A day that began as one filled with optimism and great expectation, has tragically morphed into a scenario with which I am far more familiar than I would prefer to be. I have stumbled upon a truly gruesome sight, that of a decaying human corpse. Adding further insult is the matter of its location—smack in the middle of what was once a pristine body of water whose enjoyment will likely no longer be mine.
The body appears to be female, but I’m just guessing. If not, it’s probably not a large male. Most of the flesh is in a state of extreme decay. Large pieces are missing, probably eaten by scavenging animals. The face is mostly gone, as is most of the hair. It’s not a pretty sight. Without extensive lab analysis, a body found in this state of decay is virtually impossible to identify. There can be no certainty even to the body’s gender, much less its ethnic origin, or age. Lacking documents such as a driver’s license or credit cards, authorities must rely upon forensic tests to determine whose body has been found. In most cases where these items are missing, dental records tend to be the most reliable form of identification—next to DNA. Fortunately, the upper and lower jaw are intact, so we’ll have something for forensics to work with in that regard. It will take exhaustive testing to determine age and sex. But, eventually, we will know both.
When a human body decays, there is a process of self-digestion that takes place whereby enzymes contained within a body’s cells begin to go into a post death meltdown. This process can be speeded up by extreme heat and likewise slowed down by extreme cold. Judging by the condition of the body before me, I suspect that the latter has occurred. Otherwise, the remains before me would be nothing but bones and a few scraps of cartilage. If forced to speculate further, I would guess that the person represented here by this collection of bones and scant flesh, met his or her demise sometime in the late fall.
Contrary to popular belief, a body submerged under water will actually be preserved far longer than one left above ground, where it is exposed to animals, insects, and the ravages of the elements.
Suddenly very weary, I turn from the water and make my way back to the Jeep. My first instinct is to call my old partner, Chris Freitag, but that wouldn’t make very much sense; I use my recently installed police radio to call EMS instead.
Then, I call one of my two police officers, Rick Dawley, and tell him to get his ass out here as fast as he can.
“And, Rick,” I say, “bring lots of crime scene tape. We don’t want anybody within a mile of this place.” The orders are probably unnecessary, but I’m not leaving anything to chance. This isn’t exactly a run-of-the-mill occurrence, here in “Pleasantville, USA.” Rick assures me that he understands and promises to hurry, and I agree to meet him out on the main road. “I’ll be the one with the fucking waders on.”
It seems that the one thing we cops never lose is our sense of humor. It’s the most important defense mechanism we possess. I just wish I didn’t have to rely upon it so often.
In less than fifteen minutes, I make out the flashing blue lights of the town’s red and gold EMS vehicle approaching in the distance. It glides silently up Bear Spring Mountain Road, absent the usual sound of its siren, and in no apparent hurry to retrieve the cargo that awaits it. What else can the collection of bones and scant flesh be called? It surely doesn’t make sense to call it a “body,” at least not in the privacy of my mind. Not really. After all, when we think of a corpse, we envision a person—someone recently alive and breathing. This object is so far removed from that image as to be nearly undistinguishable. Naturally, I would never utter these thoughts in public.
Not far behind the big, squared-off GMC, comes Rick in his old ’92 Ford Bronco with an add-on light bar that he purchased off a police equipment website. Our budget only allows for one patrol car, and that’s mine. Today, however, it sits in Joe Chesler’s garage, out near Livingston Manor, undergoing its six-month scheduled maintenance. My other officer, Bob Walker, uses a ’95 Nissan Pathfinder, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by local veterans who bust his balls constantly. They don’t approve of vehicles other than those made in the U.S.A. But, Bob puts up with the bullshit, since the Pathfinder gets better gas mileage than Rick’s Bronco, and both get reimbursed for miles logged, not for actual cost of operation. The fact that it is painted a chartreuse green just serves to antagonize the locals further.
I motion for the EMS personnel to pull their truck off the pavement and onto the gravel pathway. Rick parks the Bronco on the shoulder, on the opposite side of the road, and quickly crosses to where I’m standing. He’s a large man, but he carries himself erect, and has the bearing of the athlete he was, as a standout fullback for the football team at nearby Walton High School, too many years ago to recall. They still have pictures of him plastered on the back wall of the trophy case, but nobody makes the connection. He moves with the grace and agility of a much smaller man, despite tipping the scales at well over two-hundred pounds. He wears his medium-brown hair short, parted, and combed to one side, the right – similar to his political bent.
“Floater, huh?” he says, slightly out of breath from running across the highway. I reflect that Rick’s been watching too many episodes of Law & Order.
“More like a clinger,” I answer. What the hell? May as well go with the flow. “Poor bastard—what’s left of him or her—was wrapped around some rocks. It’s a miracle the bones are still together.”
Rick shakes his head. He’s not totally insensitive, just heavily armored.
“Did you bring lots of yellow tape, like I asked you to?”
“Yeah. I brought four rolls.”
“Good. I don’t want anybody anywhere near this crime scene until we’ve had a chance to climb all over it. Chances are, unless somebody comes out of the woodwork looking for ‘Uncle Bob,’ we’re gonna need to find something. And, the less things get disturbed, the better.”
Harry Wheatley and Charlie Marra are wearing rubber chest waders, their hands encased in thick, waterproof gloves, as they wade carefully into the stream toward the remains. Charlie carries a white body bag over his shoulder, and moves slowly into position below the pile of rocks that holds the human debris in place.
“Alright, Harry. Be real careful, and kinda push the whole thing towards me. I’ll steer it into the bag.”
No one could ever accuse Charlie of being overly considerate of the dead. A former firefighter from the Albany area, he’s seen enough burned and mutilated corpses to last a lifetime. Harry, on the other hand, is still a bit squeamish; he’s only twenty-four, and has mostly tended to the living. He’s been with EMS about two years.
In less than twenty minutes, the bag and its contents are gently placed into the back of the GMC, and a short while later, I watch the vehicle’s taillights disappear, as it moves on up the hill toward the main road. Alone now, Rick and I each take two rolls of crime scene tape, and begin to make a perimeter around the site, about a hundred yards in diameter. It’s impossible to say how far away from the initial scene of discovery we might find something meaningful, but since it’s impossible to tape off the entire mountainside, we settle for a reasonable area to protect.
As we work, we talk.
“So, what do you think, Matt? Fisherman?”
“More likely a hunter,” I reply. “I’m guessing maybe he shot a deer last fall and was tracking it when he fell in; maybe broke his leg, and couldn’t get out. But, that’s just a guess. Besides, where’s the vehicle?”
“Shit, it could be anywhere,” says Rick. “Maybe a mile. Maybe more. Ain’t you ever had to track a—“
“I’m a fisherman, remember? Hunting’s not my thing.”
“Course, it could be a fisherman,” says Rick. He looks at me with a grin, and then shrugs his shoulders.
“My sentiments exactly,” I say. “Judging from the condition of the body, I’d say he was probably…oh, hell… who am I kidding? We don’t even know whether it’s a guy.”
It used to be you might never know—but that was before DNA. Now, with the help of an electron microscope and a couple of tests that can add up all those Xs and Os, not only can they tell who it was, and what gender it was, and probably whether it rooted for the Giants or the Jets. I shake my head. It’s a whole new ballgame, that’s for sure.