The bright light highlighted splits to areas of the infant’s skin. It would be difficult to determine whether they had occurred during the adipocere formation or were due to blunt-force trauma to the abdomen, thighs and upper arms.
John Zimmer wandered in with a female crime scene officer, both in their work overalls.
“The secretary said you were here.”
Zimmer had a sixth sense for unusual deaths. As part of his job, he frequently attended autopsies. “Thought we’d get the heads-up on whether this one will be ours.”
“We still don’t know whether the death was suspicious or not.”
Regardless, Jeff Sales invited them both in. “The more the merrier, I always say.”
Zimmer dwarfed his younger colleague. “This is Milo Sharpe, she’s just transferred from down south.”
After introductions, Milo stood, hands behind her back.
“You have an unusual name,” Jeff said, glancing up over his half-glasses. “What’s the derivation?”
“It’s a nickname. I have below average motor skills which came to the attention of fellow officers here, before I arrived.” She seemed to ignore Zimmer.
The senior CSO rocked on his heels. “Well, it is our job to investigate and scrutinize.”
“Why Milo?” Anya dared ask. The rationale behind the name had to be obscure and less than complimentary.
“On the 26 January I attended a car accident in the rain.” She spoke in a monotone as if tired of repeating the story. “My gloves were wet and my superior threw me the car keys. I failed to catch them and they slid down the drain. I spent the next fifty-four minutes successfully extricating them.”
Milo, who didn’t offer her real name, stopped without further explanation and turned her attention to the tools the pathologist had laid out for the post-mortem.
“Get it?” Zimmer said.
Anya raised her eyebrows.
“Venus de Milo. The armless statue. You’ve got to HAND it to her. It’s a classic.” He grinned.
Apparently the officer endowed with the name didn’t agree.
“It could be worse,” Zimmer added. “‘ Showbags’ liked his nickname until he realized what it meant. He looks great but is full of shit.”
Anya hoped she hadn’t acquired a nickname she was yet to learn about.
Jeff Sales refocused. “What we have here, detectives, is an adipocere. It’s a form of preservation.”
Milo’s face was now centimeters from the table, studying the body. “Is it a cultural phenomenon?”
“Good question. We’re not talking mummification through embalming. This sort of preservation is mostly seen in bodies that have been immersed in water or left in humid or damp environments. It occurs where fat is present.”
“How?” Milo spoke without sounding either interested or bored.
“Bacterial enzymes and body enzymes alter the free fatty acids but don’t cause the normal signs of decomposition, like bloating and discoloration. These remains had to have been protected from insects, or the story would be completely different.”
Obviously the box had been well sealed, as Dan Brody had described. The wax-paper wrapping would have contributed to the process.
The technician arrived with a portable X-ray machine and slid an X-ray plate gently beneath the fragile form. He had only one lead gown for protection, the one he was wearing.
Milo slowly circled the table, as if looking for clues. “Who would just stick a baby in a box and hide it? The mother had to be mentally ill.”
Anya looked up. “Not necessarily. We don’t know how long the child had been in the box or how young the mother was. That box could have been in the wardrobe for decades. And if you think about it, babies buried in gardens weren’t that unusual even a few years ago. Unmarried mothers were ostracized and received no government support. Backyard abortions were rampant. Some of the mothers were even sent to prison-like institutions or reform schools.”
The pathologist stepped back and ushered them out of the suite into the corridor while X-rays were taken.
“And,” Anya continued, “in the past stillborns were buried in nameless mass graves or just thrown out with other hospital refuse. Maybe this mother loved the child and didn’t want to see that happen.”
“Logically,” Milo added, “landscapers and home gardeners should find these babies.”
It was unclear whether the CSO was being flippant or serious.
Jeff checked inside the room that it was safe to return and ushered them all back inside. “There are other variables to consider. Fetal bones are far less resilient. They’re relatively low in calcium so dissolve quite rapidly, particularly if there’s lime in the soil. The most anyone would find is a couple of small bones they might assume are bird remains.”
“Any specific reason you’re doing the X-rays?” Zimmer checked his watch as if he had to be somewhere else.
“Routine. The bones are so fragile, fractures don’t necessarily suggest trauma, but if they’re intact, it helps exclude significant blunt-force injury.”
“Is there any way of proving if the child ever took a breath outside the womb?”
Zimmer was asking if they could prove that the child have ever been legally alive. If it had, homicide could not be excluded, homicide had no statute of limitations. Their job would be a lot simpler if the child could be proven to have been stillborn. And Anya could let Brody know there would be no further investigation.
“I won’t know until I examine the internal organs, which could be in any condition. If there’s a chance, I’ll test the stomach contents for milk. But after who knows how long, I won’t lift your hopes. You can take the box with you, to examine it for blood, perhaps date it. Anything that can help with an approximate time frame.”
The female CSO had noticed it on the bench. “Do you mean the chocolate box?”
Zimmer looked surprised by his new recruit.
“How do you know what it is?”
Milo stood, hands behind her back again. “My father collects boxes, among other things. This one would have originally had sweets inside. It should still smell like chocolate caramel.”
She took a long sniff. “But it doesn’t. It was a limited edition put out by an English company named Molly’s Originals. My father will have the year recorded in his catalog. From memory, it was late 1960s. He makes records of everything he owns.”
A limited edition box could pin down a possible year the baby was placed there.
“How sure are you that it’s exactly the same?” Anya asked.
Milo replied, matter-of-fact, “I have a photographic memory and an IQ of one hundred and forty-five.”
The comment was met with silence. Obviously, the CSO was capable of dropping more than just keys at an accident scene. The monotone speech pattern and lack of eye contact made Anya wonder whether she had a mild case of autism, perhaps Asperger’s syndrome. It would explain the computer-like approach to facts, limited social skills and completely absent sense of humor. Then again, she was similar to any number of university professors or MENSA members who chose not to bother with “trivialities” like interpersonal skills. Obsessive-compulsive behaviors like box collecting could even run in her family.
Anya excused herself before Jeff Sales began the internal examination. Once she could have performed the procedure herself, but since becoming a mother she had found child cases especially difficult. Not having to stay made it easier. John Zimmer instructed Milo to observe while he headed upstairs.
“Milo takes a bit of getting used to,” he said as they left the suite. “She’s like an encyclopedia but you need more than that if you’re going to last in this game. Put it this way, you’d never accuse her of being too sensitive.”
Anya almost laughed. John Zimmer was complaining about someone being insensitive. She would never have thought it possible. “Give her a chance. I agree that she’s unusual, but you took some getting used to as well.” At the elevator, Anya pressed the up button.
“I always thought women were more aware of people’s emotions. I can’t risk taking her upstairs for the interview. You’re sitting in?”
Anya had intended to check on Sophie Goodwin but hadn’t heard about any interview. “You’ve lost me.”
“I assumed you knew. Sophie’s defied all the odds and woken up. The detectives are on their way to get a
