tissue preserved in there. Go with Plan A. Joe can help.”
“Joe’s out on a call.”
“He just got back.” Larabee changed the subject. “Have you examined the new sandpit bones?”
“Everything is consistent with the rest of the skeleton.”
“Music to my ears.” Larabee chin-cocked the drum. “Let me know how it goes.”
I was taking photos when Hawkins entered the autopsy room and strode to the gurney.
Cadaver-thin, with dark circles under puffy lower lids, bushy brows, and dyed black hair combed straight back from his face, Joe Hawkins looks like an older and hairier version of Larabee.
“How we going to crack this sucker?” Hawkins rapped gnarled knuckles on the drum.
I explained Plan A.
Without a word, Hawkins went in search of the necessary tools. I was finishing with overview shots when he returned, dressed in blue surgical scrubs identical to mine.
Hawkins and I donned goggles, then he inserted a blade, plugged in, and revved the handheld power saw.
The room filled with the whine of metal on metal and the acrid smell of hot steel. Rust particles arced and dropped to the gurney.
Five minutes of cutting, then Hawkins laid down the saw and tugged and twisted with his hands. The segment came free.
More cutting. More tugging.
Eventually a black lump lay on the gurney, and an exoskeleton of torn metal lay on the floor.
Joe killed the saw. Raising my goggles to my forehead, I stepped forward.
The asphalt cast was the exact shape and size of the drum’s interior. Objects grazed its surface, pale and ghostly as morgue flesh.
The curve of a jaw? The edge of a foot? I couldn’t be sure.
Hawkins switched to the air hammer and, with some direction from me, began working downward toward the body parts. As cracks formed, I freed chunks of asphalt and placed them on the counter. Later I would examine each and take samples so chemists could determine their elemental composition.
Maybe useful, maybe not. Better to be safe. One never knew what would later prove significant.
Slowly, the counter filled.
One hunk. Three. Nine. Fifteen.
As the cast shrank, its contour changed. A form took shape, like a figure emerging from a block of marble being sculpted.
The top of a head. An elbow. The curve of a hip.
At my signal, Joe set down the chisel. Using hand tools, I went at the remaining asphalt.
Forty minutes later a naked body lay curled on the stainless steel. The legs were flexed with the thighs tight to the chest. The head was down, the forehead pressed to the upraised knees. The feet pointed in opposite directions, toes spread at impossible angles. One arm L’ed backward. The other stretched high, fingers spread as though clawing for escape.
A sweet, fetid odor now rode the air. No surprise.
Though shriveled and discolored, overall, the cadaver was reasonably well preserved.
But that was changing fast.
HAWKINS BENT SIDEWAYS AND SQUINTED THROUGH BLACK-framed glasses that had gone in and out of vogue many times since their purchase.
“Dude’s hanging a full package.”
I joined him and checked the genitals.
“Definitely male,” I said. “And adult.”
I shot close-ups of the outstretched hand, then asked Hawkins to bag it. The fingers first spotted by Jackson were now in pretty bad shape, but those embedded deeper in the asphalt retained significant soft tissue. And nails, under which trace evidence might be found.
While Hawkins sealed the hands in brown paper sacks, I filled out a case marker and adjusted camera settings. As I moved around the body, shooting from all angles, Hawkins brushed away black crumbs and positioned the card.
“Looks like this will be one for Doc Larabee.”
Pathologists work with freshly dead or relatively intact corpses to determine identity, cause of death, and postmortem interval. They cut Y-incisions on torsos and remove skullcaps to extract innards and brains.
Anthropologists answer the same questions when the flesh is degraded or gone and the skeleton is the only game left. We eyeball, measure, and x-ray bone, and take samples for microscopic, chemical, or DNA analysis.
Hawkins was guessing that a regular autopsy might be possible.
