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As I drive down the street, I hear the crack of gun fire. Months ago, maybe a year, who knows, the images begin to blur, I walked this same street, piecing together the chase. They started shooting at him here. He lost control of his car here. There was still a gouge in the pavement where he flipped. And he died here. I pass it, on my way to another dead man. I give him a salute and drive on.
I see dead people. Long after the bodies are gone, their images remain in my head. The average commuter in this fine city never sees them, but as I criss-cross the freeways, the blocks, the neighborhoods, they wave to me.
Those two died at that intersection - young victims of gang violence.
She hanged herself when her husband wanted a divorce.
He shot himself in that luxury apartment when he got the doctor's report.
She was raped and strangled behind those steps.
And street by street, the faces go on. I arrive at my destination and the figurative lingering becomes physical. I can smell him long before I find his body. I've smelled worse, but he's bad enough to get my attention. We get him packaged up and on his way to the morgue, but the odor lingers. It's in my clothes. It's in my nose. I have questions that won't be answered until autopsy, but that's not what's on my mind as I drive back to the office. He's in my hair. My hair smelled like Japanese cherry blossoms this morning. Now it smells like decomposition and maggots.
The skyline of the city dances in my rearview mirror on the drive home - and he's still here, clutching my shirt, clinging to my hair, lingering on my mind.
The clouds raced across the sky and moonlight danced over her bleached skull. It dappled the leaves where clusters of bones lay like a child's pile of discarded building blocks. A forest of tiny pink flags stood in the brush to mark her bones. Bits of a brassy blond wig bearded a jaw embedded in the folds of a wet denim shirt. The bones of her foot were neatly bagged in a soggy sock pressed in the mud beside a ragged tennis shoe. Like a tiny tank, a gray roly poly pill bug crawled along her femur. Empty orbits of her skull stared back at me as I adusted the camera on the tripod. A January wind blew hair in my eyes while I focused the camera in the dark. And her patient stare gazed back through the lens as I pushed the button.
Rose
He tried to cut off her head with a butcher knife. As fate would have it, however, the knife was dull, and he was drunk, so he was forced to leave her, raped and murdered, her body intact, but not her dignity. For he left her posed as he undoubtedly saw her in his mind's eye. And that's how I found her.
I crouched over #792, just the two of us. The afternoon sun broke through the dusty glass to warm her blood-stained cheek one last time. With a long, tired sigh I asked her, "What happened? What can I do here?"
But her eyes just stared back, as vacant as the house around me. I stood up and took a moment to watch the sun. Had #792 seen it rise? I looked back at her, at curled fingers that reached toward me. No. She had not seen the sun rise.
I turned back to the sun and gave silent thanks for the warmth on my own cheek. Then I lifted the camera.
The lens catches details that are often missed by the naked eye, and I've learned the art of looking at the world, of looking at Life and Death, through that lens. I walked through the house, letting the camera guide me. And this same house, where the boots of many had already tromped, gave up her secret for the camera.
A sheet of plywood on milk crates stood in the corner of a bare bedroom. On top of that was a dirty mattress. A tumbled pile of blankets sprawled in the corner. I studied the room through the camera, one square at a time. And there it was.
Peeking out from under the plywood bed, was the handle of a butcher knife. The camera found what so many human eyes had missed.
She was probably in her 40s, with auburn hair, and the tattoo of a rose between her breasts. I saw this and declared that she would no longer be called #792, but that her name would now be "Rose." The Homicide Investigator and the Medical Examiner agreed that until we found her true name, we would call her "Rose."
Warmth crept over my own back and I turned to see the sun sinking over the trees. I moved out of the window so that for one last time, Rose would have the sun on her back. Then they zipped up her bag and took her away.
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Slither
In addition to the regular icky things that show up on crime scenes, such as blood, gore, and dead people, other yuck-like items have a way of popping in too. Today I had a body in a marshy stream by a road. The stream ran under the street by way of a large, concrete culvert. Because the body was lying in the water at the mouth of the tunnel, I had the bright idea of taking some artsy-fartsy photographs from the inside the tunnel. It didn't work out so well:
Note that afternoon sun shines through tunnel and nicely illuminates body. Have a brain fart and fancy myself a professional photographer. Almost break neck falling down steep side of opposite roadway. Wade through water to get to culvert. Note that tunnel looks MUCH longer from down here than from the street. Thread way through dead branches that are stuck in tunnel. Start snapping pictures. Ahhhh . . . I AM an artsy-fartsy professional photographer. Move closer. That's when I see the snake.
He and I scream at the same time. Snake races toward opposite end of tunnel. I have mental picture of what's going to happen when a three-foot long black snake plummets out of tunnel onto a dead body that is surrounded by investigators. Decide that I should warn them. Shout "SNAKE" rather loudly. Note that it echoes in the tunnel. If it was possible for snake to move any faster, he does.
Medical Examiner hears muffled shout and steps right into the mouth of the tunnel to check on me. Sees snake. Snake sees her. She and snake scream at the same time. Snake does an about-face! Snake is now racing back toward me. Fast. RETREAT!! With camera swinging around my neck, I turn and run like Quasimodo out of tunnel.
