The CSS camera clicked softly.
The corpse was floating just below the surface, head up and tilted sideways, crown pressed to one side of the barrel. Long blond hair wrapped its face, molding the features like a wet suit on a surfer.
No. Not floating. Submerged in thick brown goop.
An image flashed. An exhibit at the Centre des sciences du Montréal. Bodies preserved by replacing the water and fat in the tissues with polymers. Plastination. Not the same process here, but the effect was eerily similar.
Karras spoke first. Brisk and cool. Here to do her job, not make friends. “I’ve made arrangements to take the whole barrel.”
“How long has she been in there?” Rodas asked.
“I’ll know more after I examine the body. And if the victim is male or female.”
“Point taken.”
“I’m happy to help,” I said.
“Our facility is closed to the public.” As though addressing an amateur.
I explained my qualifications.
“Given the state of preservation, an anthropologist shouldn’t be necessary.”
“First looks can be deceiving.”
“Really.”
“I know I’m out of jurisdiction.” Trying to appease for my indelicate comment. And my churlishness earlier. “And I understand—”
“Probably not.”
Easy. “May I at least observe?”
“Dr. Brennan and Detective Ryan are working homicides potentially linked to Nellie Gower.” Rodas intervened on my behalf.
“That what this is about?” Karras tapped the rim of the barrel with one gloved hand.
“Possibly.”
Karras eyed me flatly. “You know your way around an autopsy?”
“I do.”
“Once the body’s out of the syrup, it’ll head south fast.”
“It will.”
“I’ll be working through the night.”
“As would I.” Holding her gaze.
“In Burlington.”
“Take the Jeep,” Ryan said to me. “I’ll stay and help with things on this end.”
And that’s what we did.
Vermont’s chief medical examiner is headquartered in the Fletcher Allen medical complex on the western edge of Burlington. Burlington is on the western edge of Vermont, all the way across the state from St. Johnsbury. Fortunately, it’s a small state.
Nonetheless, the drive was brutal. I was unfamiliar with Ryan’s Jeep. And with dusk, the temperature dropped and the sleet turned to ice, clogging the wipers, reducing visibility, and turning the roads treacherous.
I arrived at 6:40. Karras and the barrel were already there.
The facility was not unlike many others in which I’d worked, including those at the MCME and the LSJML. There were multiple autopsy rooms, each with a tile floor, erasable board, metal and glass cabinets, stainless steel counters and centerpiece table.
Without the outerwear, I could see that Karras was a large woman with thick limbs and pendulous breasts. I doubted she cared. Her demeanor suggested cotton briefs and sensible shoes.
After the normal routine of logging in, the barrel was X-rayed with a Lodox scanner that allowed real-time viewing on video displays. Karras and I observed the body section by section: bones, skull, and teeth white; soft tissues gray; air in the gut and passageways black.
The barrel held a single human corpse, legs flexed at the knees, arms tucked to the belly. Nothing radio-opaque. No belt buckles, zippers, watches, or jewelry. No dental restorations. No bullets. I spotted no obvious skeletal trauma.
X-rays completed, a technician wheeled the barrel by dolly to an autopsy room. He took samples of the syrup while Karras recorded observations concerning the barrel’s particulars and condition.
After shooting a zillion photographs, the tech placed a screen over a floor drain, and together we all laid the barrel on its side. With much effort and considerable swearing, we freed the body and transferred it to the table.