Blood Vines

CHAPTER THREE

Friday, February 12

1:20 P.M.

Reed’s stomach rumbled loudly. Beside him Tanner sympathized. There’d be no chance to eat for a while as this party was now in full swing, complete with contingents from VCI and CSI, the Coroner’s Office, as well as both units’ sergeants.

He and Tanner had conferred with their sergeants, who’d felt comfortable enough with their handle on the case to leave them to it. No doubt, they were on their way to lunch, Reed thought. Lucky bastards.

Tanner’s CSI cohort, Detective “California” Cal Calhoon, chose that moment to arrive. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a GQ spread-except for the Hazmat booties he wore over his shoes.

Shit. Reed thought. Bye-bye five bucks.

Calhoon stopped beside Reed, and looked up at him. At six foot four, Reed towered over the flashy detective. “Who’s the kid?” Cal asked, motioning toward the anthropologist crouched by the grave.

“Pete Robb, PhD.”

Cal smiled, revealing perfectly aligned, bright white teeth. “Anybody but me think that anthropologist is too young to know his butt from that hole in the ground?”

“He’s a pain in my butt,” Reed said, “I’ll give you that. He finally shows up, then asks us to stand around while he ‘assesses the find.’ ”

“Give the kid a break,” Tanner said. “We all started at the same place-wet behind the ears, over eager, do-gooders.”

“Speak for yourself,” Reed muttered. “Time’s up.”

Cal and Tanner fell in step with Reed. The anthropologist didn’t even look up when they reached him.

“Before I mummify,” Reed said, “you have any thoughts?”

“Actually, a classic example of saponification,” the PhD corrected. “You’ve heard of the process?”

Oh yeah, Reed thought. Really young. “That’s a mighty big word, Doc. Maybe you want to break it down for us?”

Cal grinned and Tanner shot Reed an amused glance. The anthropologist seemed oblivious. “It’s a process aided by moisture, wherein the body’s fat is turned to a soaplike substance called adipocere.”

“Grave wax,” Tanner said innocently. “Right?”

“Exactly!” Robb beamed up at her, the way a professor would his prize student. “It’s great stuff. Really interesting. It can run the gamut from soft and soapy to hard, brittle and waxy. Like this one.”

Reed gave the kid points for enthusiasm-and Tanner props for calling it.

“Under the right conditions-moisture, lack of oxygen, alkaline soil-fat turns to adipocere. Infants are a large percentage fat. They also lack certain digestive tract enzymes, a fact which aids adipocere production.”

“Yet the hands and feet skeletonized,” Cal said. “How’d that happen?”

“No fat, no adipocere.”

“How old was he?” Reed asked. “Best guess anyway.”

“Younger than two.” The kid nudged his glasses higher on his nose. “The skull hadn’t knitted together yet. Obviously, this child was considerably younger than that.”

“Six or seven months old?” Reed asked.

“Maybe. I’ll take long bone measurements back at the lab, that’ll narrow it down.”

“How long’s he been buried?” Tanner asked.

“Years, judging by the decomposition of the crate. At least two.”

“Why’s that?”

“In conditions like these, adipocere begins forming a month or two after death and reaches completion within two years.”

“Could he have been buried twenty-five years?” Reed asked.

“Maybe, sure.”

Reed turned to Cal and Tanner. “I want to find out if that particular pacifier is still being made, and if it’s not, when production stopped.”

“I’ll do the same with the diaper,” Cal offered. “Nasty as it looks, the lab might be able to do something with it through material and design comparisons. Plus, the crate may be marked.”

Tanner looked at Reed. “The lab may be able to extract some DNA from the bones. The adipocere might also be a source.”

“Ditto the pacifier,” Cal added.

“What’s your next move?” Tanner asked.

“I have a pretty good idea who this land belongs to. I’ll confirm and follow up.”

“Sommer?”

Reed nodded and glanced at his watch. “Even if the land’s not his, I’ll need to talk to him.”

“I’m sorry,” she said simply, no doubt understanding how difficult that meeting would be for him, because of his personal history with the family.

“Me, too. Call me when you and Cal finish processing and are back at the Barn,” he said, referring to HQ by its nickname. “We’ll rendezvous then.”