The Body Farm

by Patricia Cornwell

  “God knows I hope reporters don’t get wind of this,” someone said as the heavy door shut.

  I plugged the cord of my microphone into a port in the ceiling. “They will. Probably already have.”

  Deadoc liked attention. I could not believe he would leave this world silently, or without his presidential apology. No, there was something else in store for us, and I did not want to imagine what that might be. The trip to Janes Island State Park was less than an hour, but complicated by the fact that the campground was densely wooded with pines. There was nowhere to land.

  Our pilots set us down at the Coast Guard station in Crisfield, in a marina called Somer’s Cove, where sailboats and yachts battened down for winter bobbed on the dark blue ruffled water of the Little Annemessex River. We went inside the tidy brick station long enough to put on exposure suits and life vests while Chief Martinez briefed us.

  “We got a lot of problems going at the same time,” he was saying as he paced the carpet inside the communication room, where all of us were gathered. “For one thing, Tangier folk have kin here, and we’ve had to station armed guards at roads leading out of town because now CDC is concerned about Crisfield people going anywhere.”

  “No one’s gotten sick here,” Marino said, as he struggled to get cuffs over his boots.

  “No, but I’m worried that at the very start of this thing, some people snuck through the cracks, got out of Tangier and came here. Point being, don’t expect much friendliness in these parts.”

  “Who’s at the campground?” someone else asked.

  “Right now, the FBI agents that found the body.”

  “What about other campers?” Marino said.

  “Here’s what I’ve been told,” Martinez said. “When the agents went in, they found maybe half a dozen campers and only one with a phone hookup. That was campsite sixteen, and they banged on the door. Nothing, so they look in a window and see the body on the floor.”

  “The agents didn’t go inside?” I said.

  “No. Realizing it might be the perp’s, they worried it could be contaminated and didn’t. But I’m afraid one of the rangers did.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “You know what they say. Curiosity killed the cat. Apparently one of the agents had gone to the airstrip where you landed to pick up two other agents. Whatever. At some point, no one was looking and the ranger went inside, came right back out like a ball of fire. Said there was some kind of monster in there straight out of Stephen King. Don’t ask me.” He shrugged and rolled his eyes.

  I looked at the USAMRIID team.

  “We’ll take the ranger back with us,” said a young man whose Army pins identified him as a captain. “By the way, my name is Clark. This is my crew,” he said to me. “They’ll take good care of him, put him in quarantine, keep an eye on him.”

  “Campsite sixteen,” Marino said. “We know anything about who rented that?”

  “We don’t have those details yet,” Martinez said. “Everybody suited up?” He scanned us and it was time to go.

  The Coast Guard took us in two Boston Whalers because where we were going was too shallow for a cutter or patrol boat. Martinez was piloting mine, standing up and calm as if racing forty miles an hour on choppy waters was a very normal thing to do. I honestly thought I might sail overboard at any moment as I held hard to the rail, sitting on the side. It was like riding a mechanical bull, air rushing so fast into my nose and mouth, I could barely breathe.

  Marino was across the boat from me and looked like he might get sick. I tried to mouth a reassurance to him, but he stared blankly at me as he held on with all his strength. We eventually slowed in a cove called Flat Cat, thick with cattails and spartina grass, where there were NO WAKE signs as the park got near. I could see nothing but pines. Then as we got closer, there were paths and bathrooms, a small ranger station, and only one camper peeking through. Martinez glided us into the pier, and another Guardsman tied us to a piling as the engine quit.

  “I’m gonna puke,” Marino said in my ear as we clumsily climbed out.

  “No you’re not.” I gripped his arm.

  “I ain’t going inside that trailer.”

  I turned around and looked at his wan face.

  “You’re right. You’re not,” I said. “That’s my job, but first we need to locate the ranger.”

