When finished, we were all coated with syrupy sweat. Here and there, we wore leaves that had transferred and pasted to our skin.
As Karras dictated and took more photos, the tech placed additional screens over large stainless steel pots into which the remaining syrup would be transferred for inspection. Perhaps the vegetation, maybe pollen or an insect, might pinpoint the season the individual had died.
Prelims completed, Karras sent the tech home. Hazardous road conditions. Perhaps a vote of confidence in me. She’d noted my comments in radiology. Observed as I’d helped dislodge and maneuver the corpse.
Then Karras and I went to shower and change into fresh scrubs.
By 8:40 we were regoggled, regloved, and re-aproned. Though I’d done a quickie shampoo, my hair felt itchy under the surgical cap holding it back from my face.
The barrel victim was female. She lay on the table, hair glued over her face, syrup dripping from her body with soft little ticks. She was nude and her skin looked oddly bronzed, an effect of the amber liquid in which she’d been stored.
I waited as Karras dictated height, weight, and gender, holding off on age until we could get to the teeth. I watched her search the scalp, displacing what hair she could disengage, clump by clump.
After several minutes. “Look at this.”
I stepped to her side. Sticky with syrup, the blue plastic sheeting protecting the floor pulled at the footies covering my shoes.
The victim’s hair was blond, with a half inch of dark growth at the roots. A bleach job, amateur, probably done at home from a box.
Karras lifted a handful of strands, revealing an oval lesion roughly two inches long by one inch wide. The scalp was gone, and yellowed bone gleamed naked in the egg-shaped defect.
“What is it?”
No response. The woman was definitely not a talker.
“An abrasion due to contact with the barrel?” I suggested.
“Her head was resting on the other side.”
“Rodents?” I didn’t believe it.
“No tooth striations in the bone or tissue. And she was too far below the surface. Besides, how would mice exit the barrel after gnawing on her scalp?”
“Are there other lesions?”
“Two. Hand me the magnifier.”
I did.
“The edges appear mushy, not clean. But that could be an artifact caused by the syrup.”
I ran through possibilities in my mind. “Something external? A burn? Exposure to a caustic chemical?”
“None of the surrounding hair or tissue is affected.”
“Mites? Ticks? Bedbugs? Lice? Brown recluse spiders?”
“I didn’t spot any eggs or excrement. But I suppose areas of infestation could have become infected, eventually necrotic.”
“An autoimmune response? Something like Pemphigus?” I was referring to a group of skin disorders that caused blistering of the skin and mucous membranes.
“Mmm.”
“An infectious process? Leishmaniasis? MRSA?” Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus.
That drew another noncommittal response.
“Eczema? Pustular psoriasis? Either could lead to skin abscess.”
“We’ll have a better look when I retract the scalp.”
Discussion over.
Karras took measurements, dictated, made notes on a diagram. Then, using her index finger, she tried teasing hair from the face. It held firm.
I withdrew as Karras ran the lens over the neck, shoulders, breasts, belly, and tops of each leg, checking for moles, tattoos, birthmarks, scars, fresh wounds.
“Hello.” Holding the right arm. She switched to the left. Gestured me over.
Under magnification, I could see a cluster of pinpoint discolorations on the inside of the right elbow. “Same on the left?”
“Three.”
“Injection sites?” It didn’t look right.
“If so, the pattern is atypical.”
Karras continued examining the body. The skin on the palms looked rough and chapped, the nails unkept. Working hands, I thought.
“Both wrists show bands of reddening.”
“Ligatures?”
“Maybe.”
Several beats passed.
“Ever work one of these?” Karras asked.