Haitian Graves (2 page)

H
ammond came home from work early. He found his wife floating face down in the pool. He jumped in and tried
CPR
. No one else had been in the house. The housekeeper was fetching the children from school. Hammond didn’t know where the gardener was.

The guard heard Hammond yelling for help. Together the two men pulled the body out of the pool. The guard then called the American embassy. The embassy phoned the police station. When Paulette and the children got home, Hammond told them to wait in the family room. The gardener finally showed up, and Hammond ordered him to meet the police when they arrived.

Pierre had taken out his notebook. He wrote down Hammond’s statement. The three cops who’d come with us stood at the top of the stairs, watching and waiting. I wandered around the yard. Something niggled at the back of my mind. I peeled the towel away from the woman’s head. Her long hair was wet. I crouched down and gently turned her to one side. Traces of blood were still visible above her left ear. I touched the spot. Soft and squishy.

I heard a sharp intake of breath above me. “Oh god,” Hammond said.

“Looks like a blow to the head. A fresh one.”

Pierre joined us. “Do you know anything about this, Mr. Hammond?”

“No. And I don’t like your tone, officer. Marie is…was a good swimmer. I thought she might have had a heart attack or something. Not been able to get out of the pool.”

“Perhaps she slipped,” Pierre said. “Hit her head as she fell in.”

I glanced around the rim of the pool. No blood. Not that I could see.

The garden was well looked after. The trees trimmed, the flowers deadheaded, the patio swept.

I heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. Doors slamming. Men calling. Footsteps on the stairs. I threw the towel back over the dead woman’s face. The gardener had been standing above us, watching silently. Now he opened the gate for a man and a woman, both white. They wore dark glasses and expensive business suits. I had no doubt where they were from. They hurried down the stairs.

“Gail Warkness. American embassy,” the woman said. We all shook hands. Warkness barely glanced at the towel-covered body on the ground. “You’re an American citizen?”

“Yes,” Hammond said. “And this is my wife.”

“We’ll send the body to Miami for autopsy. Do you have any problem with that, agent?” She spoke excellent French.

“No,” Pierre replied.

Electricity in Haiti is unreliable at the best of times. Evidence, shall we say, doesn’t last long in the heat. It’s routine for autopsies to be performed in Miami or Montreal. Miami because it’s close, Montreal because of the language.

“We’ll make the arrangements.” She jerked her head at the man who’d come with her. He pulled out his phone.

I gave Pierre a small nod. He said, “I would like to talk to your staff, Mr. Hammond.”

Hammond spoke to me. “That would be a waste of time. They can’t tell you anything. They weren’t here. Except for
Nicholas, the guard. And he only came when I called.”

“I’ll decide,” Pierre said, “if they have anything worthwhile to say.” His face didn’t change color, but his back straightened, and his tone was clipped. Steve Hammond was not making a good impression on Pierre.

I was in Haiti as a mentor and advisor. Not to run an investigation. Pierre would decide if he should call an officer from the judicial branch. A detective.

That might not be necessary. This looked to be what Hammond had told us. An accident. No visible traces of blood were on the edge of the pool, where Marie might have struck her head. But Hammond had jumped in after her. Two men had hauled her out. Easy for water to splash up and wash a small amount of blood away. There might not even have been much of it. An internal injury to the head’s enough to kill someone.

“I don’t want my children interrogated,” Hammond said to Warkness.

“That shouldn’t be necessary, should it, sergeant?” she asked me.

“How old are your children?” Pierre asked.

“Six and eight. A girl and a boy.”

I was getting tired of this four-way conversation. “I doubt the children will have anything to add. If we do have to talk to them, you’ll be allowed to be present.”

“I don’t…”

“Thank you, sergeant. Agent,” Warkness said. “Now, why don’t we all go inside? Get out of this heat. My colleague will wait here for the coroner’s van.”

We started with the gardener. Warkness wanted to sit in on the questioning. I told her, politely, to butt out. Her card had said she was with the Economic and Commercial section of the embassy. Not Consular Services, as I would have expected.