  Marino stalked off before the second boat had docked, and I looked through the woods toward the camper that was deadoc’s. Rather old and missing whatever had towed it, it was parked as far from the rangers’ station as was possible, tucked in the shadow of loblolly pines. When all of us were ashore, the USAMRIID team passed out the familiar orange suits, air packs and extra four-hour batteries.

  “Here’s what we’re doing.” It was the USAMRIID team leader named Clark who spoke. “We suit up and get the body out.”

  “I would like to go in first,” I said. “Alone.”

  “Right.” He nodded. “Then we see if there’s anything hazardous in there, which hopefully there’s not. We get the body out, and the camper’s hauled out of here.”

  “It’s evidence,” I said, looking at him. “We can’t just haul it out of here.”

  I knew what he was thinking by the look on his face. The killer may be dead, the case closed. The camper was a biological hazard and should be burned.

  “No,” I said to him. “We don’t close this so quickly. We can’t.”

  He hesitated, blowing out in frustration as he stared off at the camper.

  “I’ll go in,” I said. “Then I’ll tell you what we need to do.”

  “Fair enough.” He raised his voice again. “Guys? Let’s go. No one inside but the M.E until you hear otherwise.”

  They followed us through the forest, the portable isolator in our wake, an eerie caisson not meant for this world. Pine needles were crisp beneath my feet, like shredded wheat, and the air was sharp and clean as the camper got closer. It was a Dutchman travel trailer, maybe eighteen feet long, with a fold-out orange-striped awning.

  “That’s old. Eight years, I bet,” said Marino, who knew about such things.

  “What would it take to tow it?” I asked as we put on our suits.

  “A pickup,” he said. “Maybe a van. This doesn’t need nothing with a lot of horsepower. What are we supposed to do? Put these over everything else we already got on?”

  “Yes,” I said, zipping up. “What I’d like to know is what happened to the vehicle that hauled this thing here.”

  “Good question,” he said, huffing as he struggled. “And where’s the license plate?”

  I had just turned on my air when a young man emerged from trees in a green uniform and smoky hat. He seemed rather dazed as he looked at all of us in our orange hoods and suits, and I sensed his fear. He did not get close to us as he introduced himself as the night shift park ranger.

  Marino spoke to him first. “You ever see the person staying in there?”

  “No,” the ranger said.

  “What about guys on the other shifts.”

  “No one remembers seeing anyone, just lights on at night sometimes. Hard to say. As you can see, it’s parked pretty far from the station. You could go out to the showers or whatever and not necessarily be noticed.”

  “No other campers here?” I asked over the rush of air inside my hood.

  “Not now. There were maybe three other people when I found the body, but I encouraged them to leave because there might be some kind of disease.”

  “Did you question them first?” Marino asked, and I could see he was irritated by this young ranger who had just chased off all of our witnesses.

  “Nobody knew a thing, except one person did think he ran into him.” He nodded at the camper. “Evening before last. In the bathroom. Big grubby guy with dark hair and a beard.”

  “Taking a shower?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am.” He hesitated. “Taking a leak.”

  “Doesn’t the camper have a bathroom?”

&
nbsp; “I really don’t know.” He hesitated again. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t stay in there. Minute I saw that. Well, whatever it was. I was gone like a second.”

  “And you don’t know what towed this thing?” Marino then asked.

  The ranger was looking very uncomfortable now. “This time of year it’s usually quiet out here, and dark. I had no reason to notice what vehicle it was hooked up to, and in fact don’t recall there even being one.”

  “But you got a plate number.” Marino’s stare was unfriendly through his hood.

  “Sure do.” Relieved, the ranger pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Got his registration right here.” He opened it. “Ken A. Perley, Norfolk, Virginia.”

  He handed the paper to Marino, who sarcastically said, “Oh good. The name the asshole stole off a credit card. So I’m sure the plate number you got is accurate, too. How did he pay?”

  “Cashier’s check.”

  “He gave this to someone in person?” Marino asked.

