Kathy Reichs - Break No Bones

A clapper rail called from some hidden perch. Its rattle snapped me back to the present.

Miller was snugging her trolley to the barrel. Gullet pushed, raising one side, and the prongs slid beneath. With Tybee and Zamzow spotting, Miller wheeled her cargo off to the coroner's van.

That was it. I'd done my part. Miller and the deputies could load the damn thing.

The clean, dry deputies.

Leaning on Tybee's cruiser, I laced on my sneakers. Then I crossed to Gullet's Explorer, dug out my pack, and dragged a comb through my hair.

I caught my image in the rearview. Mascara had been a really bad idea.

Tybee and Zamzow stayed behind to shoot video and walk the area, and to continue interrogating the Moultries. Gullet and I followed Miller to the MUSC morgue, a plastic sheet separating us from the Explorer's seats.

While I showered and changed into scrubs, Miller offloaded the barrel. Fifteen minutes after arriving, I rejoined her at the intake area just inside the rolling metal doors.

"Where's Gullet?" I asked.

"Got a call."

"From his couturier?"

Miller laughed. "Could be. Sheriff's mindful of his appearance, and that don't mean mud up his gumpy. I suspect he may also be detailing that SUV of his. You're to let him know what we find."

"You phone Emma?"

Miller nodded. "Coroner says open her up. Allocation's my call. Either you or one of our pathologists wins the cigar."

"You sticking around?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

Miller logged the case and prepared an ID marker, CCC-2006020299. I positioned the card while she shot close-ups of the barrel and chain.

"Chain's in good shape." Miller was squinting through her viewfinder. "Barrel's a bucket of rust."

"The two could be made of different metals."

"Or could be a new chain wrapping an old barrel."

A puddle spread across the cement as we worked, carrying with it the smell of decay. When Miller finished with photography, we both inspected the barrel's exterior. As she'd predicted, any words or logos were long gone.

"There must be lots of companies that manufacture fifty-five-gallon drums," I said.

"Dozens," Miller agreed.

After snapping a few Polaroid backups, Miller disappeared, returned with a crowbar and chain saw.

"OK, sweetie, how do you want to go about this?"

"No reason we can't just knock it open," I said.

"Worked for Larry and Moe." Miller pulled on big leather gloves, crowbarred one edge, then tried to lever the lid. The thing stayed put.

"You whacked this sucker pretty good," Miller said.

"I had a little adrenaline working."

After prying more edge, Miller inserted the crowbar and thrust down on the shaft. Half the lid popped free, sending wet rust particles cascading downward. Miller inserted her fingers, tugged at intervals along the lid's perimeter, then yanked upward. The metal disc came away in her hands.

An old, damp smell rose from the barrel. Rotten seaweed. Stale salt water. And more. The smell of death.

Setting the lid on the concrete, Miller picked up a flashlight, and we both leaned in.

The form was human, but not human, a grotesque reproduction in waxy white. It sat humped over, head between its knees.

Miller's nostrils narrowed. "You may be off the hook on this one, doc."

I wasn't so sure. In the presence of moisture, the hydrogenation and hydrolysis of body fat can lead to the formation of matter containing fatty acids and glycerol. This greasy, sometimes waxy substance is known as adipocere, or grave wax.

Once formed, grave wax can hang around a long time, forming a cast of the fatty tissues. I'd seen corpses in which adipocere preserved the body and facial features, while putrefaction turned the insides to soup.

"Body was put in feet first, then shoved down," Miller said.

"Or the victim was forced to climb in and squat," I said.

"Naked."

"Looks small." I spoke without thinking, caught up in the usual swirl of sadness and anger.

"Female?" Taut. Miller was swirling with me.

"I'd rather not speculate."

But I already knew. I'd seen too many ravaged wives, coeds, stepdaughters, waitresses, hookers. My gender was the little guy, the one who took the punches.

"Lots of sand," I said, refocusing my anger. "Probably used to weight the barrel."

"Rocks would have been a better choice," Miller said. "One whack with a boat propeller, one erosion point, sand's outta there. Probably why the thing became buoyant and washed up."

"Let's get her on a table," I said.

Together we lowered the trolley so it lay parallel to the concrete, moving carefully, as though afraid to jostle the occupant. Pointless. She was past caring.

Miller donned goggles, revved the chain saw, and cut the barrel lengthwise from rim to rim on two sides and the bottom, removing the section immediately overlying the body.

The remains were back-side down in the barrel's lower half, head tucked between tightly flexed legs. I could see abrasions in the adipocere where the knees and shins had scraped against the drum's inner surface.

While I'd showered and changed to scrubs, Miller had draped a gurney with plastic sheeting. Removing her goggles and leather gloves, she now wheeled it into position. Together, we shifted the gurney's removable tray to the floor beside the barrel. When we'd pulled on surgical gloves, I took the head and Miller took the buttocks.

"Ready?" Tense.

I nodded.

We lifted an inch, testing. The soapy flesh held.

"OK," I said.

We lifted another inch, then another, tugging gently at any resistance. Slowly, the barrel released its prisoner. We held a moment, allowing fetid liquid to drip. I nodded. Stepping sideways, we lowered the body and raised the tray. I circled the gurney.

Though the flesh was grotesquely distorted, the hair and skin sloughed, the genitals told me the victim was, indeed, female. Her time in the barrel had left her molded into a fetal curl.

Crazy, but the woman seemed to be shielding herself from the indignities her unnatural death would call down upon her. From me. From Miller. From the army that would gather to reconstruct the horror of her final moments, to detail the destruction wrought by her watery confinement.

Some part of me wanted to cover this woman, to protect her from the gowned figures, the glaring lights, the flashing bulbs, the gleaming instruments. But the rational part of me knew that would do her no good. Like the man on Dewees, and the man in the trees, the woman in the barrel needed a name.

I vowed to give that to her. To find the identity that would link her with the living. To end the anonymity that kept her from being mourned, from having her suffering recognized.

Working together, Miller and I eased the woman from her side to her back. I waited while Miller shot pictures. Then, using gentle pressure, we tried to manipulate the tightly clasped limbs.

"Poor gal's kinked like a cement contortionist," Miller said. "This may take muscle."

We increased our pressure. One by one, the arms yielded and we straightened them at the woman's sides.

We shifted to the legs. While Miller pushed on the right knee, I pulled on the ankle. The rigor yielded.

As the woman's leg straightened, a glob slid from her belly and settled by her hip.

Thup.

Miller voiced my thought.

"Holy hell, what's that?"

"LET'S LOWER THE OTHER LEG," I SAID.

Miller took the knee. I took the ankle. Together we unlocked and straightened the limb.

The belly was a chasm of putrefied jelly, emitting a stench that could have emptied whole villages.

Breathing through my mouth, I circled the table.

The glob was the same greasy white as the woman's flesh, but covered with silky brown wisps.