“We can try,” he said, “but we might have to hold the meetings by telephone for a while. Me and Chief Deputy Waylon here got us some cockfightin’ and potgrowin’ and meth-cookin’ scoundrels to track down, don’t we, Waylon?”
Waylon frowned. “Let’s not be too hasty about them cockfights. TBI might want to keep workin’ ’em undercover.” O’Conner snorted, but Waylon seemed unfazed. “Doc, Cousin Vern says to tell you ‘hey.’ Wanted you to know he’s gettin’ into a new line of farming—raising sang ’stead of weed, up at Jim’s place. The sang don’t grow near as fast, but it’s a mite safer.” I felt safer myself, knowing Waylon didn’t need to booby-trap the ginseng operation.
“Vernon’s got quite a gift for horticulture, too,” said O’Conner. “I think Cooke County Black Ginseng is going to make a big splash next fall over in China.”
Waylon fidgeted in his uniform. “Vern’s boy’s doing real good since you got him in to see that doctor at Children’s Hospital, too.” I nodded, glad that what I’d diagnosed as leukemia had proved to be merely salmonella poisoning plus a kidney infection. “Oh! and he’s got him a new pup, too—another redbone hound. Sweet little thing—named her Duchess in memory of Duke.”
I smiled. “You give Cousin Vern my best,” I said. “If you don’t care to.”
Waylon nodded and clapped me on the shoulder, nearly sending me sprawling.
“Hell no, I don’t care to.”
O’Conner caught Waylon’s eye and nodded at the Jeep. “We better head on back,” he said. “I’m afraid to leave the county for more than an hour at a time. I’m not sure I’ll be back this way until I get another deputy hired and up to speed, so don’t be surprised if you don’t see me for a while. On the other hand, probably won’t be long before some unidentified, varmint-chewed, vermininfested body turns up in some backwoods hollow or chop-shop junkyard. We are talking Cooke County, after all.”
“Well, I reckon I could find my way back to your neck of the woods if duty calls,” I said. “And you know where to find me. Either under the stadium or out here communing with the dead.”
He grinned and nodded. We shook hands again, and he climbed back into the Cherokee and backed out the gate.
I checked my watch and realized I should be going, too. I was expected at Jeff’s house for dinner in a couple of hours, and it wouldn’t do to show up reeking of corpses. Besides, after I got cleaned up, I’d need to swing by the Hilton to pick up Jess Carter, who was back in town to do another autopsy. “My God, is this a date?” Jeff had asked when I asked if I could bring her along.
“I don’t know,” I said. “She might still be happily lesbian.”
He laughed. “That could make a difference, Dad. You might want to find out at some point.”
“I intend to, son,” I said. “Should be interesting.” He concurred. As I swung the gates shut and snapped the locks onto their chains, I looked up at the barren branches ringing the facility. Above them, a narrow ray of sunshine threaded a gap in the clouds. The light caught and backlit the wing of a buzzard. The bird was gliding effortlessly, patiently above the Body Farm, riding the wind, the scent, and his own mysterious yearnings.
He might not fully comprehend why he was drawn to delve into the messy details of death. But delve he did—with grace and gusto.
I couldn’t help but admire that.
Reprinted from Human Osteology: A Laboratory and Field Manual (Fourth Edition), by William M. Bass. ? Missouri Archaeological Society, Inc., 1995.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Some novels are pure fiction; others are fiction that is built on a foundation of facts. This book is of the latter type. Although the story is fictional, the science is factual, and some of the places and events described here contain a sizable kernel of reality. Many of the real-world forensic cases my graduate students and I have examined during the past thirty-five years have occurred in East Tennessee, where this story is based. It would be impossible (or at least foolish) to write a story that was not shaped and colored by those experiences. So many people contribute to a story like this, it’s impossible to acknowledge everyone by name. First and foremost, this book could not have been written without Jon Jefferson, a fine collaborator and eager student of forensic anthropology. I also want to thank my hundreds of graduate students, the many local and state law enforcement officers I’ve worked with, the members of the media who have produced accurate accounts of our investigations, and the thousands of loyal readers who are interested in my work and my stories. We hope you enjoy reading this book as much as we’ve enjoyed writing it.
—WMB III