“Don Hernan is dead,” she said.
MANIK
Don Hernan had been found by the cleaning staff, seated on the floor of his little office at the museo. Knees drawn up, his torso and head twisted to face the doorway, and held there by the rigor of death, his body was a human caricature of the Chac Mool that guards the Temple of the Warriors at Chichen Itza.
He had been stabbed through the heart. There was very little blood in his office, and the murder weapon was not to be found.
Santiago Ortiz Menendez, as one of Don Hernan’s oldest friends, was given the unenviable task of identifying the body the next morning. Isa and I accompanied him, my presence permitted, and shall we say even encouraged, by Major Martinez himself. Francesca remained at the inn to break the sad news to the other permanent guests.
It was Manik, day of the deer, day of the hunt, and the day, to force an analogy, that it became very clear to me that Don Hernan’s search, the hunt for whatever the elusive rabbit might write, was no whimsical diversion of an elderly man, but like the game in the ball court at Chichen Itza, a deadly serious contest in which the loser paid with his life.
We took the Ortiz family van, outfitted to accommodate Don Santiago’s wheelchair, to the morgue.
Major Martinez was waiting for us when we arrived. In anticipation of just this eventuality, Don Santiago had suggested in the van that I give him—Don Santiago— ten pesos and ask to hire his services. He had trained as a lawyer before joining the diplomatic corps, and although his chosen field was international law, we all agreed that should Martinez regularly feel the need to interview me, it might be well to have Don Santiago along.
Martinez led us down sterile corridors and stairs to the basement, and then to a window marked recepcion, behind which sat a young man energetically eating tacos filled with pork, if my sense of smell was functioning properly in this place, which I couldn’t swear to. A reddish-brown liquid dribbled down his chin and spattered onto a sheet of wax paper on the desk. Apparently working in a morgue does not put everyone off their food.
Martinez flashed his badge, we all signed in, and the young man used a greasy finger to push a button that unlatched the door beside him. We passed into the heart of the morgue.
With Martinez leading, we came into a room with a row of body lockers against one wall. The place felt cold and clammy to me, and I could see Isa shiver. Whether or not it actually was cold, I couldn’t tell.
The drawer containing the remains of Don Hernan was pulled out by a young woman in a lab coat, and his face exposed for Don Santiago’s perusal.
I suppose all those of us confronted by this moment hope against hope that a mistake has been made, that a total stranger will be uncovered when the drawer slides out.
But it was not to be. Santiago nodded mutely, and we were led quickly away. Santiago’s hands shook as he rearranged the light blanket that covered his emaciated legs. Isa kept one hand on his shoulder as we made our way back to the young man with the tacos. He in turn looked mildly annoyed at having his meal interrupted a second time, but condescended to hand a box over to Martinez. We were then escorted to a small room with a table and a couple of chairs and asked to inspect the contents of the box.
It contained everything that had been found on Don Hernan’s body. His watch, an elegant late-nineteenth-century timepiece and chain that had belonged to his mother and contained a picture of his late wife, his clothes, an absolutely empty billfold, a few loose pesos. Only one object looked out of place, and this was a small green jade bead. The young woman in the lab coat, who had accompanied us, saw me looking at it.
“Found it in his mouth,” she said. “It was put there with some difficulty several hours after he died.”
“When did he die?” I asked.
“Very early yesterday, I would estimate,” she said, ignoring the warning stare coming her way from Martinez. Clearly the major was not king of the morgue.
While Martinez asked Santiago whether or not he could recall these belongings as Don Hernan’s, I touched the cream-colored shoes. While it was difficult to tell just looking at them, they were covered in the light dust so pervasive outside the city. The trouser cuffs were also dusty.
Perhaps the question I should have asked was where did he die, not when.
“Who has done such a thing?” Santiago asked, almost in a whisper.
“Robbery, apparently,” Martinez replied. “Empty wallet,” he added as Santiago looked up at him. “Every effort will, of course, be made to apprehend the perpetrator or perpetrators.”
“Of course,” we all agreed.
“However, there are many robberies here every day. It will take some time to conduct this investigation.”
“Where was he killed?” I asked Martinez.
“We are still conducting tests, but in the meantime we assume it was in his office in which he was found,” he replied. The young woman in the lab coat looked dubious, but said nothing.
I didn’t believe this, but also said nothing. Isa and I asked Martinez when the police would finish their work on the body, and were told it would probably be later that day or early the next.
“I think we can safely assume that what we have here is a case of death at the hands of person or persons unknown,” he concluded.
As we left the building, Don Santiago pulled himself together and addressed Martinez in his new capacity as my lawyer.
“I have been retained by Senora McClintoch in this matter,” he began.
“Have you indeed?” Martinez interrupted. “Now, why might the senora feel she has need of a lawyer?”
“Because of your unconscionable move of confiscating her passport, and confining her to the hotel, I am sure you will agree that since it was information on Dr. Castillo’s whereabouts that you were looking for, and since his present location is well known, there is no longer any need to restrict her activities.
“And since she could not be implicated in Dr. Castillo’s death—she has been, if you recall, under house arrest for the last few days, and several of us can attest to that—no doubt you will also be returning her passport shortly.”
“If Senora McClintoch does not feel the need for our protection, then that is up to her,” the policeman said smoothly. “As far as the passport is concerned, you will understand that we are now investigating two murders, and we will have to have extensive discussions with our superiors to determine whether we can allow her to leave the country before our investigations are complete.”
So it was a standoff, one for him, one for me. It would be a relief to be able to leave the hotel at will, and by the door rather than the window. I’d work on the passport later.
We were a silent group as we made our way back to the van and returned to the hotel. It was Isa who broke the silence partway home.
“Seeing his belongings in a box was so sad,” she said. “It seemed like such a small amount of stuff for such a big man—and I mean that not just in terms of his physique, but his personality. He always seemed larger than life to me. It just seemed too little.”
“It really was too little,” I said slowly.
Both Isa and Don Santiago looked at me.
“No glasses. No cane.”
A pause.
“So you’re saying he wasn’t murdered in his office, or both those things would be there. He couldn’t go anywhere without his glasses, and hardly anywhere without his cane. Maybe they are still in his office,” Isa said.
Maybe not, I thought. But I knew I would find out.
Back at the Casa de las Buganvillas, Francesca and her daughter-in-law, Manuela, were ministering to the permanent residents of the hotel.
Most of them elderly like Don Hernan, their shock and disbelief were almost palpable. Theories were exchanged, tears flowed, each in their own way trying to come to terms with this most awful of crimes.