The Devil Takes Half (3 page)

“
Murder room?” Patronas raised his eyebrows. He was proving to be a strange one, this Papa Michalis, full of police lore he'd apparently gleaned from American detective shows like
Law and Order
and
CSI
. He'd spoken knowledgeably of serial killers, and as they'd walked back up the hill from the dig site, named a few—Charlie Manson and that cannibal from Milwaukee, Jeffrey Dahmer, citing the specifics of their misdeeds, all the grisly details. He'd evidently made a study of these men, knew that John Gacy liked to dress up as a clown and Ted Bundy had used a fake broken arm to lure victims. He even went so far as to ask how many killers like Bundy Patronas had ‘busted,' using the American term.

“
None,” Patronas had replied.

“
Really? How long have you been a policeman?”

“
Over twenty years.”

“
And no homicides?” The priest was obviously disappointed.

“
That's right.” He'd regretted sharing this, as the priest had gone into overdrive afterwards, sharing what he knew of American crime detection and instructing Patronas on how best to proceed. Most priests quoted the Bible, cited proverbs to explain human behavior, the Old Testament to depict God's wrath. With Papa Michalis, it had been chapter and verse of
Murder She Wrote
and
Colombo
.

“
I mean no disrespect, but Colombo and the other detectives, they always use a murder room in their homicide investigations. It's the place where they keep the evidence. It's rudimentary in crime detection, fundamental. As a policeman, you simply have to have one.”

He led Patronas up a wooden staircase and out along a creaking balcony. Opening off the balcony were a series of cell-like rooms. The priest unlocked the door of one and turned on the light. It was a cramped space, narrow and long, with an iron cot and makeshift closet, set off from the rest of the room by a cloth curtain. A monk had probably occupied the space at one time. The window was open and Patronas could see the lights of the town in the distance.

The priest handed him a ragged towel and a bar of soap. “Bathroom's at the other end of the balcony. A bit primitive, but at least there's running water and a toilet.”

“
What happened to the American?”

“
Kyria Papoulis took him back to his hotel in her car. Vassilis went with them. His uncle's mules are still here.”

“
Mules?”

“
Yes. The American rode up here the traditional way, on a mule with a wooden saddle.”

“
But he was wearing shorts.”

“
Indeed.” There was a ghost of a smile on the old man's face.

Patronas shook his head. Another tourist trying for the Greek experience. They always got it wrong, the tourists. “So, in addition to all his other problems, he now has an assful of splinters.”

“
Fly bites, too,” the priest said. “I saw him scratching.”

š›

Yiannis Patronas called his wife on his cellphone to tell her he would be spending the night at Profitis Ilias. “It's serious,” he said. “I'll probably be here a few days.”

“
What do you mean ‘serious'?”

“
A murder.”

“
On Chios? You're joking.”

She had him there. The last murder on Chios had taken place during the German occupation. And in Patronas' view, it hadn't really been a murder. More an act of patriotism, the killing of an SS man who'd been in charge of the local Gestapo. If Greek partisans hadn't shot him, it would have been worse for everybody. His death had been a good thing. Not like this.

“
Listen to me,” Patronas said. “It looks like a woman was killed up at Profitis Ilias.”

“
What woman?”

“
Eleni Argentis.” There was a long silence.

“
So it's true what they've been saying.”

“
What who's been saying?”

“
Spiros and Antigone Korres. You know the ones. They live on the road to the monastery. They say she found some kind of treasure, better than the gold in the National Museum.”

“
When did you hear this?”

“
At the open air market, the
laiki,
on Wednesday.”

“
Ach. Who was with you?”

“
It was the
laiki
, Yiannis
.
Half of Chios was there. And that Spiros, he's a loud one. He doesn't whisper.”

“
Ach,” he said again.

“
That's right, Yiannis.” As usual, his wife had gotten there first and was eager to point it out to him. “Your killer? It could have been anybody.”

Sighing, Yiannis Patronas closed the phone. He hated it when his wife did this. As if they were playing chess and she'd yelled ‘checkmate' before he'd gotten his men on the board.

š›

Judging by the sound, the rooster was somewhere close by. Patronas fumbled for the light and opened the door of his room. The bird was perched on the railing of the balcony directly across from him, crowing raucously. When it saw him, it flapped its wings and moved to attack him. “Get out of here,” Patronas yelled, backing away. “Go on, beat it.”

The priest came hurrying out of a room two doors down. “Sorry,” he said. “I should have warned you. He's a monster, this one. Mussolini with feathers. Very demanding and unlike his fellows. He doesn't just crow at sun-up; he crows all day long.”

Waving his arms, he shooed the bird away. “I suppose I could eat him. But the truth is, it's lonely up here and he keeps me company. Come on, it'll be light soon. I'll make you breakfast.”

The kitchen was a cold, dark space with battered pine cabinets and a cement floor. The counters were white marble, stained with rust in places. What looked like an immense sink was propped up against one wall. Hewn of a single block of stone, it had no pipes attached, no faucet. Water had to be drawn from the small well at the center of the room.

Patronas ran his hand across the sink. It had a Latin date carved on the front of it.

The priest noticed his interest. “Part of a sarcophagus. It's old, this place. Eleni told me it's been in continuous use since Roman times, maybe even earlier.”

Pushing a stack of books aside, he motioned for Patronas to take a seat at the little table in the corner. It was covered with a printed oilskin cloth and held a pitcher full of wilting sunflowers. The priest opened the door of the refrigerator and got out a bowl of eggs, then lit the propane burner on the counter and made Patronas an omelet with feta and tomatoes. He himself ate only bread.