Fact: A scared woman will forget she is wearing a gun when she's running from a snake. Upside to Fact: Bullets pinging off concrete walls of a tunnel will probably not hit snake, but WILL piss off the people on the other side of the tunnel.
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Typical Night
My day began with murder. Actually . . . it began with a frappuccino . . . it just moved to murder.
1530 hrs: The phone rings. Sigh . . . Dead guy on the railroad tracks . . . Go check it out and decide if Homicide Investigators are needed. Sigh . . . Take last sip of frapp. At least the guy who found the body waited until I'd managed to get a sufficient dose of caffeine in my system.
1600 hrs: Dead guy on the railroad tracks. Yep . . . he's dead. Hmmmmmphf . . . looks like it might be a murder . . . glance at watch . . . glance at sky . . . looks like rain . . . load a tape in video camera.
1620 hrs: Take short movie to document crime scene . . . occasionally feel sorry for investigator/judge/jury/lawyers/spectators who may have to take Dramamine to view movie. (I don't see Spielberg hiring me any time soon.) Continue to film . . . focus on body . . . focus on flies . . . focus on tattoos . . . trip over railroad tie . . .
1640 hrs: Begin to photograph scene. Walk to intersection 500 feet away to begin shooting. Snap . . . snap . . . oh shit! Am almost hit by car . . . snap snap . . . notice partner who is beside dead guy waving his arms excitedly. Hmmmmm . . . what would cause Old Fart to behave so strangely? Hmmmm . . . notice train light in distance . . . notice heavy rain coming our way fast. Oh shit . . . we're about to get wet . . . or run over . . . or both . . . Snap . . . snap . . . snapsnapsnapsnap . . . snap . . . . Run down tracks toward body . . . snap . . . trip . . . stumble . . . snap . . . stumble . . . snap . . . Beat rain to body . . . snap . . . snap . . . snapsnapsnapsnap . . . Note that train in distance is not moving . . . Oh yeah . . . duh! Union Pacific is holding up all trains until body is removed . . .
Rain arrives . . . grab up the most fragile evidence before the rain washes away the blood . . . SAVE THE CAMERA!!!!!
Go to truck for umbrella . . . shoot pictures in rain . . . wonder at the joys of automatic focus . . . Weeeeeeeeeeeeee . . . happy me . . . automatic focus allows me to shoot with only one hand since other hand is busy holding umbrella.
Rain stops. More Railroad investigators appear . . . Homicide investigator arrives . . . Medical examiner arrives . . . M.E. turns body over to allow a more thorough investigation. Hmmm . . . victim is a Poor Dresser. Lesson for the Day: Friends and Neighbors, NEVER go out in public wearing clothing you wouldn't want to be seen dead in.
Watch them bag body and appreciate the fact that we don't work for M.E.'s office. Nope . . . bagging bodies is NOT in my job description. Wonder what Old Fart and I are eating for lunch.
Inform Old Fart that Princess is now HUNGRY and wishes to eat before we start report. Old Fart is also hungry. Decide that only sick people discuss lunch while others are bagging a body. Shrug . . . go eat barbecue.
2000 hrs: Get call on Stinker in Apartment. Crap! (Still working on murder!) Crapcrapcrap! Crapity crap crap crap! Oh well . . . save report in computer and drive to Stinker . . .
Yep . . . it's a stinker. Body has decomposed to point where gases have swelled him up and he looks like the Michelin Man. Note that he is leaking and making really loud freaking noises. Old Fart snickers at me and backs out of room with hand over his mouth and nose. Want to follow Old Fart outside. Sounds like body is about to burst so "Make it quick!" Old Fart stays outside while I snap pictures. Holy Shit . . . all that noise IS coming from the dead guy. Imagine this: a tea kettle just about to blow, rice crispies in milk, the boards of a ship creaking . . . THAT'S WHAT A BLOATED DEAD GUY SOUNDS LIKE!!!! (As God is my witness . . . I have never shot pictures so fast in my life.) That, Friend, is stress . . . Focus . . . shoot . . . snap . . . creak . . . whistle . . . whine . . . focus/shoot . . . snap . . . creak . . . whistle . . . whine . . . focus/shoot/focus/shoot/focus/shoot . . . creak . . . whistle . . . whine . . . creak . . . fly lands on head . . . . fuck focus! . . . just shoot! Shoot/shoot/shoot/shoot . . .
Go outside with Old Fart . . . Sit in air-conditioned truck with Old Fart and shoot him ugly looks while he giggles at me. Watch Medical Examiner and Body Car attendants come down to get stretcher. Old Fart and I thank Everything That Is Holy that we do not have to load Body That Is About To Pop onto that stretcher. Sit in air-conditioned truck and decide that I stink. Smell very much like Stinker upstairs. Watch M.E. and Body Car attendants come back down with dead guy in very large red body bag. Note that they have abandoned stretcher and are bumping him down the stairs. Old Fart points out that bag is filled with liquid and is behaving accordingly. Thank God again that we don't have to do that and decide that NO AMOUNT OF MONEY could induce us to take on that job. Note that M.E. and Body Car Attendants are slightly green. As we roll out of parking lot, Old Fart rolls down window and advises M.E. that he is doing a fine job. At that point, I greatly appreciate the fact that Medical Examiners are not armed.