  “No. He made the reservation by mail. No one ever saw anything except the paperwork in your hand. Like I said, we never saw him.”

  “What about the envelope this thing came in?” Marino said. “Did you save it so maybe we got a postmark?”

  The ranger shook his head. He nervously glanced at suited scientists, who were listening to his every word. He stared at the trailer and wet his lips.

  “You mind my asking what’s in there. And what’s going to happen to me ’cause I went in?” His voice cracked and he looked like he might cry.

  “It could be contaminated with a virus,” I said to him. “But we don’t know that for sure. Everybody here is going to take care of you.”

  “They said they were going to lock me up in some room, like solitary confinement.” Fear erupted, his eyes wild, voice loud. “I want to know exactly what’s in there that I might have got!”

  “You’ll be in exactly the same thing I was last week,” I assured him. “A nice room with nice nurses. For a few days of observation. That’s all.”

  “Think of it as a vacation. It really ain’t that big of a deal. Just because people are in these suits, don’t go getting hinky,” Marino said as if he were one to talk.

  He went on as if he were the great expert in infectious diseases, and I left the two of them and approached the camper alone. For a moment, I stood within feet of it and looked around. To my left were acres of trees, then the river where our boats were moored. Right of me, through more trees, I could hear the sounds of a highway. The camper was parked on a soft floor of pine needles, and what I noticed first was the scraped area on the white-painted tongue.

  Getting close, I squatted and rubbed gloved fingers over deep gouges and scrapes in aluminum in an area where the Vehicle Identification Number, or VIN, should have been. Near the roof, I noticed a patch of vinyl had been scorched, and decided someone had taken a propane torch to the second VIN. I walked around to the other side.

  The door was unlocked and not quite shut because it had been pried open by some sort of tool, and my nerves began to sing. My head cleared and I became completely focused, the way I got when evidence was screaming a different story than witnesses claimed. Mounting metal steps, I walked inside and stood very still as I looked around at a scene that might mean nothing to most, but to me confirmed a nightmare. This was deadoc’s factory.

  First, the heat was up as high as it would go, and I turned it off, startled when a pathetic white creature suddenly hopped across my feet. I jumped and gasped as it stupidly ran into a wall, and then sat, quivering and panting. The pitiful laboratory rabbit had been shaved in patches and scarified with infection, his eruptions horrible and dark. I noticed his wire cage, and that it seemed to have been knocked off a table, the door wide open.

  “Come here.” Squatting, I held out my hand as he watched me with pink-rimmed eyes, long ears twitching.

  Carefully, I inched my way closer because I could not leave him out. He was a living source of propagating disease.

  “Come on, you poor little thing,” I said to the ranger’s monster. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

  Then I gently had him in my hands, his heart beating staccato as he violently trembled. I returned him to his cage, then went to the rear of the camper. The doorway I stepped through was small, the body inside practically filling the bedroom. The man was facedown on gold shag carpet that was stained dark from blood. His hair was curly and dark, and when I turned him over, rigor mortis had come and already passed. He reminded me of a lumberjack in a filthy pea coat and trousers. His hands were huge with dirty nails, his beard and mustache unkempt.

  I undressed him from the waist up to check the pattern of livormortis, or blood settling by gravity after death. Face and chest were reddish purple, with areas of blanching where his body had been against the floor. I saw no indication that he had been moved after death. He had been shot once in the chest at close range, possibly with the Remington double-barreled shotgun by his side, next to his left hand.

  The spread of pellets was tight, forming a large hole with scalloped edges in the center of his chest. White plastic filler from the shotgun clung to clothing and skin, which again did not indicate a contact wound. Measuring the gun and his arms, I did not see how he could have reached the trigger. I saw nothing to indicate that he had rigged up anything to help him. Checking pockets, I found no wallet, no identification, only a Buck knife. The blade was scratched and bent.

