Read Grave Secrets for Free Online Page A

held out a hand. Ignoring it, Díaz crossed to the window and spun toward me. Though colored lenses obscured his eyes, the hostility was palpable

    “I have been a prosecutor for almost twenty years, Dr. Brennan. In all that time, I have never required, nor have I requested, outside help in a death investigation.” Though heavily accented, Díaz’s English was precise.

    Stunned, I dropped my hand.

    “While you may view our forensic doctors as inadequately trained hacks laboring in a Third World medico-legal system, or as mere cogs in an antiquated and ineffective judicial bureaucracy, let me assure you they are professionals who hold themselves to the highest standards.”

    I looked to Galiano, cheeks burning with humiliation. Or anger.

    “As I explained, Señor Díaz, Dr. Brennan is here at our request.” Galiano’s voice was tempered steel.

    “Why exactly are you in Guatemala, Dr. Brennan?” From Díaz.

    Anger makes me feisty.

    “I’m thinking of opening a spa.”

    “Dr. Brennan is here on other business,” Galiano jumped in.

    “She is a forensic anthrop—”

    “I know who she is,” Díaz cut him off.

    “Dr. Brennan has experience with septic tank recovery, and she’s offered to help.”

    Offered? How did Galiano come up with “offered”?

    “We’d be foolish not to avail ourselves of her expertise.”

    Díaz glared at Galiano, his face concrete. Hernández and Xicay said nothing.

    “We shall see.” Díaz looked hard at me, then stomped from the room.

    Only the fly broke the silence. Galiano spoke first.

    “I apologize, Dr. Brennan.”

    Anger also goads me to action.

    “Can we begin?” I asked.

    “I’ll handle Díaz,” Galiano said, pulling out a chair.

    “One other thing.”

    “Name it.”

    “Call me Tempe.”

     

    For the next hour I explained the glories of septic disposal. Galiano and his partner listened closely, interrupting now and then to comment or to ask for clarification. Xicay sat in silence, eyes lowered, face devoid of expression.

    “Septic tanks can be made of rock, brick, concrete, or fiberglass, and come in a number of designs. They can be round, square, or rectangular. They can have one, two, or three compartments, separated by partial baffles or by full walls.”

    “How do they work?” Galiano.

    “Basically, a septic tank is a watertight chamber that acts as an incubator for anaerobic bacteria, fungi, and actinomycetes that digest organic solids that fall to the bottom.”

    “Sounds like Galiano’s kitchen.” Hernández.

    “What can we expect?” Galiano ignored his partner.

    “The digestion process creates heat, and gases bubble to the surface. Those gases combine with particles of grease, soap, oils, hair, and other junk to produce a foamy scum. That’s the first thing we’re going to see when we open the tank.”

    “Bring a little sunshine into your day.” Hernández.

    “With time, if left undisturbed, a floating semisolid mat can form.”

    “Shit pudding.” Hernández was covering his repugnance with macho humor.

    “Tanks should be pumped out every two to three years, but if the owners are as lax as you say they are, that isn’t likely to have happened, so we’ll probably encounter this type of sediment.”

    “So you’ve got this soup kitchen for microbes. Where does everything go from there?” Galiano asked.

    “Once a tank fills to a certain level, the altered waste products flow out through an exit drain to a series of pipes, usually laid out in parallel rows, called a drain field.”

    “What kind of pipes?”

    “Typically, clay or perforated plastic.”

    “This system dates to the Preclassic, so I’m sure we’re talking clay. What goes on there?”

    “The drain field rests on a bed of gravel, usually covered by soil and vegetation. While some aerobic breakdown occurs there, the drain field primarly functions as a biological filter.”

    “Fine or coarse drip. Now we’re talking Mr.