obvious attempt to destroy their fingerprints.
“Going to be hard to identify,” she commented. Someone should shed a tear for these dead , she thought. “Uncle, help me turn the woman.”
“Hey, hold on!” It was young Adondo, who’d inched closer. “I know this one. Sh-sh-she is Canadian.”
“How do you know?” Qui demanded, eager to discover how and to what extent Adondo knew the victim.
“I don’t really know…I mean…I saw her once in the museum.”
“What museum? There are twenty museums in Old City alone.”
“Museo Historica—”
“Nacional de Ciencias?”
“No, not Natural history? The other one.”
“Oh, yes, de las Ciencias!”
“Sciences, yes, that’s the one.”
Like everyone in Cuba, Qui knew that fishermen had no money for museums. “When? When did you see her inside?”
“I was not inside!” he protested the accusation. “I was just sitting on the steps in the sun. She tripped and I-I caught her fall.”
Quiana read his body language and voice. Her training said he was not telling the truth, not entirely anyway. Adondo knew more than he was saying. “Then you actually met her?” asked Qui.
“Yes, we… we had words.”
“About?”
“Her ankle bracelet…pretty sandals.”
“An anklet…sandals?”
“Yeah, I liked the way the straps went up her leg.”
Qui thought this line of questioning useless, when Adondo added, “A pendant from her ankle bracelet came off. It was a leaf.”
“A leaf? What sort of leaf?”
“Maple leaf. Said she was Canadian.”
She looked over her shoulder at Adondo and asked, “Did you learn her name?”
“Denise.”
“Denise? No last name?”
“She had Denise on her nametag. Her last name was long… and, ahhh…strange.”
“Nametag?”
“On her blouse.”
Qui pointed to the male victims. “Was she with these others?”
Adondo shrugged. “Maybe. She was with a group.”
“Did they all wear tags?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“And you have no idea of her last name?”
“No. Maybe started with a B…”
They were interrupted when Estrada gasped. When they looked, he pointed to a perfectly executed tattoo on one of the other bodies—a tattoo of the World Trade Center.
“Oh God…Americans,” Qui blurted out. “Why’d it have to be Americans?”
6
Still aboard Sanabela II, Qui called headquarters to report her initial findings, and to her surprise, she was quickly put through to a waiting Gutierrez, except that the background clatter was hardly the old stationhouse; she could hear the throbbing sounds of a Rumba band behind his voice. Her captain assured her in a polite voice, “I’ve called in the best medical examiner in all of Cuba. He will meet you at the dock.” With that, he’d abruptly hung up to the sound of animated voices and laughter.
Quiana knew that the colonel had been speaking of Dr. Arturo Benilo, Chief Medical Examiner of Cuba, who had seen everything in his forty-some years in medico-legal work. Trained in Europe—in Paris and later in Soviet Russia—there seemed little in Cuba’s post-Revolutionary history that he did not know something about. As a young man, Benilo had fought zealously alongside Che Guverra and Fidel Castro in the overthrow of Batista on New Year’s Eve 1958, when Havana had fallen to the revolutionaries. Since then, Arturo’s deep-seated cynicism proved infectious to those already flirting with pessimism. Doom and gloom naysayers had nothing on Benilo as no one so condemned the current climate and regime as did the old doctor when in the company of trusted friends, or so it was rumored. Anyone else would have had his head handed to him in a basket, but Benilo had shown himself to be in the ranks of the untouchables. Most who spoke out—especially those with a forum in an underground newspaper or
“Going to be hard to identify,” she commented. Someone should shed a tear for these dead , she thought. “Uncle, help me turn the woman.”
“Hey, hold on!” It was young Adondo, who’d inched closer. “I know this one. Sh-sh-she is Canadian.”
“How do you know?” Qui demanded, eager to discover how and to what extent Adondo knew the victim.
“I don’t really know…I mean…I saw her once in the museum.”
“What museum? There are twenty museums in Old City alone.”
“Museo Historica—”
“Nacional de Ciencias?”
“No, not Natural history? The other one.”
“Oh, yes, de las Ciencias!”
“Sciences, yes, that’s the one.”
Like everyone in Cuba, Qui knew that fishermen had no money for museums. “When? When did you see her inside?”
“I was not inside!” he protested the accusation. “I was just sitting on the steps in the sun. She tripped and I-I caught her fall.”
Quiana read his body language and voice. Her training said he was not telling the truth, not entirely anyway. Adondo knew more than he was saying. “Then you actually met her?” asked Qui.
“Yes, we… we had words.”
“About?”
“Her ankle bracelet…pretty sandals.”
“An anklet…sandals?”
“Yeah, I liked the way the straps went up her leg.”
Qui thought this line of questioning useless, when Adondo added, “A pendant from her ankle bracelet came off. It was a leaf.”
“A leaf? What sort of leaf?”
“Maple leaf. Said she was Canadian.”
She looked over her shoulder at Adondo and asked, “Did you learn her name?”
“Denise.”
“Denise? No last name?”
“She had Denise on her nametag. Her last name was long… and, ahhh…strange.”
“Nametag?”
“On her blouse.”
Qui pointed to the male victims. “Was she with these others?”
Adondo shrugged. “Maybe. She was with a group.”
“Did they all wear tags?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“And you have no idea of her last name?”
“No. Maybe started with a B…”
They were interrupted when Estrada gasped. When they looked, he pointed to a perfectly executed tattoo on one of the other bodies—a tattoo of the World Trade Center.
“Oh God…Americans,” Qui blurted out. “Why’d it have to be Americans?”
6
Still aboard Sanabela II, Qui called headquarters to report her initial findings, and to her surprise, she was quickly put through to a waiting Gutierrez, except that the background clatter was hardly the old stationhouse; she could hear the throbbing sounds of a Rumba band behind his voice. Her captain assured her in a polite voice, “I’ve called in the best medical examiner in all of Cuba. He will meet you at the dock.” With that, he’d abruptly hung up to the sound of animated voices and laughter.
Quiana knew that the colonel had been speaking of Dr. Arturo Benilo, Chief Medical Examiner of Cuba, who had seen everything in his forty-some years in medico-legal work. Trained in Europe—in Paris and later in Soviet Russia—there seemed little in Cuba’s post-Revolutionary history that he did not know something about. As a young man, Benilo had fought zealously alongside Che Guverra and Fidel Castro in the overthrow of Batista on New Year’s Eve 1958, when Havana had fallen to the revolutionaries. Since then, Arturo’s deep-seated cynicism proved infectious to those already flirting with pessimism. Doom and gloom naysayers had nothing on Benilo as no one so condemned the current climate and regime as did the old doctor when in the company of trusted friends, or so it was rumored. Anyone else would have had his head handed to him in a basket, but Benilo had shown himself to be in the ranks of the untouchables. Most who spoke out—especially those with a forum in an underground newspaper or
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