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Birthdays
Nothing makes you more aware of your own mortality than standing over the body of a woman who was born on your birthday. It happens from time to time and never fails to get my attention. As if this woman and I shared birthday cake and blew out candles together, I felt a connection with her. The ceiling fan whacked a rhythm as I stood over my Birthday Soul Sister and once more, pondered Life and Death. The rhythm was broken by the insistent ringing of her cell phone. The word was out -- she was dead. It's an interesting phenomenon. Upon hearing word of an untimely death, friends and family will repeatedly call the deceased. It is never pleasant to confirm their fears and often, like the emotional coward I am, I let it ring. But today we needed to contact the next of kin. The phone rang again. The medical examiner and I locked eyes. The phone continued to ring. And with much regret, it was answered.
"Hello?"
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The sycamore leaves
She stared at me with vacant eyes. I ignored her and continued to work. Letting the camera guide me, I shot my way into the scene. The sycamore leaves above us rattled in the wind. It was cold and I didn't want to be here. Another victim of the drug war, she lay curled on the pavement with a backpack by her side.
In our business, we must distance ourselves from the dead; it's the only way to survive. And as cruel as it sounds, while the camera snapped, she was a piece of furniture, another dead prostitute. I ignored her vacant eyes as she watched me.
Her dirty fingers still clutched the strap of a stained and dusty backpack. I gently tugged it free. The zipper snagged as I pulled it open. Even as I went through the contents, my mind was elsewhere. I'd done all this before. With just a touch, I could identify each item even before I pulled it out. People who live on the streets carry the same things -- a toothbrush, a disposable razor, a dirty hairbrush, a tiny bar of soap wrapped in toilet paper. . .
None of this interested me. And then I felt it . . .
Inside a plastic shopping bag, inside a plastic bread bag, covered with a blue bandana, was something that made me pause. It had a bit of heft to it. Carefully, I peeled away the wrappings to reveal this Thing that was so precious to her, this Thing that she went to such trouble to protect -- and it humbled me.
As the cloth fell to the pavement, she became a person. No longer a piece of furniture, she was a young woman, a victim of society, a victim of circumstance. I stood over her and for a moment, I stared into her empty eyes. Who was she? What were her hopes? Her dreams?
The wind whistled through the sycamore leaves as I carefully placed a battered copy of Webster's Dictionary into the evidence bag.
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As I walked across the breezeway to McDonald's, he wrote a note in his journal. The cashier handed me a burger and fries as he opened his patio door. The welcome scent of a warm meal perfumed the elevator on my ride back up. He opened the glass door and stood there, taking in the skyline. I stood at my desk and opened the bag. He pulled a wicker table to the balcony wall. I pulled my chair to my desk. He peeked over the edge. I peeked into the bag. I pulled a fry out as he pulled himself onto the wall. And as the sweet, salty goodness of a warm French fry exploded in my mouth, he jumped.
I finished my burger as the first police car arrived, a mere two blocks from my office. And thirty minutes later, I stood over his body and wondered what he was thinking as I was eating French fries.
Death Notifications
While my job may entail a lot of unpleasantries, giving a death notification is simply not in the job description. Crime Scene Investigators are only concerned with the evidence, not the people. That sounds good on paper, but in reality, it doesn't work that way. In some cases my arrival is enough to give the death notification. The words "Crime Scene Unit" emblazoned on the truck pretty much remove all doubt.
No one actually wants to give a death notification. Like a game of Hot Potato, the responsibility is bounced around until someone gets brave enough to swallow their gut and do it. Most of the time, we punt it to the Medical Examiner. It's sad really. The problem is that for all their bravado, police officers are just like everyone else - they don't like to see someone's heart ripped out. This can manifest itself in several ways. Most often, officers want to pass the buck. I've been guilty of this on numerous occasions, and it's never a proud moment for me. A tearful group of family members approaches the crime scene tape and they want to know if your body is their loved one. You will try to dodge the question by telling them that you don't have a "positive identification" yet. At this point they will try to give you a detailed physical description that perfectly describes your body. Their tearful eyes will search yours, pleading. You know it, and they know it, but they need to hear it. And this is where most of us drop the ball.
Some officers become gruff, repeat themselves, and walk further inside the crime scene tape, leaving grieving family members hurt and confused. While I don't condone it, I understand it. Over the years I've seen how this scene plays out. With positive confirmation, more family and friends will arrive, and the scene can get out of hand. This is the reason we tell ourselves that we delay giving a death notification, but the cold, hard reality is that like everyone else, we flat-out don't want to be the person to fullfill someone's nightmare.
