11 Devil Bones by Kathy Reichs

Author:Kathy Reichs [Bones, Devil]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-12-11T00:00:00+00:00

The dead do not always stay put. I once did an exhumation in which Grandpa was three plots over from the one in which he was supposed to have been buried. Another in which the deceased lay in a plot containing two stacks of three. Instead of bottom left, as shown in the records, our subject was second casket from the top right.

First rule in a disinterment: Make sure you’ve got the right guy.

Knowing the vague nature of old cemetery records, I assumed Burkhead was checking photos or brief verbal descriptions against observable details. Casket style, decorative hardware, handle design. Given the obvious age of the coffins, I doubted he’d be lucky enough to have manufacturers’ tags or serial numbers.

Finaly satisfied, Burkhead spoke.

“These decedents are Mary Eleanor Pierce Redmon and Jonathan Revelation Redmon. Jonathan died in 1937, Mary in 1948.”

Moving to the side wal, Burkhead repeated his procedure. As before, it took him several minutes.

“The decedent on top is Wiliam Boston Redmon, interred February 19, 1959.”

Burkhead’s free hand floated to the lower coffin.

“This is the burial that was violated seven years ago. Susan Clover Redmon was interred on April 24, 1967.”

Like her relatives, Susan met eternity in a wooden box. Its sides and top had colapsed, and much of its hardware lay on a piece of plywood slid between the casket and the shelf.

A crack ran a good eighteen inches along the left side of the cover. Over it, someone had nailed smal wooden strips.

“Mr. Redmon declined to purchase a new casket. We did our best to repair and reseal the lid.”

Burkhead turned to me.

“You wil examine the decedent here?”

“As per Mr. Redmon’s request. But I may take samples to the ME facility for final verification.”

“As you wish. Unfortunately, the coffin key has gone missing over the years.”

Stepping to one end of the shelf, Burkhead gestured Slidel to the other.

“Gently, Detective. The remains are no longer of any great weight.”

Together, the men scooted the plywood forward and lowered it to the floor. The displaced casket filed the tiny chamber, forcing our little trio back against the wals.

With scarcely enough room to maneuver, I opened my pack and removed a battery-operated spot, a magnifying lens, a case form, a pen, and a screwdriver.

Burkhead observed hunched in the shadows of the easternmost corner. Slidel watched from the doorway, hanky to mouth.

Masking, I squatted sideways and began to lever.

The nails lifted easily.

21

SOUTHERNERS DON’T ATTEND WAKES. WE ATTEND VIEWINGS. Makes sense to me. Drained of blood, perfumed, and injected with wax, a corpse is never going to sit up and stretch. But it is laid out for one final inspection.

To facilitate that last, pre-eternity peek, casket lids are designed like double Dutch doors. Finney and his gal pal had taken advantage of that feature, prying open only the hinged upper half.

OK for a snatch and run in the night. I needed ful-body access.

Thanks to the vandalism and to natural deterioration, the top of Susan’s coffin had colapsed into a concavity running the length of the box.

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