Just as the lock sprang open in my hand, I realized my mistake. “Dammit, Brockton, think,” I scolded myself aloud. Clicking the lock shut once more, I fastened the outer gate, got back into my truck, and threaded my way down to the parking lot exit. A hundred yards beyond the exit was a small, recently paved driveway, which I turned up and followed to a new brick building, so new that its “landscaping” consisted mainly of raw, red clay. I had been here dozens of times, but now, distraught and distracted by my nightmare, I’d reverted to autopilot, following the route I’d taken thousands of times over the course of some twenty years.
The building—a combination morgue, laboratory, and classroom facility—was the culmination of years of need, hope, planning, and pleading. For more than twenty years, my decomposition research program had operated on a shoestring, my “laboratory” consisting of trees and dirt, bacteria and insects. The first version of the Body Farm had been born, so to speak, in an abandoned barn on a UT pig farm, located miles outside of town. A few years later, the facility had moved to a small fenced enclosure on what had once been a trash-burning pit for the UT hospital. But gradually the Body Farm’s footprint—or was it plural: footprints?—had spread over three wooded acres. The infrastructure, though, had remained quite primitive, limited to one electrical power outlet and one water spigot.
Until now; until our new building, which was a remarkable upgrade. Inside the brick walls, beneath the green metal roof, was virtually everything I’d ever wished for: A cooler big enough to hold a dozen bodies, if need be. Two electric-jacketed kettles, each one big enough for me to curl up inside, for simmering bodies and skeletons: for separating flesh from bone. A pair of industrial-sized sinks, overhung by exhaust hoods whose whooshing fans could whisk away the last lingering odors as final bits of tissue were scrubbed and removed. Computerized workstations, complete with 3-D digitizing probes for taking skeletal measurements and plugging the data into ForDisc, our software program for determining—for “estimating,” to be pedantically precise—the race or ancestry of an unknown skeleton.
In the case of our Cooke County victim, whose long bones were chewed up and whose skull was MIA, ForDisc was probably useless, our 3-D digitizing probes reduced to expensive, high-tech paperweights. Lacking more bones—especially, but not only, the skull—we had very little data for ForDisc to plug into its predictive models of race or ancestry, and that was a loss. ForDisc had shown me how well its models worked, in memorably humbling fashion, in its first forensic outing: the soggy skeleton from Polecat Creek.
Polecat Creek was a stream in Loudon County, about thirty miles southwest of Knoxville, where I’d worked a case years before. Acting on an anonymous tip, divers from the Loudon County Sheriff’s Office had fished a body from the creek, directly beneath a two-lane bridge. The victim, wrapped in plastic and badly decomposed, was clearly a male, and—judging from the narrow nasal opening and the vertical structure of the mouth—a white male, of middle age. Trouble was, there were no middle-aged white males missing in Loudon County, or anywhere within a hundred miles of Loudon County.
At the time, my colleague Richard had just put the finishing touches on the first version of ForDisc. ForDisc was short for Forensic Discriminant Functions, a mouthful of a name that referred to the complicated algorithms, or equations, that Richard had written to calculate what racial group a particular skeleton best matched. To create a basis for comparison, Richard, along with helpful students and colleagues worldwide, had keyed thousands and thousands of measurements into ForDisc, from skeletons around the globe. As it happened, on that very day—long past, yet still vivid in my memory—I had grumbled about the lack of progress in identifying the John Doe from Polecat Creek. “Let’s see what ForDisc says about him,” Richard suggested. With an indulgent smile I handed over the bones, knowing that ForDisc would agree with me.
But ForDisc didn’t agree with me. I had focused almost entirely on the Polecat Creek victim’s skull, but ForDisc also considered measurements from the postcranial skeleton, the bones below the skull. On the basis of the postcranial elements, ForDisc judged the Polecat Creek victim to be African American, or perhaps mixed race. And sure enough, when the detective checked missing-person reports for African Americans instead of whites, he hit pay dirt immediately: A black man from Oak Ridge had gone missing a year or so before, and when we compared his dental records with the teeth from our victim, they matched perfectly. Brockton 0, ForDisc 1. Fortunately, ForDisc and I had agreed on virtually everything since Polecat Creek, but Polecat Creek had taught me the value of a second opinion, even if that opinion came from a bunch of circuit boards and arcane formulas.
