Beware the trickster

It's often said that you should be careful what you wish for.

I've also heard that you should be mindful of self-fulfilling prophesies.

My mom likes to say that you shouldn't "speak things into your life"... which I suppose suggests that saying things makes them happen.  (Though I must disagree with her since, sadly, all of my adolescent talk about becoming an academy award winning actress by the age of 19 failed to result in the manifestation of that plan... though I did get a supporting lead in the first play I auditioned for in college, so I guess I shouldn't complain.)

However you care to phrase the sentiment, there seems to be some correlation between talking about something you want... and having some whacked-out mutation of that desire actually come to pass.  Of course if your expressed desire was whacked-out to begin with, the actualization of that desire probably wouldn't be too big of a jump for the powers that be.

To make a long story short, I really shouldn't have said it:

"Wow, I kind of hope I go on a submerged body call sometime soon!"

What would inspire a death investigator to say such a wildly masochistic thing?  Well, I blame inexperience... that and a really charismatic and engaging public speaker.

I had just returned from my first professional conference, which had been one of the greatest experiences ever.  I had often heard of professional conferences, but I never expected that, what with my history of obscure and artsy pursuits, I would ever be qualified to go to one.  Moreover, if I did end up at a professional conference, I certainly never expected to enjoy it.

I guess that's what growing up will do to you.

Anyway, at this conference, there had been an incredibly entertaining lecture on how to investigate a death in which the body was found in water... whether that water be a bath-tub, or a river, or the ocean.  The speaker had been marvellously macabre and humorous and she made it sound as though finding a submerged dead body was absolutely the most fun you could have at work without violating any HR policies.  In fact, she made it sound so fascinating and jolly that, as soon as I got home I found myself making this utterly asinine statement to Henry during shift change.

I was telling him all about my super-fun experiences at the conference (much the way I imagine kindergartners tell their moms about the first day of school) and I, naively, offered that wish to the universe- the hope that I would end up on a death scene where the corpse was found in water.  And Henry, bless his heart, turned to me with the indulgent smile of true experience and simply responded:

"No, you don't."

Well, fate took it's time turning the wheels that I had set into motion with my declaration.  It took 3 months, but the day finally came when I realized the truth and wisdom behind Henry's 3, simple words.

It was a balmy, July afternoon in Oswald county and I had been cruising through my shift with precious little to do other than some follow-up paperwork on some of my cases.  I was finishing up with some filing and planning to duck out and meet up with a friend for lunch when I got the call from dispatch.  I had all but forgotten my ill-advised statement to Henry, but it all came back to me in a flash as Dispatch informed me that I was being called to the banks of a local river where a body had just been discovered.

"They're pretty sure they know who it is,"  the dispatcher told me.  "This guy took off last month, leaving a note that said he was gonna go kill himself.  Nobody ever heard anything more.  His gear and his car were found, but he was nowhere around.  We found all kinds of drug paraphernalia and booze along with a gun case and a box of ammo, so we figured he might have done the deed out in the woods somewhere.  But it looks like he might have fallen in the river instead.  Anyway, have fun."

 I should have been afraid.  I should have been overwhelmed with feelings of dread.  But instead, the residual enthusiasm from my first-ever professional conference flooded my tragically uninformed brain along with a shot of good-old adrenaline.  Instead of what I should have been thinking, something like, "this is gonna be awful",  I was thinking, "this is gonna be AWESOME!"

I jumped in my truck and rocketed off to the scene like I was Cinderella heading to the royal ball at 5 minutes to midnight.  When I arrived at the river, I pulled off the highway onto the little dirt road and met up with the two police officers who were, clearly, not as thrilled about this turn of events as I was.

"Hey guys," I sang as I bounced out of the truck.  "Where's our body?"

The two of them looked a little green around the gills as they led me down to the river bank and pointed at a tangled mass of clothing and debris that had been caught up in a small eddy on the far side of the stream.  I squinted with confusion.

"That's him?  Are you sure?"