I watched this sad drama play out again this week. A couple approached me, their eyes brimming with tears, and with trembling lips, they begged me to tell them what the dark shadow filling their stomach already whispered. A patrol officer attempted to brush them aside. His efforts came across as rude. I know him. I know the pain he's suffered in his personal life. He's really not the callous, indifferent man they saw. While I didn't agree with his actions, I understood them. What happened next really made an impression.
There was a young man training with me. He wants to be a crime scene investigator. He is bright, eager to learn, and already a big help on scenes. Without waiting for a cue from me, this young man placed his hand on the shoulder of the grieving man and steered him away from the other officer. While some may call this young man a Rookie, I was moved by his compassion for others, which marked him as so much more than a Rookie. He patiently explained why we were unable give them the news they so desperately sought. While it still delayed the inevitable, this young man took the time for a moment of kindness. He kept his scene secure, he bought himself a little more time, and in some small way, he assured them that someone cared. And perhaps that is the best we can do. We cannot take away the pain, but we certainly don't want to add to it. For this day will forever be etched in the minds of that couple.
I applaud the young man's maturity and compassion. May I never become so jaded that I lose that.
What They Don't Show on Television
On television the CSIs are always so cool. The camera pans as they smoothly remove their sunglasses and squint down at their evidence. They are so cool. They are soooo fake.
In reality CSIs are much different. Oh, we probably have our cool moments, but for the most part, last night was a pretty good represenation of exactly how cool we're not. It was hot. I was sweating. I wasn't glowing. I wasn't perspiring. I was sweating. I was coughing. My nose was running. (It's not cool if you drip on a body.) I don't think I've ever seen a television CSI with a head cold. I have a new supervisor. The scene was complicated, so he came along to help. It's the first time we've ever worked together. We bonded over a tape measure.
A murder scene is diagrammed in order to present a two-dimensional version of the scene for the jury. I use a fancy laser for many of the measurements, but curtains, mirrors and furniture can get in the way, so many times I have to resort to the tried and true - the tape measure. The Home Depot special! Bright yellow!
In real life the CSI looks less like "tank tops and sunglasses" and more like Tim "Tool Time" Taylor from Home Improvement. My tape measure is getting a little old. The end was a bit torn around the two inch mark. It wouldn't roll all the way up any more, so for more than a year, I have just worked around that little quirk. I mean, really, why buy a new $30 tape measure just because the last two inches won't roll up? (I learned why last night!)
My new sergeant was holding one end of the tape measure while I stood on the far side of a room with the opposite end. We took our measurement and I informed him that he could "let 'er go!" And he did. And that sucker zoomed back at me like a freight train and disappeared completely into the yellow case. No problem. I could just pull it back out. Nope. Like a turtle sucked up in its shell, that tape measure wasn't coming out. (They don't have this problem on television. On television there are not ten people in an apartment waiting on the CSI to get finished.) Soooo . . . I yanked on that puppy.
And the end popped off. What the ***K! I stood there holding the last two inches of tape measure, while the rest of it hid like a turtle in a bright yellow case. Ladies & Gentlemen, that's when I started cussing. Fortunately my new sergeant is old-school and has no problem with supervising sailors.
He looked at it. Then he cussed. They just don't show this stuff on television! Gil Grissom has never, to the best of my knowledge, gotten into a verbal altercation with a tape measure! Why don't they show that? That's real! So then we got the bright idea to take the case apart so we could pull the end of the tape out. Sounded good in theory. We trotted to the truck in search of a screwdriver. Now keep in mind, once we close the door on the home and head for the truck, throngs of on-lookers and media are watching our every move. (It is annoying, but there is nothing we can do about it. Frankly, if they want to stand out for six hours in flip-flops and watch me walk back and forth to the truck, then so be it. These people clearly need more to do in their lives.) So we walked to the truck. And we searched for a screwdriver.
Believe it or not, a Ford Expedition can be completely filled with equipment and you still will not be able to find a scewdriver the right size. (But we entertained multitudes of people with our search.) That's when we discovered that my pocket knife would work. Wooo hoo! We were back in business. Maybe. Do you know what happens when you open the case on a tape measure? We didn't. The crowd found it quite amusing.
When the last screw is removed and you begin to lift up the case, the tape will unwind like a giant metal snake - loudly. You will try to clamp the case back down, but alas, the yellow snake will continue to unwind. It is hard to look professional while cussing a 30 foot long metal snake. Trying to get it back together is like trying to stuff the genie back in the bottle - fruitless, but again, it entertained the crowd. (I guess you might as well get some kind of show when you stand around in flip-flops for hours.) But it didn't stop there.
We are nothing if not determined, and since we couldn't find another tape measure in the truck, we were desperate. Well, desperate times call for desperate measures! Mindful of our audience, we trapped the bulk of the tape in the case and stomped back to the apartment. Inside, we painstakingly rolled that sucker back into the case. Instead of screwing the case shut, my sergeant held the case clamped tight in his bear-paw hands and we carefully finished the measurements we needed. After that, he set the tape measure on a table in the living room . . . where it waited like a cobra in basket. And that's where the Medical Examiner found it.
