She leaned over and tried to get a whiff of Loshak.
He recoiled as if she were a child with peanut butter hands trying to give him a high five.
“Now what are you doing?” he hissed.
“All that time at the dump threw off my nose. I can’t smell anything.”
Loshak ducked his head and snuffled at his shirt.
“Huh. Me neither.”
“Makes me paranoid that I stink. You know the only thing worse than knowing you stink is thinking you probably stink but not being sure.”
A door down the hall swung open, and a small man with cropped white hair and round glasses took a few steps into the corridor. He swiveled his head in their direction and cocked his head to one side.
“You’re the FBI agents Detective Ambrose sent over, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, moving toward them.
“Agents Loshak and Darger,” Loshak said, putting out his hand.
“I’m Dr. Fausch.” His voice was soft and slightly raspy, and when it was Darger’s turn to shake his hand, she found his grip gentle. He reminded her more of someone’s grandpa than a guy who sliced into corpses all day.
“Why don’t we step into the cold storage room, and I can bring you up to speed,” he said. “After that, you’re more than welcome to stay to observe the postmortem for your second John Doe.”
“As long as we’re not in your way,” Loshak said.
“Not at all.”
He motioned for them to follow him down the hall to a door requiring a key card to enter. Dr. Fausch pressed the ID badge around his neck to a black box mounted on the wall. The door lock beeped and an LED changed from red to green.
As soon as Dr. Fausch pushed through the door, a row of fluorescent lights mounted on the ceiling flickered to life. The room was empty save for a cluster of five gurneys pushed to one side. Both side walls and the entire back wall were made of stainless steel and covered with doors. That cleaning smell was different here, the pickle odor of preservative chemicals joining the fray.
The morgue.
Loshak opened his eyes wide in mock excitement and mouthed, “Yippy!” over to Darger. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling.
“I’ll introduce you to your John Doe One and Jane Doe Number One and Two,” Dr. Fausch said. “We’ll keep them in the negative chambers, probably for the next several weeks in hopes of identifying them and notifying next of kin.”
“And if you can’t identify them?” Darger asked. “Or no one claims them?”
“They get cremated, and then they go into a cabinet we have for unclaimed remains. We hold onto those for as long as we can, but eventually we run out of room and have to bury them en masse. I don’t like doing it, but we only have so much space to store unclaimed remains. And it happens more and more often, it seems — no one to claim the deceased.”
Fausch unhooked a clipboard from the wall and ran his finger down to an entry halfway down the page. Then he stepped to one of the stainless steel doors, opened it, and slid the metal drawer out.
The body came out feet-first and was swaddled in a white plastic sheet. Dr. Fausch peeled back the sheet near the face, revealing a gaunt-faced man with a shaggy unkempt beard.
“John Doe Number One. Caucasian. Approximately 25 to 35 years of age. Seventy-one inches in height. One-hundred and seventeen pounds in weight. Brown hair. Green eyes.”
He stepped over to the next storage chamber and opened that one as well.
“Jane Doe Number One. Caucasian. Approximately 25 to 35 years of age. Sixty-six inches in height. One-hundred and one pounds in weight. Blond hair. Brown eyes.”
Fausch opened a third drawer and introduced the second female victim.
“Jane Doe Number Two. Caucasian or light-skinned Hispanic. Approximately 18 to 25 years of age. Sixty-two inches in height. Eighty-nine pounds in weight. Black hair. Brown eyes.”
Darger stared at the three bodies laid out in a perfect row. It was always strange to hear victims identified in such a way that lacked any personality. A list of physical features and demographics, but nothing about who they’d been, what they’d wanted to do in life.
“Can you determine how they came to be so emaciated? And whether or not that was the cause of death?” Darger asked.
“The most likely cause would be starvation, but there are other possibilities,” the doctor said. “We saw a fair amount of AIDS Wasting Syndrome back in the 80s, but we tested the three bodies for HIV. All came back negative. There are other wasting diseases, but it would be highly unlikely that four victims would all have it. Another possibility would be some kind of parasite, but again, I found no evidence of that.”