"Pretty Sure," one of the officers grunted as they handed me a pair of waders and gestured for me to go and check for myself.  I shrugged and pulled the waders on, then waddled through the knee-deep water to the body.  As I got closer, it became more clear that the decimated wad of clothing actually did contain a dead guy.  But it wasn't until that moment that I began to appreciate not only Henry's benevolent warning, but also the expressions of total repulsion on the officers' faces.

It was gross.

I mean, REALLY gross.

The guy's facial tissues had completely wasted away, leaving a skeletal face with two empty sockets gazing upward in contemplation.  The skin of his scalp, however, was still intact enough that I could identify an ear (that was still loosely attached) lazily bobbing up and down with the current.  Also some of his scalp lingered, advertising a few tufts of close-cropped dark brown hair.  The skin of his upper chest hung loosely off the bones like a torn shirt, and beneath this tissue, his sternum and ribs were clearly loosing the fight to remain attached to each-other.  I couldn't see any internal organs, just dark green slop that heaved a little bit when I, experimentally, gave the body a little push to see whether or not it was amenable to movement.  The arms were still there, but only barely since the aforementioned chest was slowly giving up it's hold on the generally accepted human form.  No telling how the legs looked because the dead guys jeans were still in place.  At least they were still there.

I swallowed and turned to the cop who had accompanied me across the river.

"Wow..." I said.

"Yup" he countered.

"This is gonna be tricky" I said.

"You think he's gonna fall apart when we try to move him?"  The officer knit his brows together, trying to envision how such an event would actually look.

"Absolutely" I told him.  This guy was going to fall apart like a teenage romance once we started tugging at him.  It was going to be dirty, ugly and without a doubt... someone was going to go home crying and sick...

...but that person was not going to be me.

"Let's call the fire department" I slapped my companion on the shoulder and turned to go back to my truck for the camera.

He grinned happily and raised dispatch on the radio to let then know that we needed the hose jockeys to the scene so they could help us move a body... because, you know, nothing delights the cops (and myself, to be completely honest) more than sticking the firemen with a miserably awful job.

It was kind of a shame though. By the time the firemen graced us with their hulking, rubber-clad presence and we were all set to haul the guy out of the river, I was so intent on my the task at hand that I forgot to really enjoy their faces when they first surmised the scene.  I had been taking pictures for at least an hour prior to their arrival, so I had grown accustomed to looking at the half-skeletonized pile of black oat-meal that was our decedent.  The firemen were seeing him for the first time and I completely missed out on watching them turn green and choke back their lunches.  I was too busy trying to describe the method for removal that I had devised while waiting for them.  (It basically consisted of having them hold the body bag downstream like a fishing net and just let the dead guy flow right into it once we pried him loose from the foliage.)

In retrospect, the whole lot of them must have been really sickened, judging by the fact that not one of them pointed out any flaws in my plan or suggested a different one... not that there were any flaws in my plan or that they had a better one- I just find that firemen, pretty reliably, need to feel in charge in virtually every situation, regardless of whether or not they know what they're doing.  The fact that not one of them spoke up meant only one thing, the dead guy had rotted them all into submission.

As predicted, the decedent began to disintegrate as soon as I grabbed him and pulled him away from the river bank.  I tugged his arm clean out of the socket, and when his center mass failed to float free of the tree-branches and leaves that held him, I reached across and attempted to shift his center mass into the deeper, free-flowing water... that's when his head fell off in my hand.

"Oooop, there goes his head!"  I did my best to make it sound casual and light-hearted, the same way I would say something like:  "Oh look, there's a chipmunk" or, "Hey, isn't today Arbor Day?"  Somehow, I thought that if I made it sound like not-such-a-dreadfully-revolting-thing, maybe no one would throw up or pass out.  And to their credit, the firemen all managed to hold it together and get the body loaded into the back of my truck, though they didn't hang around afterward to talk shop or joke around with me and the deputies.  They never do.  I guess chili cooking and weight-lifting make for a very demanding schedule.