We were actually in another room when we heard it - the familiar racket of a yellow metal snake unwinding and the short bark of a very surprised man in glasses. It was funnier when he did it than when we did it. I noted that he managed to refrain from cussing up a blue streak though. Perhaps he's higher up the Evolutionary Ladder than we are, or maybe he just hasn't learned all the good words yet. Time on the streets will teach you all sorts of new languages. It's actually kind of a pity that it happened inside the apartment. The Flip-Flop Crowd would have loved it.
As I have explained to you many times before, despite what television would have you believe, it takes more than a handsome Homicide Detective and a sexy CSI to work a murder. There is an entire cast of characters working behind the scenes of every death. Too often, the glowing accolades go to the wrong people.
Let me tell you about a most humble man . . .
For the sake of his privacy, I'll call him Mr. Bartlett. I ALWAYS address him as Mr. Bartlett despite the fact that we are probably the same age. He is my hero and I give him the utmost respect that he has earned over countless dead men. Mr. Bartlett's job is to pick up the dead bodies and transport them to the morgue. Hollywood doesn't tend to showcase this job, or when they do, they depict a creepy, slow-witted Renfield sort of creature - someone strong and too dumb or too weird to be bothered by this gruesome task. Mr. Bartlett is none of these things.
He is a most delightful person who sweeps into a crime scene like a breath of fresh air. Despite the fact that the corspe before him has decomposed into the carpet, is wedged behind a bathroom door, and weighs 250 lbs, Mr. Bartlett never fails to maintain his good humor. As he picks up bodies that the flesh is literally falling off the bone, he does it with a patient smile, and I marvel, and gag a little.
Yesterday I said to him, "You never seem to get down. You keep everyone else cheery. You are my hero. How do you do it?"
He gave me a smile and said the most profound thing.
"I see fewer flies."
And with that, he went inside to pick up the man who'd been dead so long that he'd been eaten by his dog.
I chewed on those words a while and decided that perhaps that was the wisest thing I'd ever heard. Perhaps the world would be a much brighter place if we just concentrated on the good around us, and saw "fewer flies."
I didn't need the crime scene tape, my nose led the way. As if the smell couldn't tell me, a flurry of flies announced that I had arrived. She'd been hidden there in the tall grass until Decomposition pointed an ugly finger in her direction.
In this neighborhood, people are quick to recognize the smell for what it is - Death. Hers was a particularly ugly, violent death. Decomposition is never kind, but her insect activity suggested many wounds. I stood over her, ignored the gore, and let the maggots talk. Gobs of rice-like inchworms clung and crawled thick in isolated areas of her arms, belly, and side. Bugs always hit the openings first, and she must have had a lot of openings. Waves of maggots rippled across her face, giving the surreal impression that she was moving.
At first glance, she was a monster, a maggot-ridden Medusa. But as my eyes moved across her body, I looked past the maggots, past the bloating, past the smell, and I saw her fingers. Although they were slightly mummified, baking in the sunlight was a fresh manicure. On a base of bright pink thumbnails, tiny flowers proudly waved at me. She was wearing one tennis shoe. A dirty sock dangled from her other foot. There, peeking from beneath the sock, another flower waved at me from the pink base of a toe. A maggot inched his way across the toe, but the manicured flower continued to shine.
This was no monster. This creature at my feet had been a living, breathing woman, who not long ago, sat in a chair, picked out her color, and chose flowers for her toes. I stood there, taking it all in. A wildflower beside her body caught my eye. For a moment, I looked past the gore and sighed. Then I lifted my camera and began.
The body lay sprawled in the parking lot between the taco stand and a row of flea market tables. With apartment complexes on three sides of the scene, the crowd pressed closely at the yellow tape. They had just come home from work and this was Reality Television at its finest. The camera crews got their film footage and their sound bite so they had just packed up their gear and rolled away. I was hot; I was tired; I was hungry. It was already getting dark. As I walked near the edge of the parking lot, a plaintive voice called over the tape.
"Miss Officer! Miss Officer! Hey! Come 'ere!"
Most of the time I ignore spectators, but something about this guy reminded me of a cat on the front porch, yelling for attention, so I took a step in his direction.
"Yes?"
"Hey, Miss Officer! How much longer you gonna be?"
This puzzled me. What did he care?
"I dunno. I'm still waiting on the Medical Examiner's Office to come pick up the body."
He frowned. "So how long's that gonna take?"
A crowd of men gathered around him. Clearly he was their spokesman.
"I dunno. They're working on a drowning now. They'll get here when they get here."
He translated and there was much frowning and groaning. This had me more intrigued than the dead guy going into rigor on the pavement.
So I asked him, "What's the deal?"
And that's when he enlightened me.
Drum roll please . . .
"We just got off work. We want to know how long before you move the dead guy so the taco stand can open back up."
From time to time I will see an image and not be able to get it out of my head. The image will haunt me. Last night I saw something that still claws at my heart. You look at another CSI's computer at your own risk. There's a lot of gore on a CSI computer. Gore never bothers me. Expressions bother me, the face of an abused child in the Emergency Room, the stunned wife covered in her husband's blood. But last night, it was a dog.