We could hear the sound of a
TV
coming from inside the house. A children’s show, high-pitched voices and bouncy music. I told Hammond we’d use the living room. He didn’t look pleased, but showed us the way. I shut the door in his face.

The gardener’s name was Alphonse. He told us to call him Al. His hair was gray. Fine lines radiated out from the corners of his eyes and his mouth. The skin on his neck hung in loose folds. I put his age at fifty-five, sixty maybe. He didn’t speak English, and his French was poor. I struggled to keep up with the Creole. Which wasn’t too difficult, as he didn’t have much to say. He had little contact with Mr. or Mrs. Hammond. He took his instructions from the housekeeper. He’d been late for work today. Something about an accident with the tap-tap. To his surprise, the guard had not been at his post. Yes, that was very unusual. Then he heard men’s voices, coming from the pool. He went onto the verandah. He saw Mrs. Hammond on the ground by the pool. Mr. Hammond was pushing at her chest while the guard watched. They told him Mrs. Hammond was dead and he was to wait for the police.

That was all.

“Tell me about Mrs. Hammond,” I asked. “What was she like?”

He blinked in confusion. Pierre repeated the question.

Al’s eyes shifted around the room. Cream walls, red-and-cream-striped sofa and chairs. Solid wood tables. Good art. Ceiling fans moved lazily overhead. The wide French doors to the verandah were closed. The air-conditioning had not been turned on. I thought I might melt. I hoped it didn’t show.

The old man stirred in his seat. He was very uncomfortable. I didn’t know whether because of the unaccustomed luxury of the upholstered chair or our questions.

Maybe just because he didn’t like cops. Plenty of Haitians didn’t like cops. They had good reason not to. That’s why I was here.

I tried to ask him if he liked working for the Hammonds. If they were good employers. What did he and Mrs. Hammond talk about when she was in the garden and he was trimming the bushes?

All I got were nervous nods and shrugs.

Finally, Pierre told him he could go. Al gave us his address as Jalousie. The slum with brightly painted houses but no running water. The man almost bolted from the room.

The housekeeper was next. Paulette smiled at us shyly and took a seat. She folded her hands in her lap and sat very still. Her French was good enough that we could speak in that language. She had worked here for two months. In that time she had only seen Mr. Hammond twice. He left for work early in the morning, and
he got home late. She did not come here on the weekends.

“Tell me about Mrs. Hammond,” I asked. “Nice lady?”

A shrug.

“Did she have a job?”

“No. She liked to sit by the pool. She swam a great deal. She read magazines. When the children got home from school, she would help them with their homework or watch
TV
with them.” Another shrug.

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Did she have many friends? Bridge parties or lunches?”

A shake of the head.

“Never?”

“Never. They often entertained in the evenings. I found dirty dishes, glasses, empty bottles in the mornings.”

“What about the children’s school friends?” I asked. “Did their mothers bring them around to play sometimes?”

Another shake of the head.

“What about her family? Did they ever come to visit?”

“No.”

“Did she visit them? Go to America?” I asked.

The black eyes opened wide. She looked directly at me for the first time. “She was not American, sir. She was Haitian. No family ever visited her here.”

I bit my tongue. I’d assumed Mrs. Hammond was from the States. Never assume. Wasn’t that something I told my trainees? Over and over.

It probably didn’t matter. But I should have asked more about her.

W
hile we were talking to the gardener and housekeeper, a van had arrived. The body was taken away. The other American, whose name I never did get, had gone with it. Hammond and Warkness were waiting for us on the verandah. He’d changed into dry clothes. Bermuda shorts and a golf shirt.

“We’ll talk to your guard,” Pierre said, “and then be on our way. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Hammond said.

“I’ll walk you out,” Warkness said. She looked cool and fresh in her cream skirt, matching jacket, black blouse and two-inch heels. Her brown hair was tied into a sleek ponytail. She hadn’t once removed her designer sunglasses.

Pierre wore a perfectly ironed beige uniform shirt, with the small
PNH
patch on the sleeve, and dark pants with a yellow stripe. The cops here dressed smart and looked professional. It went a long way toward giving confidence to the people.

