Page 23 of The Burning

Tomasetti sighs. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to conceal evidence by burning the body of their victim.”

“Or tried to make it appear to be something else,” I add.

Grimacing, the doc looks from Tomasetti to me. “As you can imagine, the autopsies of burn victims are extremely difficult and complex, particularly if we’re dealing with extensive thermal injury. That’s why I called in the forensic pathologist.”

He shakes his head. “Much of what I see in here in the morgue is bad. Trauma from car accidents. Suicides. Drowning victims. Bodies that aren’t discovered in a timely manner. This one is one of the worst I’ve seen.”

I think about the things we saw at the scene, and I feel the familiar scrape of cold fingertips at the back of my neck. That weird quiver in the pit of my stomach.

The doctor brings his hands together. “I guess the good news is that there’s plenty of information to be gleaned preliminarily. Hopefully, you’ll find at least some of it helpful as you delve into this case.”

“On that note, let’s suit up,” Tomasetti says.

Doc ushers us to the alcove, where we don disposable gowns, shoe covers, masks, hair caps, and gloves. This is usually the time when Tomasetti cuts loose with some wisecrack or inappropriate one-liner, the cornier the better. Not in a show of disrespect, but to help deal with the stress of what we’re about to see. This morning, he’s reticent, and it’s not until we’re leaving the alcove that I’m reminded he lost his wife and children in a fire, to arson. I try to catch his eye as we leave the alcove, but he’s ahead of me and reaches the corridor first.

Doc is waiting and takes us past the yellow and black biohazard sign and a plaque that reads MORGUE AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. At the end of the hall, he pushes through double swinging doors. The autopsy room is brightly lit and uncomfortably cold, with floor-to-ceiling tiled walls. I see a counter lined with boxes of sterile gloves, glass jars, and stainless-steel containers the size of pet bowls. A large scale hangs down from the ceiling. Everything is clinically clean, the pong of formalin and antiseptic strong, but the repellent smell of burned and decaying flesh hovers.

Doc’s assistant stands at a counter, his back turned to us as he unwraps sterile tools and sets them on a paper-lined tray. Beneath a large pull-down light, the victim lies on a stainless-steel autopsy table. A blue paper sheet is draped over the body, a dark circle of moisture where some liquid has soaked through.

I’m aware of Tomasetti beside me, and I’m trying not to acknowledge the fact that my heart is beating too fast as we cross to the table.

“Morning, guys,” says the technician.

A mask conceals his mouth, but I discern the smile in his eyes and I’m reminded that this is business as usual for him.

Reaching up, Doc adjusts the overhead light. “Put the X-rays up on the board, Jared, will you?”

“Sure.” The young man flicks on the X-ray light box mounted on the wall.

The doc goes around to the other side of the gurney, reaches for the drape, and pulls it down. Though I saw the victim at the scene and have a pretty good idea of what to expect, the sight of the body shocks me anew. The flesh is an awful mosaic of black interspersed with purple, red, and pink. The flesh of the face is blackened and peeling. The mouth is open, the pink and brown tongue protruding between teeth that are shockingly white. The sight of it is almost too much to bear.

Next to me, Tomasetti mutters something unintelligible beneath his breath.

“The clothing was removed and preserved,” the doc says. “The shoes and belt as well. Everything was couriered to the BCI lab in London, Ohio.”

The flesh of the lower torso and extremities is blackened, cracked, and peeling in areas. The upper torso, ostensibly where the skin was farther away from the heat source and protected by clothing, is singed brown and swollen looking with raw, red patches. A strip of skin around the waist, likely where the belt was worn, is intact, but bright pink in color. The feet appear swollen and purplish-pink, as if they were baked inside the shoes.…

“Jesus,” Tomasetti mutters.

“As you can see, the thermal injuries are severe, particularly on the lower half of the body,” Doc Coblentz tells us. “That is likely due to the position of the body and its proximity to the heat source.” He looks first at me over the tops of his glasses and then at Tomasetti. “Both of you viewed the victim at the scene, correct?”

“Yes.” The word comes out like a croak, so I clear my throat, say it again.

The doc continues. “Preliminarily, I found no evidence of any incised wounds. I did not see any gunshot wounds. Both of those assessments may change once we do the internal examination.”

“Sexual assault?” Tomasetti asks.

“We were able to get an anal swab,” the doc tells us. “No indication of assault.”

“I’m just going to say what all of us are thinking,” Tomasetti says. “At the scene, it looked like this guy was tied to that post and burned alive. Dr. Coblentz, do you have any way of knowing if that’s what happened? Was this victim burned at the stake? Or was he posed after he was already dead?”

“Without internal examination, I can’t answer that,” Doc responds. “I can, however, share some observations. Preliminarily, of course.” Reaching around behind him, he removes a long wooden swab from a tray and indicates the victim’s hands. “As you mentioned, the victim was bound to a wooden post with wire. According to my notes, Kate, you sent the wire to the lab?”

I nod. “Correct.”

He shifts the swab to the wrist. “See this?”

I don’t want to look, but I do, and for the first time since walking into the room, I see the victim through the eyes of a cop instead of a woman who is nearly overcome with horror.