The Breaking Point (Body Farm 9)

“I’ve offered to give the bodies back,” I told her. “If anybody takes me up on it, I’ll gladly deliver the bodies myself. As to how to make sure it doesn’t happen again, I suppose we can check with the Veterans Administration every time we get a body. But what a pain. We screen bodies for AIDS and hepatitis; I didn’t realize we needed to screen them for prior occupation.”

“We live in litigious times, Bill. We can’t afford to risk lawsuits—million-dollar claims for pain and suffering—filed by relatives of those science-project guinea pigs you’ve got rotting on the ground.”

“What an eloquent description,” I snapped. “Mind if I borrow that? It would give that Nashville reporter a much better grasp of the merit and dignity of our research. ‘Science-project guinea pigs, rotting on the ground’: Have I got that right?”

“Sorry,” she said. “That was out of line. You know that’s not what I really think. I’m looking at it as a lawyer; putting it in the worst possible way—the way a plaintiff’s attorney would, if somebody slapped us with a lawsuit. It could happen.”

“Someone could claim my research caused pain and suffering? Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“What about the pain and suffering of dying alone? Where were these sensitive, caring relatives when these poor guys were staring death in the face, with no one to hold their hand or say how much they’d meant?”

“It stinks,” she agreed. “No pun intended. But we need to tread carefully here. I know you have respect for the dead. We just need to make sure that others know that, too.” She paused, then cleared her throat. “The reporter’s pushing hard to get in.”

“No surprise there.” I sighed. “Look, I think it’s a bad, bad idea. We turn her loose in there with a camera, she’ll crucify us. You’ve never been out to the research facility. It’s not pretty, Amanda, what the body goes through after death. That’s why the funeral industry is so huge—that’s why we spend billions of dollars a year to make the dead look like the living. Because we don’t want to confront the ugly reality of our mortality. The buggy, bloated, putrefying reality.”

“Bill, I’m eating lunch here. Or was.”

“If there’s rice on your plate, make sure it’s not wiggling,” I said. She groaned, and I laughed. “But seriously, we don’t want her in there with a camera. She’s got an ax to grind. And she wants to put our necks—my neck—on the chopping block. Tell her no.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “We’re in a bit of a bind here, Bill,” she said finally. “We’re a publicly funded institution. We’re responsible—we’re accountable—to the taxpayers of Tennessee. We don’t have the option of concealing what we’re doing with their money.”

“I’m not trying to conceal it,” I said. “I’m just trying not to rub their noses in it. Because frankly, even though this work is important, it’s not real pleasant. You remember that old TV commercial—for shampoo or hair color?—that showed a gorgeous woman running toward a guy? Slow motion, her long blond hair bounding up and down, up and down, with every stride?”

“Yeah, that rings a bell. Vaguely. Your point being . . . ?”

“Remember the tag line? ‘The closer he gets, the better you look’? The Body Farm’s not like that, Amanda. We’re the opposite. The closer you get, the worse we look. And the worse we smell.”

“I get it, I get it,” she said. “But we have to find some way to accommodate this journalist. It’s a legitimate news story. It might be slanted, it might be unfair, it might be unfavorable—”

“No ‘might be’ about it,” I snapped. “It’s a total hatchet job. I wish I knew who put her onto this, and why.”

“I’ve done some asking around,” she said. “Sounds like it was a disgruntled employee at the VA Hospital. They weren’t even going after you—they wanted the hospital to do better by dead and dying vets. It was the reporter who made the story about us.”

“So why do we even have to cooperate?”

“Because now it is about us, Bill. And even if it’s bad news, it’s news, and we’ve got to make a good-faith effort to cooperate. Otherwise, the story snowballs—it’s no longer just about these four dead veterans, it’s about us, about our secrecy and skullduggery. What other dark deeds might be going on behind that fence? We need a solution. How can we meet her halfway—give her something, but not give away the store?”