In contrast to the others, I had a river of sweat running down my back. I tried hard not to wipe moisture off my neck and cheeks. I was in my
RCMP
uniform of light-gray short-sleeved shirt and navy-blue pants with a yellow stripe. I also wore a Kevlar vest and full-equipment belt. Canadian uniforms are not designed for tropical heat. A blue
UN
patch was sewn onto my sleeve.

“Papa?” said a soft voice.

We all turned. A small girl peeked out from behind the kitchen door. She had changed out of her school uniform into a light summer dress that showed scraped knees. Her dark curls were tied with a jumble of white ribbons. Her eyes were round and frightened. Tears threatened to spill over. “Where’s Mama? I want Mama.”

“Go back inside,” Hammond said sharply. “Where the hell is Paulette? I told her to keep you in the family room. François, get out here.”

A boy a couple of years older than the girl came out of the kitchen. He looked so much like her that he had to be her brother. He gave me a long look. His eyes ran down my uniform and stopped at my hip. In South Sudan, my last posting, we hadn’t been allowed to carry our weapons. Here, I had my
RCMP
-issue Smith & Wesson, with the logo of a rider with a lance stamped onto the grip. “Mountie,” the boy said in English. “Cool.”

“Take your sister into the kitchen. Give her something to drink,” Hammond ordered.

“Mama. I want Mama.” The girl began to cry. The boy pulled her roughly away. The kitchen door slammed shut behind them. I could hear her muffled howls. The boy shouted at her to be quiet.

Those children were the color of coffee with just a splash of milk. Darker than their mother. Much darker than Hammond, who was the shade of a dead fish’s belly. “Adopted?” I asked.

“My stepchildren. Marie’s first husband was killed in the earthquake. We’ve only been married for a year.”

“If we’re finished here?” Warkness said.

“I want to speak to your guard,” Pierre said. “What’s his name?”

“Nicholas.”

“We can talk to him on the way out,” Warkness said.

I didn’t fail to notice the word
we
.

The guards’ station was in a corner of the double garage. A desk was piled with magazines and newspapers and a
TV
, switched to a news program. The rest of the garage was filled by a black Lexus. The guard jumped to his feet as he heard us approach. His fingers ran lightly across his gun as though he was stroking a woman. His eyes passed over me. He did not look impressed. Those eyes lingered on Warkness perhaps a moment too long than is polite.

Pierre asked the questions. What did he see? What did he hear?

The guard replied in perfect French. He told us that nothing unusual had happened until he heard Mr. Hammond shouting. He then ran to help.

“How long,” I asked, “was Mr. Hammond home before he found Mrs. Hammond?”

Outside on the street a man shouted. A woman laughed. The guard hefted his shotgun and looked ready to fight to the last man. Whether to avoid the question or to impress us, I didn’t know. He was a good-looking guy in his midthirties. About six feet tall. Coal-black skin, excellent teeth, large dark eyes framed by long lashes. Rippling muscles under his uniform shirt.

“Not long,” he said in answer.
Not long
could mean a lot of things. I was about to press when Warkness interrupted.

“The gate at the top of the stairs was unlocked?” she asked.

“Yes. It would be open until Paulette brought the children home. Then Mrs. Hammond would lock up.”

“That’s not proper security procedure,” Warkness said, indignant.

“You can file a report later,” I said. “Now, about—”

“I told Mrs. Hammond that.” Failure to follow procedure seemed to be more important to the guard than the death of his employer’s wife. There haven’t been many kidnapping cases here, but it’s what all the security’s about. The gates within gates, the triple locks, the barbed wire, the armed guards, the no-go areas we called red zones. “That is what Mrs. Hammond wanted. She sometimes napped in the afternoon and did not want to be disturbed to unlock the gate.”

Warkness looked as if she was about to berate the guard. I cut her off. “You can take that up with the grieving widower later.” An unlocked gate hadn’t killed Mrs. Hammond. This wasn’t the work of someone who’d sneaked in undetected. I studied the guard. What might he have thought of a widowed young Haitian woman taking up with a rich old American? He returned my stare. His uniform showed no signs of a struggle, such as an untucked shirt or torn buttons.

