were helping themselves to money and jewelry.”
“So forensic doctors don’t usually go to the scene?”
“No.”
“Why Lucas?”
“Díaz probably gave him no choice.”
The coffee arrived, and we sipped in silence for a few moments. When I looked out at the old woman, Galiano’s eyes followed mine.
“Here’s something else you’ll find appalling. In Guatemala, forensic doctors are only required to determine cause, not manner.”
Galiano referred to the four terms used to categorize the circumstances of death: homicide, suicide, accident, natural. A body is found in a lake, and an autopsy determines that sufficient water filled the lungs to have halted breathing. Cause of death is drowning. But did the deceased fall, jump, or was he pushed? Those are issues of manner.
“Who determines manner?”
“The judge. DA.”
Galiano observed a couple being seated on the far side of the room. Then he turned his chair slightly, leaned in, and lowered his voice.
“Are you aware that many of those who were involved in atrocities remain in command of the military?”
He spoke in a voice that sent goose bumps crawling up my arms.
“Do you know that many of those performing investigative work today were or are direct participants in extrajudicial executions?”
“Are?”
His eyes held steady on mine.
“The police?”
Not a flicker.
“How can that be?”
“Although nominally under the jurisdiction of the Interior Ministry, the police here remain effectively under army control. The criminal justice system is permeated by fear.”
“Who’s afraid?”
Another visual sweep. Not a movement was going unnoticed. When Galiano turned back to me his face was a harder version of the one it had been.
“Everyone’s afraid. Witnesses and relatives won’t swear out complaints, won’t testify for fear of retribution. When evidence leads to the army, a prosecutor or judge has to worry about what will happen to his family.”
“Aren’t monitors watching out for human rights violations?” My voice was barely above a whisper. Galiano was getting to me.
He blew air through his lips, glanced over my shoulder.
“More monitors have been killed or disappeared in Guatemala than anywhere else on the planet. That’s not my stat, it’s official.”
I’d read that in a recent Human Rights Watch .
“And we’re not talking ancient history. All but four of those murders have taken place since the civilian government was established in eighty-six.”
I felt a tingle of fear in the pit of my stomach.
“What is your point?”
“Death investigation here ain’t day care work.” His eyes were dark with bitterness. “Produce an autopsy finding or a police report that implicates the wrong people, life’s no longer clean and easy. Reporting results can be hazardous if the recipient of your report happens to be affiliated with the bad guys even though he’s holding a prosecutorial office.”
“Meaning?”
He started to say something, then his eyes backed away.
The tingle coalesced into a cold, hard knot.
9
IT WAS MY DAY FOR FLOWERS. BACK IN MY ROOM I FOUND AN
arrangement the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. The card was classic Ryan.
Tanks for the memories. Bone jour.
AR
I laughed for the first time in over a week.
After showering, I studied myself in the bathroom mirror, much as I would a stranger on the street. What I saw was a middle-aged woman with a delicate nose and cheekbones, starburst wrinkling at the corners of the eyes, jawline holding firm. Chicken pox scar above the left brow. Asymmetric dimples.
I brushed bangs from my forehead and did a two-handed tuck behind my ears. My hair was fine, blonde turned brown now galloping toward gray. I’d always coveted my younger sister’s thick blonde hair. Sprays and volumizing gels never entered Harry’s thoughts, while I’d spent thousands on mousse alone.
For a moment I stared directly at myself. Tired green eyes
“So forensic doctors don’t usually go to the scene?”
“No.”
“Why Lucas?”
“Díaz probably gave him no choice.”
The coffee arrived, and we sipped in silence for a few moments. When I looked out at the old woman, Galiano’s eyes followed mine.
“Here’s something else you’ll find appalling. In Guatemala, forensic doctors are only required to determine cause, not manner.”
Galiano referred to the four terms used to categorize the circumstances of death: homicide, suicide, accident, natural. A body is found in a lake, and an autopsy determines that sufficient water filled the lungs to have halted breathing. Cause of death is drowning. But did the deceased fall, jump, or was he pushed? Those are issues of manner.
“Who determines manner?”
“The judge. DA.”
Galiano observed a couple being seated on the far side of the room. Then he turned his chair slightly, leaned in, and lowered his voice.
“Are you aware that many of those who were involved in atrocities remain in command of the military?”
He spoke in a voice that sent goose bumps crawling up my arms.
“Do you know that many of those performing investigative work today were or are direct participants in extrajudicial executions?”
“Are?”
His eyes held steady on mine.
“The police?”
Not a flicker.
“How can that be?”
“Although nominally under the jurisdiction of the Interior Ministry, the police here remain effectively under army control. The criminal justice system is permeated by fear.”
“Who’s afraid?”
Another visual sweep. Not a movement was going unnoticed. When Galiano turned back to me his face was a harder version of the one it had been.
“Everyone’s afraid. Witnesses and relatives won’t swear out complaints, won’t testify for fear of retribution. When evidence leads to the army, a prosecutor or judge has to worry about what will happen to his family.”
“Aren’t monitors watching out for human rights violations?” My voice was barely above a whisper. Galiano was getting to me.
He blew air through his lips, glanced over my shoulder.
“More monitors have been killed or disappeared in Guatemala than anywhere else on the planet. That’s not my stat, it’s official.”
I’d read that in a recent Human Rights Watch .
“And we’re not talking ancient history. All but four of those murders have taken place since the civilian government was established in eighty-six.”
I felt a tingle of fear in the pit of my stomach.
“What is your point?”
“Death investigation here ain’t day care work.” His eyes were dark with bitterness. “Produce an autopsy finding or a police report that implicates the wrong people, life’s no longer clean and easy. Reporting results can be hazardous if the recipient of your report happens to be affiliated with the bad guys even though he’s holding a prosecutorial office.”
“Meaning?”
He started to say something, then his eyes backed away.
The tingle coalesced into a cold, hard knot.
9
IT WAS MY DAY FOR FLOWERS. BACK IN MY ROOM I FOUND AN
arrangement the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. The card was classic Ryan.
Tanks for the memories. Bone jour.
AR
I laughed for the first time in over a week.
After showering, I studied myself in the bathroom mirror, much as I would a stranger on the street. What I saw was a middle-aged woman with a delicate nose and cheekbones, starburst wrinkling at the corners of the eyes, jawline holding firm. Chicken pox scar above the left brow. Asymmetric dimples.
I brushed bangs from my forehead and did a two-handed tuck behind my ears. My hair was fine, blonde turned brown now galloping toward gray. I’d always coveted my younger sister’s thick blonde hair. Sprays and volumizing gels never entered Harry’s thoughts, while I’d spent thousands on mousse alone.
For a moment I stared directly at myself. Tired green eyes
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