Dr. Fausch replaced the clipboard into its slot on the wall.
“All three had empty stomachs and clean bowels, which certainly lends itself to the theory of starvation, or possibly dehydration. But I should tell you, even in a best-case scenario, it’s extremely difficult to determine either one as a cause of death with an examination alone. The state of the decedent’s body gives us clues, of course. In the case of starvation, we can see the wasting. And with dehydration, we can look at the vitreous fluid analysis to get a clue. But until we know the specific preceding circumstances to the deaths of these three individuals, it’s almost impossible to say with certainty.”
He glanced over at the nearest body, which happened to be Jane Doe Two.
“She was the first one they brought in. And my immediate thought was a case I had a few years ago. A young girl who’d struggled with an eating disorder for many years. She’d actually been in recovery for some time until she found an internet group of what they call ‘pro-ana’ activists.”
“Pro-ana…” Darger repeated. “Pro-anorexia?”
“That’s right. The most extreme among them insist that anorexia is a ‘lifestyle choice’ and that attempts by family members and medical professionals to intervene is a form of discrimination. They share tips on hiding their weight loss from family and friends, have contests to see who can lose the most weight…”
“Christ,” Loshak said.
“There was a criminal investigation. The district attorney wanted to make the case that the group was at fault for the girl’s death.”
“Kind of reminds me of the Conrad Roy case,” Darger said. “He committed suicide, and then they charged his girlfriend with involuntary manslaughter after they found text messages where she’d encouraged him to go forward with it.”
“Very similar. Anyway… that’s the only recent autopsy I’ve performed with a similar level of emaciation.”
Darger turned to Loshak.
“We never thought about the eating disorders.”
“Doesn’t explain how they all wound up in a dumpster together, though,” Loshak said.
Dr. Fausch clasped his hands together.
“When I think of these poor souls being so unceremoniously dumped into a local landfill, I can’t help but think of photographs from the Nazi concentration camps. My grandmother was just a girl when she was sent to Ravensbrück. She was one of nine children, and she and one sister were the only two who survived. Their parents and seven of their siblings died in the camps. I’d heard it spoken of here and there as a boy. The bad thing that happened to Bubbe. But it wasn’t until I was in high school and a teacher showed us Night and Fog.” The doctor closed his eyes. “I will never forget those images. But they were only that — images. In black and white, no less. When I arrived at the landfill yesterday and saw what they’d pulled from the heaps of garbage, I saw it in the flesh. The absolute disdain for human life.”
His eyes fluttered open now, and he gazed at each of them in turn.
“I try not to get too emotionally invested in any one case. A certain detachment is necessary to do this job efficiently, in my opinion. But I do hope you find the person responsible for this.”
Darger swallowed.
“We’ll do our best,” she said, then nodded over at the three bodies still
on display. “Any wounds?”
“All three had extensive contusions and bruising. John Doe One had a fractured tibia. Jane Doe One had several broken fingers and a fractured wrist. Jane Doe Two had a few broken ribs. The issue is determining whether those are ante-mortem or post-mortem injuries, given the manner of disposal. If the running theory is correct, the bodies were first deposited into a dumpster, and I doubt the type of person disposing of human remains in such a way is being particularly gentle.”
Darger nodded.
“After that, the dumpster itself is emptied into one of the trucks from a height of approximately 18 feet from the topmost position of the dumpster to the bed of the truck, meaning the bodies might have fallen from almost two stories. Then they get carted around town for who knows how long, having more refuse added to the pile. I’ve seen people throw entire sofas into those big rolling dumpsters, so now imagine something like that landing on one of the bodies. And we haven’t even gotten to the landfill yet. Detective Ambrose informed me that they use bulldozers to move the trash around?”
“That’s right,” Loshak said.
“So you can see how all of these factors contribute to my inability to state whether there were any injuries to the bodies prior to death.” Fausch held up a finger. “Save for one.”
