the Secret Police involved, they probably had little choice.”
“Cowards. They’re fired. End of story.”
“Perhaps they were ordered to keep their mouths shut?”
““Munoz and Torres know which way the wind blows,” muttered Benilo. “Still, cowards!”
“No…not cowards, cautious men—acting no differently than Estrada’s crewmen or anyone in the face of the SP.”
“They work for me and I expect loyalty. They have more to fear from me than the SP!”
She could not help but laugh at this. “At least they are smart enough to avoid going the way of the vanished ones. ”
“True.”
From somewhere deep in the autopsy room, a dripping faucet created a staccato beat that echoed Qui’s growing headache. “Got any aspirin?”
“Here, my secret stash,” Benilo handed her a green container and a glass of water.
“Thank you Doctor.”
“Remember, Quiana, for all we know, the bodies could be below a hundred feet of ocean, and this time permanently, or incinerated in some old cathedral basement, or even turned into sausages at a meat-packing company.” Benilo realized what he was saying caused her to wince. “Sorry, but it’s so.”
Qui replied, gulping, “Please, tell me you don’t believe their bodies are being sold as sausage.”
Benilo shrugged in response. He then stretched and complained, “I must look every bit as old as I feel this morning.” He gulped down the last of his coffee. If last night on the dock with Jesus went horribly awry, trying to explain it today proved even worse.
She held his gaze, studying, sizing him up, trying to find some chink. Was he holding back or telling an outright lie? Benilo stared back, his deep eyes resolute. She wondered if he were among that small percentage who, without a doubt, could beat a lie detector.
“Come, I’ll tell you what I think happened. The coffee’s good; have some. Got no sleep last night—half-asleep now. Need more caffeine.”
Together, the old coroner for the state and the Havana detective left the morgue, each contemplating the strange twist of events, in so short a span of time.
“Christ,” Qui muttered as she slowed her pace alongside an obviously fatigued Benilo. Much as she wanted to hurry him up, she knew there was no rushing him.
“We’ve got the photos, Qui, and the fingerprint evidence.” They left the morgue, going to his office.
“Ahhh…yes, the fingerprints pocketed at the scene? You anticipated problems from the beginning.”
“Call it a hunch. But hijacking bodies? No predicting that! Someone’s interested in a major cover-up.”
“Cover-up? Are you serious?” She asked as they entered his office. “That’s an understatement, Doctor.”
Instead of answering her, he went to a file and unlocked a drawer. “I want to show you something.”
This man’s so slow! Why doesn’t he just tell me! She decided to calm down and pour a cup of coffee. She sat and sipped at the hot thick brew, the taste telling her that Benilo was right about one thing. Smiling, she raised her cup in a toast, “Good coffee—a rarity in a government facility.”
“The one last thing I have control over—the coffee,” Benilo grimaced as he spoke. “At least it doesn’t just disappear.” He dropped three files on the desk between them. “Missing persons reports on our three victims.”
Instantly excited, she opened the reports and three photos of bright-looking, smiling faces beamed up at her—the same three faces she’d seen in death grimaces aboard the Sanabela. “Damn,” she muttered, “and look who was assigned this missing persons case—” Her finger led his eye to the name: Jorge Peña
“Gutierrez’s fair-haired boy,” said Benilo.
“Who is this Dr. Cortez who filed the missing persons report?” Qui asked, still scanning the files.
“He’s some sort of medical researcher and the conference coordinator, handles arrangements for conferences;
“Cowards. They’re fired. End of story.”
“Perhaps they were ordered to keep their mouths shut?”
““Munoz and Torres know which way the wind blows,” muttered Benilo. “Still, cowards!”
“No…not cowards, cautious men—acting no differently than Estrada’s crewmen or anyone in the face of the SP.”
“They work for me and I expect loyalty. They have more to fear from me than the SP!”
She could not help but laugh at this. “At least they are smart enough to avoid going the way of the vanished ones. ”
“True.”
From somewhere deep in the autopsy room, a dripping faucet created a staccato beat that echoed Qui’s growing headache. “Got any aspirin?”
“Here, my secret stash,” Benilo handed her a green container and a glass of water.
“Thank you Doctor.”
“Remember, Quiana, for all we know, the bodies could be below a hundred feet of ocean, and this time permanently, or incinerated in some old cathedral basement, or even turned into sausages at a meat-packing company.” Benilo realized what he was saying caused her to wince. “Sorry, but it’s so.”
Qui replied, gulping, “Please, tell me you don’t believe their bodies are being sold as sausage.”
Benilo shrugged in response. He then stretched and complained, “I must look every bit as old as I feel this morning.” He gulped down the last of his coffee. If last night on the dock with Jesus went horribly awry, trying to explain it today proved even worse.
She held his gaze, studying, sizing him up, trying to find some chink. Was he holding back or telling an outright lie? Benilo stared back, his deep eyes resolute. She wondered if he were among that small percentage who, without a doubt, could beat a lie detector.
“Come, I’ll tell you what I think happened. The coffee’s good; have some. Got no sleep last night—half-asleep now. Need more caffeine.”
Together, the old coroner for the state and the Havana detective left the morgue, each contemplating the strange twist of events, in so short a span of time.
“Christ,” Qui muttered as she slowed her pace alongside an obviously fatigued Benilo. Much as she wanted to hurry him up, she knew there was no rushing him.
“We’ve got the photos, Qui, and the fingerprint evidence.” They left the morgue, going to his office.
“Ahhh…yes, the fingerprints pocketed at the scene? You anticipated problems from the beginning.”
“Call it a hunch. But hijacking bodies? No predicting that! Someone’s interested in a major cover-up.”
“Cover-up? Are you serious?” She asked as they entered his office. “That’s an understatement, Doctor.”
Instead of answering her, he went to a file and unlocked a drawer. “I want to show you something.”
This man’s so slow! Why doesn’t he just tell me! She decided to calm down and pour a cup of coffee. She sat and sipped at the hot thick brew, the taste telling her that Benilo was right about one thing. Smiling, she raised her cup in a toast, “Good coffee—a rarity in a government facility.”
“The one last thing I have control over—the coffee,” Benilo grimaced as he spoke. “At least it doesn’t just disappear.” He dropped three files on the desk between them. “Missing persons reports on our three victims.”
Instantly excited, she opened the reports and three photos of bright-looking, smiling faces beamed up at her—the same three faces she’d seen in death grimaces aboard the Sanabela. “Damn,” she muttered, “and look who was assigned this missing persons case—” Her finger led his eye to the name: Jorge Peña
“Gutierrez’s fair-haired boy,” said Benilo.
“Who is this Dr. Cortez who filed the missing persons report?” Qui asked, still scanning the files.
“He’s some sort of medical researcher and the conference coordinator, handles arrangements for conferences;
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