This was an old case and he'd kept the photos because they touched him like they touched me. We were looking for something else when we stumbled upon them, and they were both the most beautiful, and yet, the saddest photos I've ever seen. The dog's master lay dead. I didn't ask about the details. If he was there, the man had been murdered. That's all I know. That's all I want to know. A small brown dog lay beside the body. His eyes told it all - eyes filled with fear, confusion, and yet, he patiently waited beside his master. Murder scenes take a long time to process. In shot after shot, the little dog was there, waiting. He stood beside the medical examiner's stretcher, overseeing the examination of the body. He peered into the body bag as they zipped his master up.
And the photo that touched me the most, and still brings tears to my eyes, was the image of a little brown dog, curled up on a white sheet - the white sheet that had just been removed from the body of his master.
When Senator George Graham Vest was arguing a court case over the death of a dog, he said, "The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous, is his DOG. A man's dog stands by him in prosperity and in poverty, in health and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he can be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer, he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wing and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens. If fortune drives the master forth an outcast into the cold, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him to guard him against danger, and to fight against his enemies. And when the last scene of all comes, and death takes his master in its embrace and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by his graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws and his eyes sad, but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true even to death.
Senator George Graham Vest, 1870
Moral dilemmas have a way of seeking me out. Admittedly, my job puts me in the position of seeing more, thus more dilemmas are thrust upon me. One would think, after all this time, I'd have a harder heart, but that simply isn't the case. If anything, I'm more attuned to the suffering in this world now, and life is even more precious.
Which leads us to last night. Other Half and I met for dinner. On our way into the restaurant he pointed out a little yellow dog laying by the street sign at the intersection. The dog looked like a homeless man, all he needed was a sign. Other Half told me that the dog and his owner are regulars at this intersection and the owner had been arrested last night.
I was aghast. This poor little dog was all alone, and here he was waiting for his master in the spot where he knew his master would come. It moved me.
Thus began the dilemma. We couldn't take the dog. The dog had an owner. The owner was in jail for public intoxication. That would mean he'd probably be out in one day. But a day is a long time on the streets. If we took the dog to the authorities, he'd end up in "puppy prison" and would undoubtedly be euthanized. Was it actually kinder to leave him here on the streets? What to do? What to do?
Other Half pointed out that this dog was very street wise and would probably not get hit by a car. So we decided that the best thing for Old Yella was to give him a good meal, say a little prayer, and leave him alone. So we gave him the roast beef and cornbread that we'd set aside for his patrol dog, Oli.
 Mmmmm, roast beef & cornbread!
 It was much appreciated.
 But suddenly . . . .
. . . his patience and my prayers were rewarded.
 . . . and he left the roast beef
. . . to scamper across the street to meet his master.
He danced circles around the old man and barked a happy greeting.
 . . . and not once . . .
. . . did he look back.
My eyes got a little misty.
George Graham Vest was certainly right. "The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful, or treacherous, is his dog."
Awkward
The carpet was so plush that I had the overwhelming desire to take off my boots and wriggle my toes in it. Even the air in a high rise luxury building just smelled better - or maybe that was the eucalyptus. As we walked down the hallway brass placards marked each room. Perfectly manicured plants sat in the corners like obedient dogs.
The elevator dinged and we stepped inside. The mirrored walls gleamed with an absence of smeared fingerprints. I stared at my reflection. What a contrast. People who live in luxury apartments have hair that "cascades" down their back. My hair had escaped the clip and, plastered with sweat, was hanging down in droopy tendrils. It wasn't flattering.
The elevator dinged again and we stopped. The door slid open to reveal two elderly women. Even at this hour, their creases were pressed, their make-up was flawless. Aristocratic eyes swept across us. I tossed a stray strand of hair out of my eye and stared back at them in silence. This was awkward.
Upper class eyebrows crawled up their foreheads but no one said a word as the elevator door closed again. The medical examiner and I turned to each other and shared a blue collar smile. The three of us continued our journey. When the elevator dinged again. We had reached our destination, and as the door opened, we rolled our body into the hallway. The plush carpet crushed under my boot and the smell of eucalyptus faded as we rolled away.
Professor Puppy's CSI Tutorials:
Grrreetings Class! Today we will talk about rigor mortis. It's the reason bodies are often referred to as "stiffs!" Since this is Kindergarten Crime Scene, we won't go into all the chemical reasons behind why the body turns stiff after death. In a nutshell, when your body stops breathing, your cells no longer receive oxygen. Without oxygen, the cells get a build-up of calcium ions, causing the muscles to stiffen. This continues until the muscle proteins start to break down during decomposition.
Even that explanantion is a bit complicated. Sooo . . . . to make it even simpler. When you die, you stop breathing and start to stiffen up. This stiffening is gradual. It takes a while. The stiffening isn't permanent either. There are a LOT of factors which affect rigor mortis, but in general, we say 12 hours in, 12 hours out. (And now that I've told you that, I'll tell you why it isn't true!)
