writing was distinctive. It hadn’t changed much in three years.

“Someone got him to sign it. If that’s his signature,” Muniz said and drained his cup.

Alba’s coffee remained untouched.

Gregory said, “I don’t imagine he was able to read it when or if he signed. It may not be his signature. I’m not an expert on Rufo’s handwriting. It means nothing.”

“I disagree. It means a great deal. Did you know about this
grave
?”

“Of course not.” Gregory shook his head, speaking to himself more than them. “I should have known about it. My God, I’ve been blind.” He fumbled over the spider tracks of memories, for revelations, clues he might have missed, things he could piece together. And they did come, the frail, giveaway signs, like tiny insects, strung up, lifeless, cobwebbed. Useless to him now.

Colibrí’s missing had been found.

Alberto had known about the cave. God knows for how long he’d worked on that elaborate gate, welding, installing rails, equipping that hideous grotto. It would have been easy enough for him to collect the metal pieces, and he had access to Manco’s tools and truck. No one ever bothered to keep track of him or his movements.

Gregory veered away from the plunder of Alberto’s secrets. “You won’t be able to keep this quiet,” he said. “It’ll all come out, now that the bodies have been found. The abductions, the torture, the murders. It’s bigger than all of us. You’ll have your hands full, a lot of explaining to do. This doesn’t end here.”

Alba surprised him. He nodded. “A good thing, I believe. It’s time, don’t you think?”

“What are you going to do?”

Alba pondered the question. “Can I be frank with you, Dr. Vásquez Moreno? We’ll do what we’re supposed to do. We’ll investigate, all the way to the top if we have to.”

“No offense, but you’re homicide detectives. In the end, it won’t be up to you. Are you sure your commanding officer feels the same way?”

The man sighed. “He’s newly appointed, and he does. At some point it will be out of our hands. But until then, I’m the lead investigator and I intend to do my job. Besides which, there are international implications here—the young man and his mother. In cases like this, where a mass grave has been uncovered . . .”

“You have many cases like this, I believe.”

“You know we do. But my point is, we have a crime scene, which we can handle, but the grave . . . the grave is another story altogether.”

“You’ll need to bring in a forensics team. Those bodies must be identified and returned to their families. This will come to the attention of human rights organizations, and you’ll need help. Will you accept it from the international community?”

“We won’t have a choice,” Alba said. “I, for one, will be glad if the international community gets involved. And if a few bad apples have to go before the International Court of Justice, so be it. We have an election coming up in six months. Our own Department of Justice will want to be seen to be in control, doing some enthusiastic spring cleaning, so to speak.”

Muniz had been listening to the exchange with owl-like intensity. He spoke softly but with some umbrage, as though Gregory had offended him in some way. “This goes back a long time. Not all of us are corrupt and bloated thugs.”

“No, I see that,” Gregory said. But this would have little impact. Two honorable men in a nest of vipers were expendable.

Alba sat forward. “There’s another murder we’ve been able to link to Colibrí,” he said, “specifically to Alberto Pacheco Chavez. We believe he killed a colleague of ours, Alejandro Hernandez, ten days ago.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It seems Pacheco Chavez was taken in for questioning a year ago in connection with what came to be known as the Condor Killing. You remember it.” It wasn’t a question. “We found a similar note on Hernandez’s body, same handwriting, a confession of the detective’s crimes, of which there was no shortage. I never liked the man, never approved of his methods, but murder is murder.”

“Oh, come on! You think Alberto . . . no, it makes no sense. You’ve got it wrong. Why would he wait a year? This isn’t possible.”

“Why are you protecting him?” Alba snapped.

It was a question Gregory had no rational answer for. “I’m not. Protecting him.”

Alba stood up. “We’ll know soon enough. In the meantime, we’ll secure the cave and leave some officers outside the house. Pacheco is still at large.”