Ever since Polecat Creek, I’d always been open to whatever light ForDisc could shed on an unknown skeleton. In the Cooke County case, though, ForDisc would likely be as clueless and hamstrung as I was.
Quit whining, I chided myself. The only way forward is forward. Step by step. The first step for case 16–17 was some quick orthopedic surgery. Normally I would do a bit of dental work instead, but here, too, I was thwarted by the lack of a skull. My kingdom for a skull, I silently declaimed. I had promised to send a DNA sample to the TBI lab, and teeth generally provide the best DNA samples. Tooth enamel does a good job of encapsulating and protecting the genetic material from potential damage by weather, bacteria, and other environmental or chemical factors. But there were no teeth; hence the orthopedic surgery: A bone sample would have to do.
Reaching up to a tool rack above one of the lab’s counters, I took down a motorized implement that resembled a Dremel tool—a heavy, chrome-plated version, pumped up on steroids. A slender shaft projected from one end of the stainless housing, and attached to the shaft at a right angle was a flat, asymmetrical blade, one whose fanlike shape never failed to put me in mind of a ginkgo leaf, though I’d never seen tiny teeth rimming the curve of a ginkgo leaf. Hefting the tool, a Stryker autopsy saw, I felt weight, solidity, and power. I flicked the switch, and with a hum and a jolt it kicked on, the edge of the blade twitching in rapid, almost invisible oscillations.
Slowly I moved the vibrating blade toward my own forearm—closer and closer, millimeter by millimeter—and touched it to the flesh midway between my wrist and elbow. The blade buzzed and tickled, but it did not cut, my pale skin oscillating in perfect sync with the minuscule movements of the tiny teeth. This was one of the wondrous things about the Stryker saw: it could slice through bone like a hot knife through butter, but it wouldn’t cut soft tissue, not unless the soft tissue was immobilized by pressure from underlying bone. If I bore down hard on my forearm, the result would be terribly different: a sudden spurt of blood, followed by the rasp of teeth chewing through my radius and ulna. But I did not bear down, my flesh and bone remained intact, and I turned, smiling, to the task at hand.
I selected one of the long bones—the left humerus, or upper arm bone—and clamped it carefully in a bench vise that was bolted to the counter beneath one of the exhaust hoods. Then I switched on the fan, switched on the Stryker saw, and bent over the bone, bringing the oscillating blade closer and closer to the bone at what had once been the middle of the shaft, before the elbow had been gnawed off by the bear. The blade sang as it began chewing into the bone, a zinging soprano pitch that always reminded me of cicadas, though more musical, somehow. As the blade bit deeper, wisps of bone dust spun and swirled upward, drawn into the fan’s slipstream like tendrils of cigarette smoke. It took less than ten seconds to cut through the bone, which was roughly the diameter of my index finger. The cut I’d made had removed the bone’s jagged distal end, along with an additional two inches of the shaft, creating a clean cross section through the bone, showing the dense outer, cortical bone and the inner, spongy bone.
Next I bore down with the saw again, this time cutting off only a half-inch piece: the cross section for the TBI’s lab. Protected from the weather and from contaminants—bacteria, bear’s saliva, and my own DNA, if the exhaust hood and my surgical mask were doing thei
r jobs—this clean cross section would, I hoped, give the TBI’s genetic technician plenty of intact, uncontaminated DNA to analyze. Sealing the disk of bone in a plastic film canister, I set it aside to send to the TBI lab later in the day.
The surgery complete, now it was time for 16–17 to have a bath. A long, hot bath.
The processing lab’s equipment included two immense electric-jacketed kettles, the sort restaurants used to cook fifty pounds of potatoes or twenty gallons of chili in a single batch. We used them to simmer skeletons—like making soup or stock, except backward: we threw away the stock and kept the bones instead. I raised the lid on one of the kettles and began filling it with hot water. As it filled, I poured a scoop of Biz Stain & Odor Eliminator into the kettle, followed by a capful of Downy Fabric Softener: the two additives I’d found most effective at helping clean and deodorize the bones. Gently I added the bones, which, being few in number and fragmented, occupied a poignantly small percentage of the kettle’s capacious interior. Given how weathered and bare the bones already were, they wouldn’t need to simmer overnight, as most remains did. These might be ready for a final scrubbing by the end of the day, and that was a task I would definitely delegate to Miranda.