Temperature affects it. You stiffen faster and go out of rigor faster in warmer temperatures. Cold temperatures slow it down. Physical exertion prior to death speeds it up. If you were jogging and dropped dead, you'd stiffen up a lot faster. It also happens faster in folks with low muscle mass, like old people or children. It happens more slowly in fat people. There are MANY factors to consider when using rigor mortis to determine how long a body has been dead.
There's also a pattern to the process of rigor mortis. The stiffening tends to take place in the smaller muscles in the upper part of the body first, and then travel down the body. That means the face and head. It becomes noticable first in the eyes, mouth, and jaw. (This is why they used to put coins in the eyes of the deceased to keep them closed!) The process proceeds for 12 to 18 hours until the body is literally "stiff as a board." Then it gradually goes away. The muscle proteins break down and the body loosens up again.
Now, how does that affect my job?
Like post mortem lividity, rigor mortis is a good way of telling me if my body has been moved. Rigor mortis DOES give you a pretty accurate picture of the POSITION of the body when it stiffened up. If I come in the room, and Grandpa is lying on his back with his arms in the air, I'm gonna assume that someone moved Grandpa. If Grandpa is stiff as a board, and you tell me he was watching Oprah in the recliner just two hours ago, it's gonna raise my eyebrows a little.
When considering the factors that affect it, rigor mortis still gives a "rough" time of death (really rough). Although I don't put a lot of emphasis on it, rigor mortis is still something to consider when you look at a crime scene.
NOW . . . to make this FARM related! (This is not for the faint of heart. No joke. Not kidding.) But it's a useful tip if like us, you are faced with the often heartwrenching realities of living on a farm.
Rigor is definitely something to consider when you have to bury large farm animals like horses or cows because it determines how big the hole has to be. I've heard horror stories about friends having to break legs (it makes me shudder inside). It grosses me out and I won't go into detail. I'm sure you get the picture. Because I know that rigor mortis is a natural state of decomposition, I accept that I will have to deal with this when putting down large farm animals. Because there is often a delay between the time you must put them down and the time you can get a backhoe out to the farm, things are a lot easier for everyone if you don't try to fight biology. Use some hay string to tie legs in a fetal position when the body is still flexible (just until you get them in the hole). To some folks it doesn't matter, but to me, an old horse is an old friend, and I will treat accordingly.
Okay, enough of that! To conclude, like post mortem lividity (also called livor mortis!), rigor mortis is a natural state of decomposition and a useful tool at crime scenes.
Today we will talk about hangings. (Please forgive for the sick Christmas humor! That was pretty bad.) This is really Yuck stuff anyway though, and a great deal of humor is required if one is to get through it. With that said, let's forge ahead!
When I'm called to a hanging my first question will be, "Is this a suicide?"
Most hangings ARE suicides. My job is to look at the body and determine if my dead guy, (let's call him "Fred" today!) really committed suicide or if someone murdered Fred and staged it to LOOK like a suicide.
So let's say I walk into the room, and there's Fred, hanging by the chimney with care. (Excuse me again!) Fred is suspended from the balcony railing by a rope. Okie Dokie. The very first thing I look at is how the rope is wrapped around his neck. Most true hangings produce a classic V-shaped pattern in the neck. There will be a void where the rope doesn't have contact with the neck and everything else will have a groove where the rope dug into Fred's neck.
I will not be concerned too much at first if I see that Fred's hands are tied. Believe it or not, some people go to great lengths to keep themselves from "saving themselves" if they decide, "Crap! This hurts! I change my mind!"
If Fred is hanging beside a stool, he probably just stepped off the stool, rather than doing a swan dive off the balcony. While it doesn't rule out murder, it is something to look for. I'm also gonna examine the balcony. Does it look like a struggle took place? Does it look like Fred willingly Peter Pan'd or did he have help getting over that railing?
Did Fred have health problems or a history of suicide attempts in the past? Contrary to the popular myth that people who talk about suicide don't actually COMMIT suicide, most people who kill themselves have talked about it and have tried several times in the past. In addition to the physical evidence, it's also nice to know that Fred was having an affair with his secretary and her husband is a 6'5" hulk who has recently stopped attending his Anger Management Classes.
What's another thing I'm going to look for, Class? You there! You in the back! Answer the question! What is another thing (that we've talked about) that I will be looking for?
YES! We will look at Fred's post mortem lividity pattern! Where did his blood settle when he died?
When we take Fred down, we'll be very careful to secure the rope, careful not to disturb the way it's wrapped or tied around his neck. Once Fred is lying beside the Christmas tree, we'll start looking a bit closer at his lividity pattern. Let's say the room initially looked like Fred tied a rope around the railing, put a stool under it, stepped on the stool, tied the rope around his neck, and then tied his hands with the rest of the rope, before he stepped off the stool. If this is the case, what should Fred's lividity pattern look like?
You there! Sleeping in the back! Yes, you!
CORRECT! Fred should have pooled blood in his legs! (and maybe an eggplant face)
We lift Fred's clothing and guess what! Fred's blood is pooled and fixed along his back. There is no classic V-shaped groove around Fred's neck where the rope is tied. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . . Fred just got a lot more interesting.