Pierre asked about visitors. As Paulette had told us, Mrs. Hammond never had any. The children never had any. In the evenings and on weekends they entertained regularly. I thought the guard looked envious as he told us about crowds of people arriving. Well-dressed men, beautiful women. Music and dancing. Bottles of wine and rich food.

“Mrs. Hammond cooked?” Pierre asked, sounding surprised.

“No.” The guard sneered. A restaurant catered. Sometimes they went out. Mrs. Hammond, he added, was very beautiful. I gave him a look. He stared back at me.

“Did you like her?” I asked.

“I did not like her. And I did not dislike her. I never spoke to her.” His eyes shifted away. He might not be lying, but he wasn’t telling me the whole truth either.

“Never?”

“Only once, when she told me the gate would be unlocked when Paulette was getting the children from school. A neighbor comes in her car at the same time every day to drive Paulette to the school and then bring the children home. I have worked here for six months. Other than that one time, I have never spoken to Mrs. Hammond.”

“She didn’t go shopping? To have lunch with friends?”

“If she went out during the day, Mr. Hammond sent a driver for her.”

“Thanks for your help.”

He grunted. Then he pulled open the heavy garage door and let us out.

“Your thoughts, sergeant? Agent?” Warkness asked.

I had a lot of thoughts. If I’d been in Canada, the isolation of Mrs. Hammond would have raised a ton of flags. She had no friends, no family, no visitors. The first thing abusive husbands do is isolate the woman. But here, I wasn’t sure. Marie Hammond was Haitian. Her first husband had died in the earthquake. She might have lost a lot of family members at the same time. Had her friends, maybe even her family, turned their backs on her when she married a much older American? Possible. I wasn’t ready to talk about any of this with Warkness.

“We’ll be filing a report in due course,” I said. “Your office can read it when it’s ready.”

Warkness lowered her sunglasses. Her eyes were a startling shade of pale blue. “Don’t give me that bull.”

“What bull? I don’t make reports directly to civilians. I assume you’re a civilian? Not something else pretending to be?” Perhaps I’m just a suspicious sort of guy, but pretty much every large embassy has intelligence officers disguised as ordinary office workers.

She didn’t reply.

“I know your embassy has an interest in the death of the wife of an American citizen. You can file a request to access our investigation. I’ll suggest it be approved.”

“You have no right not to.”

Pierre was watching the exchange with great interest. This woman rubbed me the wrong way. I was here to teach the Haitian police to follow the rule of law. To do things the right, approved way. And here she was, trying to push us aside and give orders.

Then again, maybe I was just tired. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t over yet. I was certainly hot. Maybe I didn’t like the way Warkness never took off her sunglasses, even indoors. And maybe she was just reminding me of the state of my marriage. Something I didn’t want to think about right now.

Gail Warkness snapped her sunglasses back into place. She climbed into her squeaky-clean bright-yellow
SUV
and pulled away.

The guard smirked and went back inside.

“It doesn’t pay to make enemies,” Pierre said quietly.

I didn’t know if he was talking about Warkness or the security guard. “Whatever. Let’s go.”

The three cops we’d come with were waiting by the truck. I could almost see waves of heat rising off the hood. Two of the men crouched in what shade they could find. One was passing the time kicking around dirt.

“What do you think?” I asked Pierre. “About what happened here?”

“An accident. A tragedy.”

“Yeah. I’m thinking so too. She was alone by the pool. No one in the house. She slipped on something, hit her head and rolled into the water. And there she drowned. The family’s creepy as all hell. But that doesn’t mean much.”

“What’s creepy about it?”

“The wife has no girlfriends. The kids have no school friends. She looked to be about thirty years younger than him.”

Pierre grinned. “Lucky man.”

“Until today. In Canada we call that a trophy wife. Her only job was to look pretty.”

Pierre’s face fell. “That’s all?”

I slapped him on the back. “Other duties as assigned. Let’s get the hell out of here before I melt. I hope that damn airconditioning’s working.”