SHE LOOKED UP FROM HER COMPUTER SCREEN WHEN I walked into the bone lab. “Did you just come from the facility?” she asked. “The truck was gone when I got here, so I wondered if you might already be there.”
“I was. I woke up early—”
“You always wake up early,” she interrupted.
“I woke up even earlier than usual,” I amended, “so I figured I might as well get the bones in to simmer.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I was planning to do it on my way to the airport, but it’s taking a while to pull this stuff together, so I appreciate that.”
“What stuff?” I asked, and then, “The airport? Why are you going to the airport?” Suddenly I noticed her appearance for the first time since walking into the lab. Miranda was wearing a suit, of all things—a dark gray skirt, white blouse, matching gray jacket, and—could it be?—honest-to-God stockings. Had I ever seen Miranda in stockings? And her hair, normally hanging in long waves of chestnut, looked oddly short and . . . springy. I stared, thunderstruck. “Did you . . . roll your hair?”
“What? Oh. Yeah, I did,” she said, looking embarrassed. Or was it defensive?
“Okay,” I demanded, “who are you, and what have you done with the real Miranda?” She rolled her eyes and glared. “And what’s with the fancy getup? You better change into a jumpsuit. Those stockings won’t last five minutes up in the woods.”
“The woods? What woods? What are you talking about?”
“The Cooke County woods. I’ve been thinking. We need to go back. Take another look at the death scene. I can’t help thinking we missed something yesterday.”
Miranda stared at me, her face a study in astonishment. “Are you kidding me, or do you honestly mean you forgot?”
“Forgot what?”
“Forgot why I can’t go back up to Cooke County today. Forgot why I’m in this ‘getup,’ as you put it. Forgot why I’ve been here for two hours printing out a stack of this stuff. I’m on my way to Quantico.”
“Quantico? What for?” Even as I said it, I sensed a recollection beginning to bubble up from deep in the tar pit of my memory, bringing with it a bad feeling. A very, very bad feeling.
“Jesus, Dr. B. I have a job interview there. With the FBI. That didn’t even register with you? It wasn’t worth remembering?”
“No—I mean yes. I remembered. Of course I remembered. It just slipped my mind for a minute.”
She concentrated on straightening her stack of printouts—her dissertation, I noticed, and reprints of several journal articles we’d written. No: several journal articles she’d written, but for which I got credit as a coauthor, as professors always do when their students publish.
When she looked up, her eyes were accusing and hurt. “Did that letter of recommendation slip your mind, too?” I felt myself reddening, and a bloom of sweat sprang from my brow. “Damn it, Dr. B,” she said, before I could stammer out an explanation. Not that there was an explanation. Had I really failed to write the letter? Had I recently relocated—moved from the state of Tennessee to the state of Denial? What, if anything, had I been thinking? If I ignore it, it’ll go away—and she won’t go away?
Miranda was shaking her head now. “Thanks a lot,” she said bitterly, scooping up her armload of credentials. “Wish me luck.” And with that, she swept out of the lab.
“Good luck,” I said, too lamely and too late, as the steel door slammed between us.
Standing there, abandoned by Miranda and appalled by my own thoughtlessness, I wondered if she’d ever be back.
CHAPTER 6
I HAD PLANNED TO PUT MIRANDA ON TRASH DETAIL, the dirty work of sifting through the debris we’d brought back from Cooke County. But in view of her trip to Quantico, and my failure to write the recommendation I’d promised, I reassigned the scut work to myself. For one thing, I didn’t want to let it sit until Miranda’s return. For another, the task—smelly and tedious though it was—could serve as penance, as distraction, and possibly even as a contribution to the case.
But before turning trash detective, I needed to make a phone call. I looked up the cell-phone number—I was surprised I still had it after so many years—and dialed. “Brubaker,” said a crisp voice on the other end of the line.