Patronas picked up his fork. “How long have you known Eleni Argentis?” he asked.

“
Two years.” The priest faltered for a moment. “When she first came here, the Bishop asked me to look out for her … and I did. Or at least I tried to. I spent a lot of time down here in those ditches, helping the two of them. She liked to show us bits of clay she collected and talk about them. As you can see, I am an old man and she took pity on me. She washed my clothes and helped me in the garden. She even made dinner for me once or twice. She was ….” He ran a gnarled hand over his face. “She and Petros, we were friends.”

“
You
are
friends. Whether or not anyone is a victim here remains to be seen.” Blood or no blood, Patronas was unwilling to concede that a death had occurred without a body, a proper C
orpus Delecti
. Be it Eleni Argentis' or someone else's. Homicide was a serious matter, a term not to be bandied about, blood and body parts notwithstanding.

The sun was up by the time he finished breakfast and returned to the dig site, the air already warm. It was going to be a hot day. Even now the cicadas were loud in the trees. A pair of goats watched him from a distance, their fur golden in the early morning light.

Uninvited, the priest had followed him and now stood at the edge of the trench, looming over him, his black cassock billowing in the wind. “Chief Officer, with your permission, I'd like to assist you in your investigation.”

“
Sorry, Father. You know that's impossible.” Patronas was measuring the depth of the blood. He wasn't sure what had happened, if the blood was even human, and he wanted to sort it out before his men arrived, before the day got any hotter. “This is police work and the police and the church, they're at cross purposes. They don't mix.”

“
Hear me out. I can be of service. I'm familiar with the excavation. No one knows it better than I do. I am also familiar with crime detection. I am a fervent devotee of the mystery novel and of all manner of American detective shows. I know about trace evidence and DNA.”

Patronas waved him away. “You are a man of faith, Father. You've no business in a homicide investigation.”

“
Faith and homicide are not incompatible. The Bible is full of homicides.”

“
Be that as it may, I have no need of your services.”

Patronas entered his measurements in the spiral notebook he'd brought with him next to the date and time. He didn't know what had transpired here, but he suspected it was a double homicide. He had never seen so much blood. Perhaps the priest was right and he should look to the forensic specialists on television to guide him. Write things down the way they did. As to what those policemen did with it after they wrote it down, he had no clue. As he'd told the priest, he'd never investigated a crime like this before. Assault and battery, sure. Violence against one's spouse any number of times. But murder, never. As a cop, he was an amateur at best and he knew it.

“
I can't stop thinking about her,” the priest said. “Dead out here someplace.”

“
What makes you so sure she's dead?” There had been no doubt in the old man's voice, only sadness.

“
No one's seen her. After I called you last night, I checked with Marina and Vassilis, people who were here yesterday. Eleni always said good-bye before she left, and yesterday she didn't. Petros either.”

“
Who was up here yesterday?”

“
A lot of people: Petros' mother and her boyfriend. Manoulis, I think his name was. Eleni's stepmother, Marina Papoulis and Vassilis Korres, Jonathan Alcott, the American you met. Another archeologist was here, too, but earlier in the day. An Englishman.”

“
Do you remember his name?”

“
McLean.”

“
Anyone else?”

“
Not that I know of.”

“
You were here the whole time?”

“
No, I got a haircut in the morning, did some errands in town. But Marina Papoulis was here, getting lunch ready in the kitchen. She'll know if anyone came by while I was away.”

“
Did she go down to the dig site that day?”

“
No. To my knowledge, Marina has never visited the excavation.”

Not a long list. He'd start on it as soon as he finished here. “It seems she was concentrating on this end.” Patronas pointed to a break in the whitened matter, the broad indentation where the shards had been emptied out.

“
Eleni kept a log. She told me you have to make a very precise drawing of the site with the elevations and afterwards number each fragment and pinpoint where it was found before you remove it.”

Patronas climbed out of the trench. He'd leave the rest to his men. He'd been in charge of the police force on the island of Chios for over twenty years, and the novelty of violent crime had long since worn off. He'd collected his share of teeth from barroom floors, driven the combatants to the hospital to be stitched up. The sight of blood no longer stirred him. It just made him tired.

He started going through one of the boxes on the table. A stiff wind was blowing, and above him the tarp swelled with air, the ropes clanging against the metal poles like the rigging on a sailboat. The box contained pieces of clay with numbers painted on them. He guessed Eleni Argentis had been killed because of her work here, because she'd found something so valuable it had drawn the attention of a killer, a killer who'd had enough time to bleed a woman to death in the dirt. He was sure now the blood was hers. There'd been a strip of fabric, too, mixed in with the blood, the front of a shirt. Patronas had inspected it closely before placing it in the evidence bag. Though sodden with blood, he could still see the logo, an alligator. Lacoste, far too expensive to belong to a village boy like Petros. She'd found something this person wanted. It had to be.

But there was nothing. Only random bits of clay. Nothing worth killing for. He sadly noted the remnants of the archeologist's stay on the hillside—the abandoned radio, the shabby cardigan on a chair. He found a single blood-soaked leather moccasin on the ground nearby, but no journal or papers of any kind. Some of the equipment was thrown down, a second chair upended.

He got down on his hands and knees and moved the chair aside. His hand brushed up against something metallic buried deep in the grass. It was a gold necklace with a charm suspended from it. Both the chain and the charm were soaked in blood.

The priest knew it well. “It's Eleni's. It's her
galopetra
.”