Page 18 of Cold, Cold Bones
Peering up from between the bolsters was a human face. Or what remained of a human face. Decomposition had converted the features into a death mask bearing little resemblance to the person it had presented to the world in life.
Beside me, I sensed Henry tense. But she didn’t draw back. Or pull a George and pass out. Believe me, I’ve seen well-seasoned cops hit the tile.
The facial tissue was a blanched and soggy wrapper fast losing its grip on the underlying bone. The nose was compressed, the nostrils flattened against what little flesh remained on the cheeks. The lips were curled back in a rictus grin, exposing teeth yellowed by age or by contact with liquified brain and muscle. A sparse tangle of hair clung to the largely bare skull, its color leached to nothing by the by-products of decay.
But it was the eyes that held Henry’s attention. As they had Slidell’s and mine.
The right one was shriveled and constricted, the iris discolored to a milky violet. What remained of the pupil was hidden behind a half-closed lid. A paring knife jutting from its center.
The left eyeball was gone.
“Some freak cut out her eye.” Barely audible. Muffled due to Henry’s unfamiliarity with the mask?
I turned. Recognized the look. Could this be the first time the newbie had seen violent death up close?
Wordlessly, I went to the cooler. Returned with the back-porch eyeball, now sealed in a Tupperware container labeled MCME 210-22.
“This was delivered to my home,” I said.
“Delivered?”
“In a box.”
“What happened to the box?”
“It went to the crime lab,” I said matter-of-factly. “As will the plastic bag that contained the severed head. And the knife.”
“You suppose this eye came from that head?” She glanced back and forth between the two.
“If not, we’ve got one hell of a coincidence. But of course, I’ll order DNA testing on both.”
“Why’s the head so grody while this eyeball looks perfect.”
“Decomp—”
“I get the ashes-to-ashes bit. But why is the eye so well preserved?”
“I intend to figure that out.”
“And why would someone leave a body part on your back porch?”
“That, Detective, is a question for a cop. Which brings us to your next task.”
“Dental records.”
“Yes.”
“Which MP?” Missing person.
“All three.”
“On it, boss,” she said, and snapped a somewhat less than crisp salute.
I worked until seven.
Once I’d shot photos and videos, I gently removed and bagged the knife. While packaging the plastic sack I considered the Sharpie writing on its surface: “Here’s Johnny!” A bad pun about the privy? A reference to late-night TV? To the skull? To something unrelated to the bag’s contents?
Finally, I prepared the head for maceration. Since there wasnothing more I could tease from the putrefied flesh, I’d have Hawkins remove it to allow me a better look at the bone.