He directed their attention to Jane Doe Two. He nudged the plastic sheeting aside, revealing an exceptionally thin arm that looked more like it belonged to a child than an adult woman. The doctor lifted the arm and pointed to a ring of bruise-colored flesh around the woman’s wrist.
“Is that a ligature mark?” Darger asked, bending closer.
“I believe so. At least, I can’t think of anything that might have happened in the course of the body making its way from the dumpster to the landfill site that would have left such a perfect band around the wrist like that.”
“But you didn’t find any marks on the others?”
Dr. Fausch shook his head.
“No, but Jane Doe Two has something else special about her,” he said, parting a section of her hair. “She has a scar here. It’s more visible along the scalp, but it runs all the way down to her cheek. I could also see some very old facial fractures. Some sort of traumatic injury. A car accident would be my guess. This reconstruction work was done by a very skilled surgeon.”
“Sounds expensive,” Loshak said.
“Exactly. Someone got this girl the very best cosmetic reconstruction money can buy. My guess would be in the tens of thousands.”
“Which means someone gave a shit about her,” Darger said.
Dr. Fausch seemed to blush at the cursing but nodded.
“So now the question is, why isn’t the person or persons who paid for the expensive plastic surgery raising holy hell about where their daughter or girlfriend or wife disappeared to?” Loshak said.
“I can’t answer that.” Dr. Fausch blinked. “But I hope it will help in our efforts to identify her.”
“And the others?” Darger asked.
“We work with an excellent forensics team. Dr. Reed, our forensic anthropologist, and Dr. Bertram, our forensic odontologist are experts in their respective fields. Between the two of them, not to mention the various jurisdictions who can use the demographics we’ve supplied to compare against current missing persons reports, I’m optimistic that we’ll identify all of the decedents. It might take some time, but I have high hopes.” Dr. Fausch straightening and folded his arms. “There is one final detail to discuss before we head over to the autopsy suite, and that is that when we swabbed both Jane Does, we found spermicidal residue.”
“Evidence of sexual assault,” Darger said.
“Technically I can only say that there’s evidence they came in contact with a condom or other contraceptive containing nonoxynol-9. But it certainly suggests sexual intercourse. I know that in your position, you always have to question whether the intercourse was consensual or not when dealing with potential homicide victims. But again, without knowing the circumstances preceding death, I can only say whether or not the evidence before me supports or contradicts a theory.”
Dr. Fausch rolled the bodies back into the refrigerated compartments and closed each door with a snick.
“Now, I believe your John Doe Number Two should be ready for us in the autopsy suite.”
Chapter 8
Back in the corridor, they followed the doctor through the swinging door he’d originally emerged from. An assistant was already in the small antechamber beyond, washing his hands at one of the large stainless steel sinks set against the wall. Dr. Fausch introduced him as Tyrone Vaas. There was a round of head nodding in lieu of handshakes.
While Dr. Fausch scrubbed in, Tyrone directed them to the boxes of gowns, hair caps, booties, and of course, gloves. For the second time that day, Darger found herself swaddled in layers of PPE.
After gearing up, Tyrone took them into the autopsy suite. Darger squinted under the glare of the bright overhead lights.
“That’s one thing they always get wrong on TV,” Darger said.
“What’s that?” Loshak asked.
“When they show morgues and autopsy suites in TV shows, it’s always dark and moody. A single spotlight on the body. But this place is lit up like a Christmas tree.”
Fausch came in then, adjusting a pair of goggles over his glasses. Tyrone wheeled a gurney laden with John Doe Two’s body bag closer to one of the exam tables. On the count of three, the two men transferred the bag from the gurney to the table.
“Not very heavy, is he?” Dr. Fausch asked, then glanced over at the agents. “I got the impression this one is emaciated like the others?”
“Pretty much,” Darger said.
