Page 38 of Fire and Bones

Meanwhile, I ran a quick check of my tools. The lab’s tools.

Satisfied that all was in order, I turned my attention to #25-02106.

The burlap bag looked more colorful than I recalled. Though faded and stained, I could make out a logo that had once been bright red and green. The words Swifty Spud and Potatoes arced above and below a cartoonlike potato running in bipedal fashion.

The bag also looked smaller than I remembered.

As did the lumpy object it held.

Had I been mistaken? Were the contents not human?

Another, worse thought.

Was I about to examine the remains of a little girl?

Get on with it, Brennan.

Deep breath.

I began dictating notes, taking measurements, and directing Jamar as he shot stills. Videos weren’t necessary, as the entire exam was being recorded by overhead cams.

Having considered options, which were few, Jamar and I decided that cutting the bag would be the least destructive approach. When satisfied with my external observations, I gave the word and Jamar untied the rope, then used scissors to sever the burlap along one side. As he snipped, I tugged, gently teasing the fabric free of the thing inside.

The process was painstakingly slow, but eventually Swifty’s booty lay fully exposed.

Mixed feelings.

Relief that I hadn’t been wrong.

Sadness that I hadn’t been wrong.

The bag held the corpse of a very small woman. Its limited capacity had forced her head down onto her chest and compressed her spine and limbs into a fetal curl. Her unknown time in the basement had cemented her into that posture. Her hours in the cooler had added the extra finishing touch.

Jamar and I tried to lay the woman supine and straighten her arms and legs.

No go.

We both knew that exposure to a higher ambient temperature would help somewhat.

While I recorded observations, Jamar captured the body on film. Pixels?

Then we waited.

Ninety minutes of warming allowed us—with a lot of muscle and maneuvering—to roll the lady onto her back and partially straighten her limbs.

The woman had large eyes, a slightly protruding forehead, and a low nasal bridge. Maybe. Decomp and tissue slippage had distorted her face so much it was hard to be sure. Her lower jaw had dropped in death and locked in the open position. While not a good look to wear for eternity, her gaping mouth allowed me a peek at her teeth.

Though I’d be more precise once I’d viewed her entire anatomy and taken X-rays, I estimated she’d died before her fortieth birthday. And that she’d been quite petite.

The woman was fully dressed, her clothing withered and fragile to the touch. And strangely at odds, at least by today’s fashions, with my estimated age range.

Her dress, maybe wool, fell to mid-calf and had small pearl buttons down the front and at the wrists. Her legs were encased in hose held in place by old-style suspender garters. Her feet were shod in chunky-heeled black Mary Janes.

Despite the dress and layer of undergarments, I could see that the remaining soft tissue was shriveled and barely holding the woman’s bones together. Strangely, her scalp and braided hair, which was thin and silky, remained attached to her partially mummified head.

Another series of pics then, with Jamar lifting and me tugging, I gingerly stripped the corpse. Not an easy task. That done, I asked Jamar to take #25-02106 off for full body scans.

My mobile rang as I was spreading the dress and hose across drying racks.