Page 34 of Cold, Cold Bones
The next series was taken after the kudzu had been snipped and stripped. The pics showed a corpse that looked like something from an Egyptian tomb.
The man was wearing black work boots, jeans, and a plaid shirt so faded the colors were unrecognizable. A yellow polypropylene rope around his neck ran to a branch above his head. He wore no hat. No belt.
Bad planning on the latter. Gravity had done what gravity does. As dehydration shrunk the man’s muscles and fats, his boxers and jeans had slipped to mid-thigh, revealing genitals in which he’d undoubtedly taken much pride. Determining the victim’s sex would not be a problem.
The final close-ups showed a face transformed to an Amenhotep horror. Unlike determining gender, assessing ancestry would be tough. And the man’s next of kin would be doing no visual ID.
After the final image, I stepped to the table. Sighing behind his mask, Slidell followed.
Immediately after death, regardless if the deceased is an egret or an emperor, nature sets to work recycling the atoms composing the organism, returning its energy and matter to the universe. That process is accomplished via one of two processes: putrefaction or mummification.
The hanging site provided a perfect combination of elevation, sun exposure, and constant air movement. These factors, along with the man’s protective clothing, resulted in minimal animal scavenging and invasion by necrophagous insects. Edy’s “dead dude” was transiting through door number two. His flesh was brown and leathery and tightly molded to his bones. His eyes were shriveled peas peeking from below half-mast lids, his nose a distorted and compressed isosceles. His scalp retained perhaps a dozen tenacious sun-bleached strands.
The man’s withered upper lip was recurved against the few bristles that remained of his mustache. His lower lip was frozen in the drooping position it had assumed when his jaw dislocated. Instead of a tongue, a brown mass filled the space between.
“What the hell’s in his mouth?”
Having no answer to Slidell’s question, I reached out and appliedpressure to the mandible with both my thumbs. Felt no movement. Pressed harder. The jaw yielded not a micron.
Choosing a very sharp scalpel, I made linear incisions from each corner of the man’s mouth back to the level of each ear. This cut the masseter muscle bilaterally and opened the face.
Next, I picked up forceps, grasped the obstruction, and tugged gently. Slight resistance, then the thing slid free with a soft crackling sound.
The mass was approximately three inches in diameter, papery light, and composed of small, pentagonal cells. We both recognized it immediately.
Slidell lurched backward from the table. “Goddam. Anyone alive in there?”
“The wasps are long gone,” I said, admiring the geometry of their creation. “But it’s a beauty.”
“What’s it doing inside the guy’s mouth?”
“Wasps and hornets often build nests in empty or partially empty skulls.”
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“So do some bees. A hollow sphere suits their architectural needs.”
“Can we get back on track? How long since the guy strung himself up?”
“Hard to tell. Once a body mummifies it can last a long time.”
“That’s real helpful.”
“Prelim estimate, two to three years. Could be more. Could be less.”
“Got a profile?”
“Male.”
“Yeah, we know that ’cause of Mr. Whoopee hanging out of his pants.”
“Middle age.” I’d observed the teeth and sutures before Slidell arrived.
“Not that shit again. Can’t you gimme something else?”
“When I’ve cleaned the bones.”
“He white?”