Now, typically, I like to do my initial body examinations at the scene.  I don't like to move things (i.e.bodies) around too much until we know whether or not there is any possibility that we're investigating a homicide.  But in some cases, like this one, the environment is... shall we say... not ideal.  It was getting dark, the ground was slick and local detectives had already called and made it clear that they had no intention of mucking about in the woods with us and a 6 week-old "floater" unless we could magically provide a surveillance video that clearly showed our guy being killed by anyone other than himself.  (since the nearest surveillance camera was 50 miles away, it seemed unlikely we would run across any such footage)

So, for lack of any better options, I took the dead guy to a local funeral home so I could examine him and fully document his condition with the help of some bright lights, an unlimited supply of fresh latex gloves and a cup of coffee.  (unfortunately, the funeral home owner neglected to let me know that he would be conducting a tour through the building for a passel of boy-scouts who were hoping to earn their community awareness badges... He barged in on me and, fortunately, managed to shut the door to the prep-room twice as fast as he'd opened it.  All the same, I saw a few wide eyes from the scouts, and there was no hiding the smell. I'm pretty sure the kids glimpsing a headless, rotted-out corpse wasn't part of their original itinerary, but maybe they'll get extra credit... The PTSB badge, or the "Ready-for-the-Trenches-Badge" or something.)

Anyway, barring the inadvertent anatomy lesson to Troupe 537, the exam was straightforward and yielded a self-inflicted gun-shot wound to the head.  It also yielded a small collection of items that I cut out of the decedent's pockets.  There was a wallet, a cigarette lighter, a pocket knife and a pack of gum... all of which were soaked in a rancid mixture of river-water and decomp.  But otherwise, they were remarkably intact.  Each of these items was documented, bagged 3-times over and placed in a manila-envelope, marked, "evidence."  Their odor was unspeakably vile, but tucked away in a triple layer of plastic bags... the smell was virtually non-existent.  I packed up the dead guy for the autopsy suite, sanitized the ever-living FUCK out of that room, loaded up my gear and went home.  It was late... stupid late.  And while I really should have made the extra time to drive to my office to tie up some loose ends, my inherent need for sleep took over and I decided to leave those details for the following day.  After all, I had terrorized the fire department, traumatized the Boy Scouts of America and pulled a guy's head off with my bare hands... I was exhausted.

As usual, when I arrived at home, my little dog, Loki, went about his delighted business of going bonkers and thoroughly inhaling every unique and disgusting scent that I had tracked in on my clothes.  Since I had just spent more than 5 hours in the company of festering carrion, I allowed Loki to indulge.  Knowing his affection for rolling in the dead slugs we found on the sidewalk every morning, I imagined the decomp must have smelled like sweetest ambrosia to his little puppy nose. He nuzzled my pant-legs, snuggled with my overcoat and made-out with my boots to a downright pornographic degree.  But at least someone was enjoying the odor.  My husband, who was just going off to bed when I walked in, wished me a good night from a safe distance and asked, pointedly, if I had plans to shower before turning in.

Well, the next morning landed on me like a brick to the head and rather than attack my mountain of paperwork and inane duties that resulted from the day before, I opted to go for a quick run in the hopes that exercise might shake my mental cobwebs loose.  I headed out for the gym after walking the dog, feeding him and leaving him contentedly curled up on the couch with a chew-stick.  My workout took longer than I had intended but I wasn't worried.  The worst that would happen was I would find Loki anxiously poised at the door, hoping someone might appear to take him outside to pee.

That wasn't quite the scene that greeted me when I entered my apartment.

As typically happens when I come home to find my dog has destroyed something, I was initially just confused. Loki was there, and undeniably ecstatic at my return.  But what was that shredded paper all over the floor?  What had he gotten into?  Then I spotted the purple cigarette lighter with a few little divots scattered across it's surface: the tell-tale sign of puppy-gnawing.  There were some plastic-bag remains here and there.  And what was that awful smell? It smelled like... like...

...decomp.

And that's when I spotted it,  A larger piece of manila envelope with "EVIDENCE" printed on it in big, accusing, red letters.

"Oh. My. GOD" I screamed, "What did you DO!" (No shit... I actually screamed... scared Loki to death. He scampered down the hall and hid under the bed.)

