The trio was chuckling at some shared joke. Seeing me in the doorway, they fell silent and rose.
“Dr. Brennan. It is indeed an honor.” Sugarman’s voice was surprisingly high, his drawl as thick as the Fuller’s molasses.
Sugarman introduced rat-face as his brother-in-law, Harold Beasley, sheriff of Robeson County. Beasley nodded, repositioned a toothpick from the right to the left side of his mouth. No comment, no question. Obviously he’d been prepped on my role in the day’s activities.
“And you know the lieutenant.”
“Yes.” I resisted the impulse to add “of course.”
Sugarman arranged his beefy features into an expression of appropriate solemnity. “Ma’am, gentlemen. We all understand the sad business the Lord has chosen to send our way. I propose we get to it without further ado.”
Sugarman led us down a hall and through a door at the back of the facility. No name plaque. Everlasting Embalming? Perpetual Preparation?
The room was windowless, and maybe fifteen by twenty.
From the west wall, a door opened to the outside. Beside it, metal shelving held the usual array of instruments, chemicals, cosmetic supplies, plastic undies, and fluids whose purpose I didn’t really want to know.
A deep sink jutted from the south wall. Aspirating and injection machines sat on a counter beside it. So did a crowbar and small electric saw.
Dressing and embalming tables had been snugged to the north wall. An open casket yawned ready inside an aluminum transport case on a gurney pushed up to them.
The exhumed coffin rested on the collapsible gurney on which it had ridden from the graveyard. Though fans did their best, the smell of mildew, moldy wood, and decomposing flesh permeated the small space.
Sugarman removed his jacket and rolled his sleeves. He and I donned gloves, aprons, and goggles. Beasley and Guipone watched from the doorway. Both looked like they’d rather be elsewhere. I hoped I was more discreet.
The old coffin was mahogany, with sculpted corners and a domed top, now collapsed. Both swing bars and most of the hardware were gone. The metal that remained was eroded and discolored.
I made notes and took photos. Then I stepped back.
Sugarman raised both brows. I nodded.
Crossing to the gurney, the big man inserted one end of the crowbar and levered downward. Rotten wood cracked and flew.
Kicking aside splinters, Sugarman heaved again. And again. As fragments detached, I tossed them to the floor.
Finally, sweat rings darkening both armpits, Sugarman laid down his tool.
I stepped close.
Guipone and Beasley moved in beside us.
Breathing hard, Sugarman lifted what remained of the top half of the coffin lid.
Beasley’s hand flew to his mouth.
“Sweet baby Jesus.”
THE FUNERAL INDUSTRY CLAIMS ITS PRODUCTS AND SERVICES protect our dearly departed from the ravages of time. Coffin manufacturers offer vaults, gasket seals, and warranties on the structural integrity of their caskets. Morticians tout the permanence of embalming.
Nothing stops the inevitable.
Following death, aerobic bacteria begin acting on a corpse’s exterior, while their anaerobic brethren set to work in the gut. By excluding the former, airtight coffins may actually accelerate, not retard, action due to the latter. The result is liquefaction and putrefied soup in the box.
A simple wooden coffin, on the other hand, permits air passage, and thus, aerobic sport. The outcome is rapid skeletonization.
With most exhumations it’s anyone’s guess what lies under the hood. Bones? Goo? Some time-hardened combo?
Burned body. Forty years. Compromised box.
With this one I’d had little doubt.
I was right.
The coffin held a skeleton covered with mold and desiccated black muck. Below the pink-white outer crust, the bone surfaces looked dark and mottled.
“Dear God in heaven.” Beasley’s words came through a hand-shielded mouth.
Guipone swallowed audibly.
The remains had been casketed military-style. Though the traditional wool blanket shroud was now gone, rusted safety pins attested to its previous presence.
“May I see the file again?”