I sighed, although I’d guessed she might say something of the sort. “Okay,” I said. “There’s a guy in the public relations office. Name’s Buck. He’s done a few press releases about us. About our research, about forensic cases we’ve helped the police solve. Buck used to work for WBIR, and he’s asked me a couple times about shooting footage at the Body Farm. Wants to make a science documentary, for the Learning Channel or National Geographic or some such. How ’bout I take Buck over, let him get some shots, and give the footage to the Channel Four folks?”

“Good idea. Nothing too graphic, though.”

“Lord no,” I assured her. “Very . . . tasteful.”

“Eating,” she reminded me.

“Sorry. Very discreet. I’m thinking a fresh body—freshest we’ve got, anyhow—and some bare bones. A nice white skeleton.”

“I don’t think we should muddy the water with race,” she said.

“Huh? With what?”

“Race. You said ‘a nice white skeleton.’ I wouldn’t bring up race.”

I laughed. “The bones,” I said, “not the donor. White bones. Bare bones. Sun-bleached bones.”

“Oh,” she said. “Right. I knew that.”

AN HOUR AFTER MY PHONE CALLS WITH THE DEAN and the legal eagle, I crossed the river, looped past the medical center, and threaded through the hospital employees’ parking lot. The lot was nearly full; the only unclaimed spaces were in the farthest corner, beside the high wooden fence surrounding the Body Farm. Those spots were almost never taken; they were the last resorts of hospital workers too late to be choosy—especially on hot summer days like this one, when the research facility gave new meaning—literal, eye-watering meaning—to the phrase “body odor.”

A single vehicle was parked in the normally vacant spots. But it was not parked between the lines, nose to the fence. Instead, it was parked parallel to the fence, straddling three parking places. It was a white Chevy Blazer labeled EYEWITNESS 4 NEWS, and on top of the Blazer was a tripod, and on top of the tripod was a video camera, and peering through the viewfinder was the cameraman from Channel 4. Perched beside him, looking almost comically incongruous in her tailored suit and power pumps, was my nemesis, Athena Demopoulos.

I stop

ped fifty yards away. Taking out my phone, I scrolled through my contacts to the number of the medical center police and pressed “call.” “Dis-patch,” answered a woman with an East Tennessee twang.

“This is Dr. Brockton,” I said. “There’s a television news crew parked outside the Body Farm. They’re up on top of their car with a video camera.”

“Yes, sir,” said the dispatcher, and to my surprise, she chuckled. “Emmett said he’d be sleeping on the sofa for a week if his wife saw him helping that gal get up there.”

“Emmett? Who’s Emmett? What are you talking about?”

“Emmett. Officer Edmonds. He had to boost that lady reporter up. It took a push to the tush, if you know what I mean.”

“Wait,” I said. “You’re telling me that one of your officers has already seen them? And helped them?”

“Well, yes, sir,” she said, suddenly sounding nervous. “She—the lady—she said you were on your way. Told them to meet you here. She told him you’d got snagged on a phone call with the chancellor or some other muckety-muck, but you said to go ahead and get started, and you’d be right there.” She paused. “Are you . . . not there?”

“I am here,” I said. “Would you please radio Officer Friendly and ask him to come right back?”

“Sir?”

“I need Emmett to escort his new girlfriend off the premises.”

“But she said—”

“I don’t give a damn what she said,” I snapped. “It’s not true. I didn’t tell them to meet me here, and I certainly don’t want them looking over my fence with a TV camera.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll send him right away.”

“Thank you.”

I hung up and pulled forward, tucking in behind the Blazer. Athena Demopoulos glanced my way, then muttered to her cameraman, who kept his eye glued to the viewfinder. As I was getting out, I heard the wail of a siren, and a police cruiser lurched to a screeching stop beside the Blazer. The door opened and a stocky young officer got out, his face flaming, his brow beaded with sweat. “Dr. Brockton, I’m so sorry,” he said. “She told me—”