Now would be a good time to check out the secretary's husband who has booked a flight to Barbados for Christmas.
Grrreetings, class! Today we will talk about insect activity on a body. Say it together, class, "Ewwwwwwwwwwwww!"
Depending upon your climate, insect activity (that's a nice way of saying "maggot infestation") on your body can happen pretty quickly. I won't go into the kinds of bugs that appear first and all that--this is a Kindergarten Crime Scene Class. Again, I'm not trying to be condescending, I really THINK in those terms. Most of us are not Forensic Entomologists. When a scene calls for that kind of scientist, we can certainly call one in for assistance. (I just love bug people!)
Maggots are really the larval stage of flies. They are not the only insect to show up on a body. For our purposes though, they're the insects we'll focus on for today.
So where was I? OH! We were talking about insect activity in bodies! The point I want to stress for this lesson is that insects (maggots) tend to gather around openings in the body, i.e., the nose, ears, eyes, mouth and genitals. This is a given. So . . . when you see a body that has insect activity in the chest cavity, there's a good bet that there is a HOLE in the chest caviity where the little boogers got started. Class, what causes holes in the chest? RIGHT! Bullets and knives! (and hammers, hatchets, machetes, shotgun pellets, and so on, but you get the point.) If you see a body with lots of insect activity in places where they really shouldn't have it yet, you need to look a little closer. The death that on the surface looks like a natural, could be a murder!
And our quote for the day comes from Clifton Fadiman:
"The biochemist J.B.S. Haldane was engaged in discussion with an eminent theologian, "What inference," asked the latter, "might one draw about the nature of God from a study of his works?" Haldane replied, "An inordinate fondness for beetles."
(Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!!)
Say it fast! Post mortem lividity! Has a certain ring to it, doesn't it? Nah, not really. But, it is the bread-and-butter to much of what I do. In kindergarten terms, (and I don't say this to be condescending, I just happen to THINK in kindergarten terms!) post mortem lividity means "where your blood settles when you die" (and for those of you who live in Inner-City Anywhere, the answer is not "on the sidewalk").
Back to our lesson . . .
When you die, your heart stops pumping blood, so blood stops moving around your body. Slowly, it begins to settle to the lowest parts. So if you die laying face-up in your bed, your blood will settle in your back, the back of your arms, the back of your legs, etc. If you hang yourself, the blood will settle in your feet (except for the blood that's trapped in your head by the rope you're hanging from). Then you can end up with an eggplant-colored face. (I know . . . say it together, class, "Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwww!")
Since this is kindergarten, there are only two things we need to know: lividity pattern and whether the pattern is "fixed."
When blood settles to the bottom, it stays there. After it's there for a long time, the pattern becomes "fixed," i.e., when you press your finger into the skin, the skin doesn't blanch much. Try this on your hand right now . . . push your finger deep into the skin. The skin will blanch (turn white) as the blood moves away from the pressure. If the lividity pattern is fixed or close to fixed, the blood won't want to move, so the skin won't blanch much. Whether or not the pattern is fixed helps us to determine how long you've been dead.
Another thing that's important about lividity patterns is "blanching pattern," because although the blood will settle to the lowest part of the body, it often doesn't settle at points of contact with hard objects. For instance, if you are lying on your back, there will often be light spots where there is very little blood, such as on your butt cheeks or shoulder blades.
A fixed lividity pattern is a wonderful way for a quick check on whether or not your body has been moved. For instance, let's say you died face-down in bed. The blood will settle where? Yes! In your tummy and the fronts of your legs and arms and your face! Again, we're talking about the possibility of an eggplant-face here. I know . . . get it out of your system. "Ewwwwwwwwwww!"
And let's say, you're lying there, (minding your own business) when someone finds you. They freak out. (People do that when they find dead people.) Then they call 911. Now you've been lying there, dead, for a while. You've got an eggplant-face, but the 911 dispatcher will often still tell the person to put you on a hard surface, (i.e., the floor) and turn you face-up to do CPR. (Important note: CPR doesn't work on people who have been dead so long they have an eggplant-face.)
Eventually, I end up there (it's my JOB) and I see that you have an eggplant-face, and it looks like you have a horrendous sunburn or bruising on the front of your body with white spots on your knees. I KNOW you have been turned over. Depending on the situation, this may, or may not be a problem. Sometimes people move a body for completely innocent reasons, they cut down folks who are hanging, or they try CPR on folks who are already long-dead. Other times, folks move a body to change or conceal a crime scene. Part of my job is to figure out IF a body had been moved, and if so, why.
And that . . . is your Forensic Lesson of the Day! (Clear as mud, right?) I wanted to provide photographs, but obviously I couldn't use pictures from my own files, and wonder of wonders, the internet wasn't filled with tasteful photos of post mortem lividity patterns (now that's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one! There is no such thing as a "tasteful lividity pattern" photograph!) Anyway . . . here is Professor Puppy to teach Kindergarten Crime Scene!
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Email: failte@farmfreshforensics.com
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