ahead and laugh, you heathen.” I scowl at Arnie.
“Sorry,” he says, struggling to get himself under control. “But it is quite the sight.”
“If you don’t knock it off, it will be the last thing you ever see.”
He makes a yeah, right face so I put my hands on my hips and give him The Look.
The Look is one of my more powerful tools, something I learned from my mother. When I was a kid, my sister, Desi, and I both trembled with fear whenever my mother gave us The Look. It came most often when we were lying about something, or screaming at one another, or had been caught doing something we knew we were forbidden to do, like the time we gave each other haircuts and indelible Magic Marker facial tattoos the day before our class pictures were taken. Mother would never say or do anything; she would just cock her left eyebrow and stare at us with this intense look that was mysterious, scary, and very powerful. It pierced our kiddie armor every time. I’ve seen her do it to grown men and make them weep. Though I’ve never mastered it to the degree my mother has, being six feet tall helps a lot with the intimidation factor.
It definitely has an impact on Arnie. Within three seconds of arching my brow he’s straight-faced and all business. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Can we please get going?” I say, picking up my scene kit, which has managed to slide down the hill with me.
Arnie nods, bows, and swings his arm toward the trees. “After you, milady.”
“Walk behind me so those bloodsucking camera goons can’t get any more shots.”
“Happily,” Arnie says, his voice excited as his gaze shifts to my butt.
I roll my eyes, turn toward the trees, and let Arnie fall into step behind me. A police officer is standing at the edge of the woods, and judging from the expression on his face, he hasn’t missed any of what just happened. He looks like he’s about to say something but Arnie shakes his head at him. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he warns.
I arch my brow at the cop and he clamps his mouth shut and waves us along a barely discernible path of broken-limbed bushes amid the trees. Most of the deciduous trees have already dropped their leaves but there are enough pine trees to provide a fair amount of cover. The ground isn’t nearly as wet here, but the shrubbery is so high and thick it keeps snagging at my feet like a snare. And the slope is a precipitous one, forcing me to turn sideways rather than face straight ahead. It makes for slow going but that’s okay since with every baby step I take, the smell grows stronger and more pungent.
“Have you done any heavy decomps yet?” Arnie asks me.
I shake my head.
“It’s not as bad as you think. The first few minutes are kind of tough but then it’s like your body gets used to it and you don’t even smell it anymore. I have some Vicks VapoRub in my scene kit if you want. Dab a little under your nose and it cuts the odor some. I don’t use it anymore but I still carry it because a lot of the cops like to use it.”
“No, thanks,” I say, sounding as if I have a bad head cold because I’m so focused on not breathing through my nose. I am determined to tough it out and prove my mettle. After all, I’ve smelled some pretty nasty things in my time, like the time I found the weekend-old plastic bag with an amputated gangrenous foot in it that an OR tech forgot to put in the biohazard bin. But as we draw closer to the scene, the smell becomes so intense that even breathing through my mouth doesn’t help.
I hear muffled voices and an odd buzzing sound ahead and grip my scene kit tightly, bracing myself for what’s to come. As I push aside a dense growth of bush, the mangled front corner of a silver Cadillac Escalade comes into view.
Then I see Hurley standing with a couple of sheriff’s deputies off to my right and lose sight of everything else, including the big root in the ground in front of me. I catch my foot on it and fall headlong toward the
“Sorry,” he says, struggling to get himself under control. “But it is quite the sight.”
“If you don’t knock it off, it will be the last thing you ever see.”
He makes a yeah, right face so I put my hands on my hips and give him The Look.
The Look is one of my more powerful tools, something I learned from my mother. When I was a kid, my sister, Desi, and I both trembled with fear whenever my mother gave us The Look. It came most often when we were lying about something, or screaming at one another, or had been caught doing something we knew we were forbidden to do, like the time we gave each other haircuts and indelible Magic Marker facial tattoos the day before our class pictures were taken. Mother would never say or do anything; she would just cock her left eyebrow and stare at us with this intense look that was mysterious, scary, and very powerful. It pierced our kiddie armor every time. I’ve seen her do it to grown men and make them weep. Though I’ve never mastered it to the degree my mother has, being six feet tall helps a lot with the intimidation factor.
It definitely has an impact on Arnie. Within three seconds of arching my brow he’s straight-faced and all business. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Can we please get going?” I say, picking up my scene kit, which has managed to slide down the hill with me.
Arnie nods, bows, and swings his arm toward the trees. “After you, milady.”
“Walk behind me so those bloodsucking camera goons can’t get any more shots.”
“Happily,” Arnie says, his voice excited as his gaze shifts to my butt.
I roll my eyes, turn toward the trees, and let Arnie fall into step behind me. A police officer is standing at the edge of the woods, and judging from the expression on his face, he hasn’t missed any of what just happened. He looks like he’s about to say something but Arnie shakes his head at him. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he warns.
I arch my brow at the cop and he clamps his mouth shut and waves us along a barely discernible path of broken-limbed bushes amid the trees. Most of the deciduous trees have already dropped their leaves but there are enough pine trees to provide a fair amount of cover. The ground isn’t nearly as wet here, but the shrubbery is so high and thick it keeps snagging at my feet like a snare. And the slope is a precipitous one, forcing me to turn sideways rather than face straight ahead. It makes for slow going but that’s okay since with every baby step I take, the smell grows stronger and more pungent.
“Have you done any heavy decomps yet?” Arnie asks me.
I shake my head.
“It’s not as bad as you think. The first few minutes are kind of tough but then it’s like your body gets used to it and you don’t even smell it anymore. I have some Vicks VapoRub in my scene kit if you want. Dab a little under your nose and it cuts the odor some. I don’t use it anymore but I still carry it because a lot of the cops like to use it.”
“No, thanks,” I say, sounding as if I have a bad head cold because I’m so focused on not breathing through my nose. I am determined to tough it out and prove my mettle. After all, I’ve smelled some pretty nasty things in my time, like the time I found the weekend-old plastic bag with an amputated gangrenous foot in it that an OR tech forgot to put in the biohazard bin. But as we draw closer to the scene, the smell becomes so intense that even breathing through my mouth doesn’t help.
I hear muffled voices and an odd buzzing sound ahead and grip my scene kit tightly, bracing myself for what’s to come. As I push aside a dense growth of bush, the mangled front corner of a silver Cadillac Escalade comes into view.
Then I see Hurley standing with a couple of sheriff’s deputies off to my right and lose sight of everything else, including the big root in the ground in front of me. I catch my foot on it and fall headlong toward the
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