Pete Brubaker was an FBI profiler, or had been, until his retirement a few years before. Now he worked for a forensic consulting firm, and rumor had it that he was working on a book—either a memoir or a crime novel. Either one, I figured, could be mighty interesting. “Pete, it’s Dr. Bill Brockton, from the University of Tennessee,” I said. “You may remember that we worked together a while back—”
“Of course,” he said. “I still follow you. Anytime my colleagues visit your research facility, they always bring back gory stories. And your name pops up in my newsfeed every now and then. Glad to see you’re still catching bad guys. How can I help you, Doc?”
“Two ways, I’m hoping. First, I’ve got a case down here,” I said. “Damnedest thing I ever saw. We found . . . I can’t say a body, because all that’s left is some bones. A young man. Twenty, plus or minus. Race unknown. Chained to a tree in the woods to die.”
“Cause of death—starvation?”
“No, bizarrely. There were empty food cans all around, so he was kept alive—until he wasn’t. I think he was killed by a bear.”
I heard a low whistle at the other end of the line. “Well, that’s a new one even for me, Doc.” There was a pause. “Could it be a kidnapping gone wrong? Chained up while they were waiting for the ransom, but the ransom never came—or it came, but they left him there anyhow?”
“Could be, I reckon, but we don’t know of any kidnappings.”
“Anything found at the scene that indicates some other motive?”
“Not a thing.”
“Hmm. Well, it’s not much to go on, but just off the top of my head? Two possibilities. One, the victim could have been mentally ill.”
This hadn’t occurred to me. “Interesting. Like, the hillbilly version of locking crazy cousin Vern in the attic?”
“Maybe. But I think that’s less likely than the other possibility.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“Revenge. The victim was being punished for some wrong—real or perceived—that he’d done to the perpetrator. That’s a very personal crime. A very big power differential. Chained to a tree, totally dependent on his captor for food and water. Punishment plus degradation. It’s ‘I’ll show you’ and ‘How does it feel?’ and ‘You messed with the wrong damn guy’ all in one, right? See what I’m saying?”
“I do,” I said. “I’ll pass that along to the sheriff and the TBI agent.”
“Have they asked for the Bureau’s assistance?”
“No,” I admitted. “I’ll suggest it, if you think
I should.”
“You might wait and see if anything similar occurs,” he said. “If it’s a case of personal revenge, you’re probably not looking for a serial killer. But if another case like it shows up, this could be the start of something bad.”
“We do have a lot of trees here in Tennessee,” I said. “And a lot of bears. Anything similar happens, we’ll holler for help. But what you’ve just told me is really useful. Now I’ve got an angle or two we can work, and I didn’t have to jump through any bureaucratic hoops to get ’em. One advantage of getting old is that you know a lot of people you can call up and ask for favors.”
He laughed. “Well, ask anytime. Which reminds me. You said you had two favors to ask. What’s the second?”
I told him, and he didn’t hesitate. “I might be able to help you out,” he said. “No promises, but I’ll do what I can.”
I thanked him and hung up, then hurried to my truck. Trash detail beckoned; the crime-scene sewer awaited. And suddenly I couldn’t wait to dive in.
THE BLACK GARBAGE BAG GLISTENED DULLY ON THE lab’s stone counter, lumpy and ominous, stuffed with the detritus of human cruelty and depravity. I approached it warily, donning nitrile gloves and a paper surgical mask to protect myself, not just from bacteria or stinking scraps, but from subtler, more sinister contaminations—spiritual toxins and contagions, if such things existed—waiting to escape the bag we’d brought with us from the death scene.
The bag rustled, its contents shifting and clinking and rattling, when I lifted it and carried it across the room, placing it on a stainless steel counter beneath the largest of the lab’s exhaust hoods. I touched the switch and the fan whirred and whooshed, smooth and powerful. The hairs on my arm moved and tickled in the rush of air, and the ruff of loose black plastic above the bag’s twist tie twitched, as if something in the bag were alive and trying to get out. The hairs on my neck suddenly prickled, too—stirred not by the fan’s updraft, I suspected, but by some psychic currents of superstition or premonition. Get a grip, Brockton, I ordered myself.
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