  I spent no more time with him but came outside, and the team from USAMRIID was restless, like people waiting to go somewhere and afraid they’re going to miss their flight. They stared as I came down the steps, and Marino hung back. He was almost lost in trees, orange arms folded across his chest, the ranger standing beside him.

  “This is a completely contaminated crime scene,” I announced. “We have a dead white male with no identification. I need someone to help me get the body out. It needs to be contained.” I looked at the captain.

  “It goes back with us,” he said.

  I nodded. “Your guys can do the autopsy and maybe get someone from the Baltimore Medical Examiner’s office to witness. The camper’s another problem. It’s got to go somewhere it can be worked up safely. Evidence needs to be collected and decontaminated. This, frankly, is out of my range. Unless you have a containment facility that can accommodate something this big, maybe we’d better get this to Utah.”

  “To Dugway?” he said, dubiously.

  “Yes,” I said. “Maybe Colonel Fujitsubo can help with that.”

  Dugway Proving Ground was the Army’s major range and test facility for chemical and biological defense. Unlike USAMRIID, which was in the heart of urban America, Dugway had the vast land of the Great Salt Lake desert for testing lasers, smart bombs, smoke obscurance or illumination. More to the point, it had the only test chamber in the United States capable of processing a vehicle as large as a battle tank.

  The captain thought for a moment, his eyes going from me to the camper as he made up his mind and formalized a plan.

  “Frank, get on the phone and let’s get this mobilized ASAP,” he said to one of the scientists. “The colonel will have to work with the Air Force on transport, get something here fast because I don’t want this thing sitting out here all night. And we’re going to need a flatbed truck, a pickup truck.”

  “Should be able to get that around here, with all the seafood they ship,” Marino said. “I’ll get on it.”

  “Good,” the captain went on. “Somebody get me three body bags and the isolator.” Then he said to me, “I’ll bet you need a hand.”

  “I certainly do,” I said, and both of us began walking toward the camper.

  I pulled open the bent aluminum door, and he followed me inside, and we did not linger as we passed through to the back. I could tell by Clark’s eyes that he had never seen anything like this, but with his hood and air pack, at least he did not have to deal with the stench of decomposing human flesh. He k
nelt at one end and I at the other, the body heavy and the space impossibly cramped.

  “Is it hot in here or is it just me?” he said loudly as we struggled with rubbery limbs.

  “Someone turned the heat up as high as it would go.” I was already out of breath. “To hasten viral contamination, decomposition. A popular way to screw up a crime scene. All right. Let’s zip him in. This is going to be tight, but I think we can do it.”

  We started working him into a second pouch, our hands and suits slippery with blood. It took us almost thirty minutes to get the body inside the isolator, and my muscles were trembling as we carried it out. My heart was pounding and I was dripping sweat. Outside, we were thoroughly doused with a chemical rinse, as was the isolator, which was transported by truck back to Crisfield. Then the team started work on the camper.

  All of it, except for the wheels, was to be wrapped in heavy blue tinted vinyl that had a HEPA filter layer. I took off my suit with great relief, and retreated into the warm, well-lit rangers’ station, where I scrubbed my hands and face. My nerves were jangled and I would have given anything to crawl into bed, down shots of NyQuil and sleep.

  “If this ain’t a mess,” Marino said as he came in with a lot of cold air.

  “Please shut the door,” I said, shivering.

  “What’s eating you?” He sat on the other side of the room.

  “Life.”

  “I can’t believe you’re out here when you’re sick. I think you’ve lost your friggin’ mind.”

  “Thank you for the words of comfort,” I said.

  “Well, this ain’t exactly a holiday for me, either. Stuck out here with people to interview, and I got no wheels.” He looked frayed.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll find something. Rumor has it Lucy and Janet are in the area and have a ride.”

  “Where?” I started to get up.

  “Don’t get excited. They’re out trying to find people to interview, like I gotta do. God, I gotta smoke. It’s been almost all day.”