Chapter 12
David Becker
had been to funerals
and seen dead bodies before,
but there was something ,
particularly unnerving about this one. It was not an immaculately groomed corpse
resting in a silk-lined coffin. This body had been stripped
naked and dumped unceremoniously on an aluminum
table. The eyes had not yet found their vacant,
lifeless gaze. Instead they were twisted
upward toward the ceiling in an eerie freeze-frame of terror
and regret.
“¿Dónde
están sus efectos?” Becker asked in fluent Castillian Spanish. “Where are his belongings?”
“Allí,”
replied the yellow-toothed lieutenant. He pointed to a counter
of clothing and other personal items.
“¿Es todo? Is
that all?” “Sí.”
Becker asked for a
cardboard box. The lieutenant hurried
off to find one.
It was Saturday evening, and the Seville
morgue was technically closed. The young lieutenant had let Becker in under direct orders from the head of the Seville
Guardia–it seemed the visiting
American had powerful friends.
Becker eyed the pile of clothes. There was a passport,
wallet, and glasses stuffed in one of the shoes. There was also a small duffel the Guardia had taken from the man’s hotel. Becker’s directions were clear: Touch nothing.
Read nothing. Just bring it all back. Everything. Don’t miss anything.
Becker surveyed the pile and frowned.
What could the NSA possibly want with
this junk? The lieutenant returned
with a small box, and Becker began putting the clothes
inside.
The officer poked at the cadaver’s
leg. “¿Quienes? Who is
he?” “No idea.”
“Looks Chinese.”
Japanese, Becker thought.
“Poor bastard. Heart attack, huh?”
Becker nodded absently. “That’s what
they told me.”
The lieutenant sighed and shook his head sympathetically. “The Seville sun can be cruel. Be careful out there tomorrow.”
“Thanks,”
Becker said. “But I’m headed
home.” The officer looked shocked. “You
just got
here!”
“I know,
but the guy paying my airfare is waiting for these items.”
The lieutenant looked offended in the way only a Spaniard
can be offended. “You mean you’re
not going to experience Seville?”
“I was
here years ago. Beautiful
city. I’d love to stay.” “So you’ve
seen La Giralda?”
Becker nodded. He’d never actually climbed
the ancient Moorish tower, but he’d seen
it. “How about the Alcazar?”
Becker
nodded again, remembering the night he’d heard Pacode Lucia play guitar
in the courtyard–Flamenco under the stars in a fifteenth-century fortress. He wished he’d known Susan back
then.
“And of course there’s Christopher Columbus.” The officer beamed. “He’s buried in our cathedral.”
Becker looked up. “Really? I thought Columbus was buried in the Dominican Republic.” “Hell no! Who starts these rumors? Columbus’s body is here in Spain! I thought
you said you
went to college.”
Becker shrugged. “I must have missed that day.” “The
Spanish church is very proud
to own his relics.”
The Spanish
church. Becker knew here was only one church in Spain–the
Roman Catholic church.
Catholicism was bigger here than in Vatican City.
“We don’t, of course, have his entire body,” the lieutenant added. “Solo
el
escroto.”
Becker stopped
packing and stared at the lieutenant. Solo el escroto? He fought
off a grin. “Just
his scrotum?”
The officer
nodded proudly. “Yes. When the church obtains the remains of a great man, they saint
him and spread the relics to different cathedrals
so everyone can enjoy their
splendor.”
“And you got the…” Becker
stifled a laugh.
“Oye! It’s a pretty important part!” the officer
defended. “It’s not like we got a rib or a knuckle like those churches in Galicia! You should really stay and see
it.”
Becker nodded politely. “Maybe I’ll drop in on my way out of
town.”
“Mala suerte.” The officer sighed. “Bad
luck. The cathedral’s closed till sunrise mass.” “Another
time then.” Becker
smiled, hoisting
the box. “I should probably get going. My
flight’s waiting.
“He made a final glance around
the room.
“You want
a ride
to the airport?” the
officer asked. “I’ve got a Moto
Guzzi out front.”
“No thanks.
I’ll catch a cab.” Becker
had driven a motorcycle once in college and nearly
killed himself on it. He had no intention
of getting on one again, regardless
of who was driving.
“Whatever
you say,” the officer said, heading for the door. “I’ll get
the lights.”
Becker tucked the box under his arm. Have I got everything? He took a last look at the body on the table. The figure was stark naked, face up under fluorescent lights, clearly
hiding nothing.
Becker found his eyes drawn again to the strangely
deformed hands. He gazed a minute,
focusing more intently.
The officer killed the lights, and
the room went dark. “Hold on,” Becker said. “Turn
those back on.”
The lights flickered back on.
Becker set his box on the floor walked over to the corpse. He leaned down and squinted
at the man’s left
hand.
The officer followed Becker’s gaze.
“Pretty ugly, huh?”
But the deformity
was not what had caught Becker’s eye. He’d seen something else.
He turned to the officer. “You’re sure everything’s in
this box?”
The officer nodded. “Yeah. That’s it.”
Becker
stood for moment with his hands on his hips. Then he picked
up the box, carried
it back over to the counter, and dumped it out. Carefully, piece by piece, he shook out the clothing. Then he emptied
the shoes and tapped
them as if trying to remove a pebble.
After going over everything a second time, he stepped back and frowned.
“Problem?” asked the lieutenant.
“Yeah,” Becker said. “We’re missing something.”
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