Page 89 of Evil Bones
All but the videographer turned as the three of us emerged from the trees.
Greetings were exchanged. Names.
The cops were Hayes and Z something with a lot of syllables. And an abundance of dark hair knotted at the nape of her neck.
I’d done one recovery with Hayes. A putrefied body jammed in a culvert. He’d been competent and professional. I’d never met Z.
The MCME crew was composed of an old-timer and a newbie. Joe Hawkins and I had worked dozens of cases together over the years. He looked his usual glum, cadaverous self.
Hawkins’s younger partner introduced himself as Winslow. He wasin his twenties with thin, sandy hair, pale splotchy skin, and thick glasses with weird pinkish-orange frames. I wasn’t sure if Winslow was the guy’s first or last name.
“What’s happened so far?” I asked no one in particular.
“CSU processed the scene, but we were told not to touch the DOA until you arrived,” Hawkins said.
“Pain in the ass,” Acorn said. “We could be done and out of here by now.”
Ignoring that rather rude comment, I addressed Hayes.
“Did you recover anything of interest?”
“Candy wrappers, a Bud can, and a shit ton of condoms.”
“Party hardy.” Acorn twirled one finger in the air.
“No one’s disturbed the remains?” I clarified.
“One ballsy squirrel,” Hayes said.
“I discouraged him,” Acorn said, grinning.
Wondering what “discouraged” meant, not really wanting to know, I scanned the scene.
The deceased was seated below a towering loblolly pine, legs straight out, arms twisted backward and nailed to the trunk. The head was hanging low, the neck vertebrae jutting sharp as the dorsal fins on a shark.
My mind flashed to the corpse discovered by Sister Adelbert in Cordelia Park. To the unearthed cemetery burial that was Eleanor Godric. The similarities were striking.
I logged details.
As with those bodies, this one was human and wore a ball cap. Blue paint and glitter had been applied to the head and face.
Below the cap, a red paisley bandanna covered the decedent’s scalp, knotted low in back. A gold stud in the shape of a clenched fist pierced the left ear.
I noted skin the color of weak tea. Kinky black hair corkscrewing from the bandanna’s edges.
The decedent’s pants had slipped below a level ideal for decorum. The bared genitalia looked shriveled and bluish in the bright morning sun, but clearly proclaimed that the corpse was male.
On top, the man wore a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off andone word scrolling the front:Chanel. His boxers were plaid. His feet were bare.
Like the Cordelia Park vic and unlike Godric, this person hadn’t been dead long.
Rigor mortis refers to a stiffening of the body due to a decrease below critical levels of adenosine triphosphate, or ATP. Beginning in the facial muscles approximately two hours after death, the rigidity gradually progresses to the limbs. Completing at anywhere between six and eight hours postmortem, rigor can persist for up to two days.
Thanks to some merciful weather deity, there was a slight, though erratic breeze that morning. A fitful gust sent the man’s fingers swaying like laundry on a line. The joint flexibility suggested that rigor had come and gone.
But how long ago had he died?
More logging.