"Nononononono!"  I babbled as I dropped to my knees and gathered up the bits of envelope and tattered remains of the wallet, the wallet's contents, the cigarette lighter, the pocket knife and a few fragments of silver gum wrapper that Loki had gleefully flung about the floor, rolled in, licked, chewed and probably humped in my absence.  My work bag had been partially open on the floor and while the human nose couldn't detect the scent of human remains through all the bags, my dog's enhanced olfactory senses must have lit up his purely instinct-driven little brain like a goddamned house-fire.  He had gone after that envelope like a... well... like an animal.

At first, the only thing I could think was: What the hell am I going to tell this guy's family when they ask why all of his stuff looks like someone's been chewing on it?  But the a slightly more concerning realization crossed my mind as I cleaned up the mess.  Loki had eaten the dead guy's package of gum.

I raced over to my computer and pulled up Google.  I typed in "Dog ate gum" and all my worst fears were made reality.  Most sugar-free gum contains the sugar substitute, Xylitol, which is toxic to dogs.  I had no idea if the gum had been sugar-free because Loki, naturally, had eaten the wrapper before he got to the gum itself.  And all I had noted about the gum the day before was the brand name and the fact that the package had been blue.

Swearing loudly, I ran down the hall to drag Loki out from under the bed.  Little bits of blue paper and silver foil still clung to his muzzle.

"MOTHERfucker!" I hollered as I plopped Loki back down to the floor and scrambled into my work clothes.  I crammed the dead-guy's stuff into a zip-lock and snatched the dog up before he could run off and hide again.  I tossed Loki into the passenger side of the county truck and hopped in next to him, murmuring to him over and over in what I hoped was a conciliatory tone that it was going to be okay.  It wasn't his fault, it was my fault.  I was sorry for scaring him etc. etc.  Loki looked unconvinced and, taking his cues from my tone and demeanor, cowered in the front seat in terror as I sped to the vets' office.

The check-in process seemed to take eons.  I could hardly think to answer their questions as I stood there gripping my little dog (who was now visibly shaking) and imagining the poison seeping into his bloodstream.

When I finally did wind up in a room with a veterinarian, the conversation went something like this:

-Dr.- So, your dog ate some gum?

-Me- I think so, I'm not sure how much was in the pack, there were a few pieces left on the floor.  But I know he ate some of it.

-Dr.- Was  it sugar-free gum?

-Me- I don't know.

-Dr.- You don't know?

-Me- No, I don't... I think it was Trident brand...I'm not sure.  Most of their gum is sugar free, right? It wasn't my gum.

-Dr.- It wasn't your gum?  Whose gum was it?

-Me- Ummmm...  this guy I know.

-Dr.- Well... can we ask him what kind of gum it was?

-Me- No.

-Dr.- Well- you can call him... or text him. You can use my phone.

-Me- I don't think he'd answer.

-Dr.- Even if you told him it was an emergency?

-Me- I'm pretty sure he wouldn't care.

The vet gazed at me with an air of confused impatience.  What the hell kind of people was I hanging out with who wouldn't care that my dog may have been poisoned?  More importantly what kind of loose-moraled woman was I that some guy's gum ended up in my puppy's grasp and I had no idea what kind of gum it was.  The fact that I was being purposely vague only made me look more guilty.  I was a gum slut... letting all kinds of gum into my house, willy-nilly, without even knowing it's name.

Well, Loki got the puppy equivalent of  syrup of ipecac and a few short minutes later he obligingly barfed up 6 pieces of gum that may or may not have been sugar-free.  Then the whole drive home he kept trying to lick my face and seemed  offended when I made it clear that his tongue wasn't allowed anywhere on my person.

When the dead guy's belongings were returned to his family, nothing was said about the... ragged appearance of some items.

As for me,  I've now had the expereince I so foolishly wished for and seeing as how it was a  soggy, seeping horror show at every turn, I don't feel compelled to ever express my desire to work a particular type of death scene EVER again...

... of course... that lecture that I saw on a particular serial-killer investigation was really fascinating... and then there was that one presentation on dealing with celebrities' deaths...

... and I've never actually SEEN a homicidal hanging...

or a complete dismemberment...

Of course, I couldn't bring any of the pieces home...