“How old is that sector?” I asked Molene.
“I’ll have to check the records.”
“Ballpark.” I removed my hard hat and vest and held them at arm’s length. Not that it mattered. I was dripping as much as they were.
“We stopped dumping in that area in 2005. That layer, I’d say late nineties to maybe 2002.”
“Then the vic ain’t Leonitus,” Hawkins said.
While Hawkins and Molene drove a motorized cart back out to retrieve the drum, I phoned Larabee. He said what I expected: See you tomorrow.
So much for lounging with my cat.
Thirty minutes later Jackson’s prize sat on plastic sheeting in the ME van, oozing muddy water and flecks of rust. Five minutes after that, it was making its way to Charlotte along with the Cabarrus County sandpit teeth and bones.
Officer Warner escorted me back to the interstate. After that I was on my own.
Between the downpour, rush hour, and the Race Week frenzy, vehicles were backed up to Minneapolis. Fortunately, that was opposite to my direction of travel, though westbound traffic was also heavy. While lurching and braking my way toward home, I wondered about the person we’d just recovered.
A whole body? A tight fit for a thirty-five-gallon container, but not impossible. Dismembered parts? I hoped not. A partial corpse would mean a return to the landfill for a systematic search.
That prospect was decidedly unappealing.
Friday promised a repeat of Thursday. Hot and sticky with more afternoon storms.
Wouldn’t affect me. I’d be stuck in the lab all day.
After a quick breakfast of granola and yogurt, I drove downtown. Or uptown, as Charlotteans prefer.
The Mecklenburg County medical examiner occupies one end of a featureless brick box that spent its early years as a Sears Garden Center. The box’s other end houses satellite offices of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department. Devoid of architectural charm save a slight rounding of the edges, the building is located at College and Tenth, just a hair outside the fashionable heart of uptown. Though plans exist to develop the site and move the facility, so far the MCME has stayed put.
Works for me. The place is just ten minutes from my town house.
At 8:05 I parked in the small tentacle of lot facing the MCME entrance, gathered my purse, and headed for the double glass doors. Across College, a half-dozen men sat or leaned on a wall bordering a large vacant lot. All wore the hodgepodge of ratty clothing that is the uniform of the homeless.
Beyond them, a black woman was muscling a stroller along the sidewalk toward the county services building, struggling with the uneven pavement.
The woman stopped to tug upward on her tube top. Her eyes drifted in my direction. I waved. She didn’t wave back.
Entering the vestibule, I tapped on a window above a counter to my left. A chubby woman turned in her chair and peered through the glass. Her blouse was sharply pressed, her hair permed and fixed primly in place.
Eunice Flowers has worked for the MCME since sometime back in the eighties, when it moved from the basement of the old Law Enforcement Center to its present location. Monday through Friday, she screens visitors, blessing some with entry, turning others away. She also types reports, organizes documents, and keeps track of every shred of information generated throughout the analysis of the dead.
Smiling, Mrs. Flowers buzzed me in. “You were a busy lady yesterday.”
“Very,” I said. “Anyone else here?”
“Dr. Larabee will be in shortly. Dr. Siu is lecturing at the university. Dr. Hartigan is in Chapel Hill.”
“Joe?”
“Gone to collect some poor soul from a Dumpster. Bless his heart. It’s gonna be another hot one today.” Mrs. Flowers’s vowels could have landed her a role in
“Is the landfill body getting any attention?”
“Made the
Mrs. Flowers’s tidiness includes not just her person but everything around her. At her workstation, Post-it notes hang equidistant, paper stacks are squared, pens, staplers, and scissors are stowed when idle. It is an orderliness of which I am incapable. Unnecessarily, she adjusted a photo of her cocker spaniel.
“Do you still have the paper?”
“I’d like it back, please.” She handed me her neatly folded copy. “The Belk ad is good for twenty percent off on linens.”
“Of course.”
“The consult requests are on your desk. I believe Joe placed everything in the stinky room before he left.”
The facility has a pair of autopsy rooms, each with a single table. The smaller of the two has special ventilation to combat foul odors.
For decomps and floaters. My kind of cases.
Good choice, Hawkins. Though the sandpit bones would be relatively aroma-free, there was no telling about
