flips me over, the blood will no longer pool to the bottom—the stain will stay on top. I died this way”—he flipped his arm over—“but my body was discovered this way. Guess what? I was moved.”
Kathryn squinted hard.
“At the funeral home, our two young body baggers told us that they found the body like this.” He leaned back in his chair and extended his arms and legs straight out. “Exactly like this. The sheriff seemed to concur. Flat on his back was the way he put it, I believe. But during our little examination I removed your friend’s shoes. The left foot was stained along the heel, continuing up the back of the leg—exactly as it should be if the leg lay flat for the first few hours after death. But the right foot was completely purple, top and bottom, with the stain ending just above the ankle. That means, Mrs. Guilford, that he may have been found ‘flat on his back’—but he didn’t die that way.”
Kathryn sat more and more erect as the full meaning of his words began to sink in.
“That means,” she said excitedly, “that when Jimmy died his leg must have been in a position more like … like …” She dropped to the floor and stretched out, then drew her right foot up tight against her buttock with her knee pointing toward the ceiling. “Something like this.”
“Very good, Mrs. Guilford.”
“And then later—six to eight hours later—someone must have laid it flat. But if someone was there within hours of his death, then someone may have been involved in his death. That means Jimmy didn’t kill himself!”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“But,” she said, snapping upright, “somebody moved the body!”
“Not necessarily. All we know is that somebody—or something—moved the leg. Suppose your friend shot himself, as the sheriff is convinced, and when he fell the leg was somehow propped up.”
“But what would keep the leg in that position?” She lay back again and experimented with her foot in different positions. Each time her leg swung outward and fell. “There’s no way,” she said. “It won’t stay like that.”
“Suppose something supported it.”
“Like what?”
“A rock. A branch. A bush.”
“Was there anything like that around?”
“I have no idea.”
“And even if something did support it,” she went on, “what would make it lie flat again?”
“The rock shifts. The branch breaks. The bush dies.”
“How likely is that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Then all we’re doing is guessing here. Isn’t there any way we can check this out? Can’t we go see the spot where the body was found? Can’t we look around for dead bushes and broken branches?”
Nick leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in front of him. “You mean, can’t we investigate?”
Kathryn sat quietly for a moment, then picked herself up from the floor. She walked very slowly around the office, carefully considering the choice she was about to make. She came to the large, glass-doored unit in the corner of the room and stopped. Looking in, she saw the collection of plastic containers. Each contained three or four wiggling white maggots hungrily feeding on strips of raw chicken liver—all except for two containers. One contained the infamous Bubba, who was responsible for beginning the entire brouhaha earlier that evening. The other, containing a single specimen of ordinary size, bore the simple label “?”.
“What is this thing?” she asked, running her hand along the polished chrome trim.
“It’s a Biotronette—a breeding unit,” he said. “It allows us to simulate the precise environment in which the larvae were collected. It allows us to rear them to adult flies.”
“Why do we need to do that?”
“When they mature, we’ll be able to identify their different species.”
“And what will that prove?”
“Everything. Nothing. It all depends on what we find.”
Kathryn sat down again across from Dr. Polchak. She sat staring at his frosted glasses,
Kathryn squinted hard.
“At the funeral home, our two young body baggers told us that they found the body like this.” He leaned back in his chair and extended his arms and legs straight out. “Exactly like this. The sheriff seemed to concur. Flat on his back was the way he put it, I believe. But during our little examination I removed your friend’s shoes. The left foot was stained along the heel, continuing up the back of the leg—exactly as it should be if the leg lay flat for the first few hours after death. But the right foot was completely purple, top and bottom, with the stain ending just above the ankle. That means, Mrs. Guilford, that he may have been found ‘flat on his back’—but he didn’t die that way.”
Kathryn sat more and more erect as the full meaning of his words began to sink in.
“That means,” she said excitedly, “that when Jimmy died his leg must have been in a position more like … like …” She dropped to the floor and stretched out, then drew her right foot up tight against her buttock with her knee pointing toward the ceiling. “Something like this.”
“Very good, Mrs. Guilford.”
“And then later—six to eight hours later—someone must have laid it flat. But if someone was there within hours of his death, then someone may have been involved in his death. That means Jimmy didn’t kill himself!”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“But,” she said, snapping upright, “somebody moved the body!”
“Not necessarily. All we know is that somebody—or something—moved the leg. Suppose your friend shot himself, as the sheriff is convinced, and when he fell the leg was somehow propped up.”
“But what would keep the leg in that position?” She lay back again and experimented with her foot in different positions. Each time her leg swung outward and fell. “There’s no way,” she said. “It won’t stay like that.”
“Suppose something supported it.”
“Like what?”
“A rock. A branch. A bush.”
“Was there anything like that around?”
“I have no idea.”
“And even if something did support it,” she went on, “what would make it lie flat again?”
“The rock shifts. The branch breaks. The bush dies.”
“How likely is that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Then all we’re doing is guessing here. Isn’t there any way we can check this out? Can’t we go see the spot where the body was found? Can’t we look around for dead bushes and broken branches?”
Nick leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in front of him. “You mean, can’t we investigate?”
Kathryn sat quietly for a moment, then picked herself up from the floor. She walked very slowly around the office, carefully considering the choice she was about to make. She came to the large, glass-doored unit in the corner of the room and stopped. Looking in, she saw the collection of plastic containers. Each contained three or four wiggling white maggots hungrily feeding on strips of raw chicken liver—all except for two containers. One contained the infamous Bubba, who was responsible for beginning the entire brouhaha earlier that evening. The other, containing a single specimen of ordinary size, bore the simple label “?”.
“What is this thing?” she asked, running her hand along the polished chrome trim.
“It’s a Biotronette—a breeding unit,” he said. “It allows us to simulate the precise environment in which the larvae were collected. It allows us to rear them to adult flies.”
“Why do we need to do that?”
“When they mature, we’ll be able to identify their different species.”
“And what will that prove?”
“Everything. Nothing. It all depends on what we find.”
Kathryn sat down again across from Dr. Polchak. She sat staring at his frosted glasses,
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