Page 11 of Evil Bones
By eight-thirty I was in an autopsy room outfitted with a razzle-dazzle ventilation system designed to combat the most pugnacious of odors. There is a similar setup at the lab in Montreal. On both ends, the specially equipped space is referred to as “the stinky room.” In different languages, of course.
But the razzle and dazzle are never fully effective. Nothing is. The stench of putrefied, decomposed, bloated, or scorched flesh always manages to outwit the blowers and fans and disinfectants.
A stainless-steel table occupied the center of the room, surrounded by glass-fronted stainless-steel cabinets overhanging stainless-steel countertops. Tile floor. Overhead mic and video camera for recording every move and observation.
Since many employees opt to vacation in summer, August can mean reduced staff at the MCME. That day, one autopsy tech was in the mountains harassing trout, and another had taken a personal day to tend to a sick goat. Expecting to encounter nothing more complicated than a squirrel or a rabbit—nonhuman remains, case closed, specimen sent for incineration—I’d offered to work unassisted.
While I’d changed from street clothes to scrubs, the thing from the tree—now designated MCME-701-25—had been wheeled from the cooler to the stinky room. Upon entering, I took a quick look.
Lying on the gurney was a black plastic bag concealing a relatively small bulge. The size of the bulge squared with my recollection from the Frog Pond oak.
I began by dictating contextual information—the case number; the day’s date; the name of each transporter; the name of the analyst performing the examination; the name of the assisting technician; the condition of the remains upon recovery; the location at which the remains were found. All the tedious details that could later become relevant in a court of law.
When finished, I shot a few backup pics. Then I secured the ties ofa plastic apron behind my neck and waist, pulled on latex gloves, and raised a mask to cover my nose and mouth.
Properly garbed, I stepped to the gurney. Using a pair of heavy shears, I cut the bag with four smooth strokes and laid the segments of plastic flat. Splayed out on the stainless steel, they brought to mind the unfurled petals of a rose.
Au contraire, the smell slowly filling the room was far from floral. My olfactory lobe registered moldy fabric with a hint of something organic. Feathers? Fur? Traces of degraded tissue or blood?
On a scale of autopsy aromas, this one wasn’t all that rank. That, too, was consistent with expectations. Mummified flesh can be relatively odorless.
The fabric was some sort of heavy cotton or canvas duck. Its color, once bright and probably called “royal” blue, was now soiled and bleached by exposure to the elements. The material was nothing special. Except that it was so very familiar.
I took another round of pics, feeling the usual prickle of heat in my chest. Sadness for the helpless dead animal victim. Fury at the perpetrator. Anger at the existence of such cruelty.
Focus, Brennan.
Do your job so the cops can nail this fruitcake.
Peeling back the final layer of wrapping, I had my first good look.
As anticipated, the skull wasn’t human. And it wasn’t large. I estimated cranial capacity similar to that of a cocker spaniel.
Also, as anticipated, the skull had been converted into some peculiar animal version of a death mask.
I ran a quick mental inventory of details.
Patches of desiccated and discolored tissue adhered to the bone.
The eyelids had been stretched wide and stitched above and below the orbits.
Wadded tinfoil filled the hollows where the eyeballs had been.
Specks of glitter still adhered to the ectocranial surface.
A bundle of feathers projected from each ear opening.
The mandible had been rearticulated and glued in place, leaving the mouth agape in a rictus snarl.
All four canines had been removed.
The same bizarre motif had been observed on the other creatures turning up in Mecklenburg and the surrounding counties.
I’m no expert on mammalian cranial anatomy. Far from it. But I know the basics. Something about this specimen looked off.
Leaving the skull on the gurney, I swiveled to the terminal behind me and entered a number into the MCME computer system. A few more keystrokes, then I opened a file and began running through a series of images.
Rat. Squirrel. Rabbit. Skunk. All mutilated and decorated in the same manner as MCME-701-25.
