Page 13 of The Bone Code
“I called your office in Charlotte, got forwarded to Dr. Nguyen. She told me you were heading to Charleston.”
A little backstory.
With one short and unpleasant hiatus, I’ve served for decades as forensic anthropologist for the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner in Charlotte, North Carolina. The MCME is the decoder of death for the region, and I’m the specialist who analyzes remains unfit for a pathologist’s scalpel: the decomposed, dismembered, burned, mummified, mutilated, and skeletal.
Throughout my career, my boss was Dr. Tim Larabee, a brilliant pathologist, amateur marathoner, and all-around good guy. Larabee ran the office until a hopped-up junkie took him out with two bullets to the gut in a mindless mugging.
After Larabee’s murder, Dr. Margot Heavner was hired. In her spare time, the new chief authored tell-all books on forensics that earned her the label Dr. Morgue. To boost sales, Dr. Morgue appeared on any media platform that would have her and sensationalized her work. I didn’t like many of her comments. And said so. As a result, there was history between us.
Case in point. I publicly criticized Heavner for a series of interviews she did with a tinfoil-hat blogger and conspiracy theorist named Nick Body. Heavner was incensed. And held a grudge. Thus, the hiatus. During Dr. Morgue’s tenure, I was exiled from the MCME.
Fortunately, that tenure was short. Within months of assuming her duties, Heavner was exposed as corrupt and forced to resign in disgrace. Dr. Samantha Nguyen was chosen as her replacement.
Unlike Heavner, Nguyen had no trouble directing outside callers to me.
“Yes.” Tires humming as I rolled across the bridge spanning the Wando River. Glancing south, I saw the quayside cranes at the Wando harbor, dark and bony against the pinks and yellows of the fading day.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, we’ve had no resident forensic anthropologist in South Carolina for many years. But I noted from old reports that you’ve done consults for my predecessor.”
“Yes.” Wary.
“I have a situation that requires your expertise.”
“I’m listening.” Not wanting to.
“Last night’s hurricane tossed a container ashore down near the battery. I won’t burden you with details on the phone, but a couple of kayakers found the thing early this morning, pried off the lid, and spotted what they thought was a body. They called the cops, the cops called me.
“My investigator collected the container and transported it to the MUSC morgue. There are actually two people inside. Just eyeballing the bulk, it looks to be one adult and one kid.”
“Any possibility of visual IDs?” Seriously, Brennan? If that were the case, why would Herrin be contacting you?
“The amount of mass tells me decomp will be too advanced.”
“Any personal effects, clothing, jewelry, et cetera?”
“Both bodies were wrapped in plastic sheeting secured with electrical wire. I didn’t want to do too much poking around, but I peeled back enough to see that at least the one is nude.”
From nowhere, a flashback image. A woman. A child. A plastic container washed from the sea.
My gut clenched, and my mouth went dry.
I swallowed.
“Any clues to cause of death?”
“I caught a better glimpse of the one body, because of the kids pulling on the wrapping and me tugging it a bit more. Looks to be a single bullet to the head. Also, the fingers and teeth are gone.”
It can’t be.
“You’ll need a pathologist.” Sounding calmer than I felt.
“I like a guy named Klopp. I’ve left him a message suggesting y’all meet at the hospital tomorrow. I’ll text you the time he’s available.”
“Fine.”
“A detective named Vislosky came to the scene. Not sure about her stomach for autopsies.” A brief pause, then, “Tell me what you need.”
I did, and we disconnected.