Tyrone unzipped the body bag, and a few maggots spilled out and fell onto the table. Darger couldn’t help but watch the reaction of Dr. Fausch and his assistant. She didn’t care how many times they’d done this, surely maggots still held a certain ick factor. But Dr. Fausch merely bobbed his head toward the wriggling larvae.
“Would you collect a few of our stowaways in one of the entomology vials? They probably already took samples at the scene, but you know I never like to leave these things to chance.”
The doctor’s voice was calm and completely unruffled as far as Darger could tell. Even as Tyrone scooped some of the maggots into the glass tube, Darger failed to detect even the slightest sign of disgust.
“I see we’re going to need to spray this one down before we begin, just like the other three. Let’s get a few swabs first.”
Tyrone plucked half a dozen sticks that looked like over-sized Q-tips from his cart and passed them to the doctor who swiped at a few different areas on the body: cheek, nose, arms, hands, and legs. He passed the swabs back to Tyrone, who labeled and logged the samples before stowing them back in the cart.
“Can you tell if there’s anything unique about the dirt on the bodies?” Darger asked.
“Other than the sheer amount of it? No,” Fausch said, peeling back the black plastic of the body bag and peering inside at the remains of John Doe Two. “I’m afraid that’s not my specialty, but I expedited the samples from the first three bodies to the state lab for analysis this morning. Sometimes the particular makeup ends up being something they can use to pinpoint a location or source.”
Dr. Fausch directed Tyrone to take a few photographs of the body while it was still in the bag before they carefully lifted the body from the bag and laid it out on the table. It looked even smaller than before, all by itself on the gleaming metal surface.
“I’ve been wondering if maybe the bodies were underground for some time before being dumped,” Loshak said. “Like maybe someone buried them and then changed their mind, got spooked or something. So they dug them up and dumped them.”
“I’d considered that myself,” Dr. Fausch said, “but if they’d been buried, I’d expect to find dirt in the orifices — eyes, mouth, nose. In each case, the deposits are entirely superficial.”
He wave
d them closer to the table.
“Have a look,” he said, parting John Doe Two’s eyelid with a gloved thumb and forefinger. Darger caught a glimpse of the cornea gone milky white. “In fact, you can even see how the areas around the eyes, nose, and mouth are all a bit cleaner than everywhere else. As if he’d been wiping it off.”
Next, Dr. Fausch lifted one of the victim’s hands.
“Here you can see there’s quite a bit of dirt under the fingernails, which we’ll also want samples of.” Dr. Fausch took a small metal pick offered to him by Tyrone and scraped some of the grime from under the dead man’s thumbnail. “If I had to guess, I’d say they’d been digging.”
“Digging?” Loshak repeated. “Digging what?”
“Hard to say. Gardening, perhaps?” Dr. Fausch dropped the under-nail sample into a fresh vial and passed it to his assistant. “My wife is a master gardener, as it happens. Makes up her own soil mix for her plants, which means hauling a lot of bags of compost, manure, vermiculite, and peat. I’ve helped her with it a few times, and it makes quite a mess. We dump all the ingredients in the middle of a tarp and then toss it around with shovels and mixing forks to get it evenly blended. By the end, we’re both covered in a fine layer of black grit. So… maybe they work in a nursery or a soil mixing facility? The companies like Miracle-Gro and such must be doing what my wife does on a large scale.”
Eventually Fausch shrugged.
“But that’s speculation on my part. I imagine Marcia Blatch will have more to tell you once she analyzes the samples.”
John Doe Two had several more portraits taken before Dr. Fausch asked Tyrone to cut off the garments. As Tyrone sliced up the front of the dead man’s shirt, Dr. Fausch leaned in for a closer look.
“Hmm,” he said. “That’s interesting.”
“What?”
“Quite a lot of tattooing on this one. Could be the key to identifying this fellow.” Dr. Fausch pointed at markings on the skin of the chest. “We’ll get him cleaned up a bit, and then we can get a better look at the ink.”
Darger couldn’t help but smile at the small grandfatherly man using the term “ink.”
Violet Darger | Book 7 | Dark Passage Page 4