P.I. Files: Day to day life of Polly the P.I.

WARNING: DISTURBING

2007-01-18T07:57:00.000-06:00

I look at my watch. It's time. Det. Porte catches my eye and we each make our way slowly into the room. Det. Porte speaks. "The medical examiner needs to examine the body now. Everybody please leave the room."

Six or seven people clear out and only the father and grandmother remain. The father looks up at me. His eyes are dull and and his face is expressionless. "Will I see her again after you do the examination?" He's holding the little body protectively as if he's ready to fight anybody that comes near.

"I will need to interview you after I do the examination." I say quietly. "You can come back in here with your mother at that time, but nobody else. After the interview, I need to take her with me back to the Medical Examiner's Office, do you understand?" I am sitting in a chair across the room. I don't want to get too close yet. I need him to trust me first. He nods his head and looks back down at his child. His chin is trembling as he brings a shaky hand up to stroke her cheek. I look down at a spot on the floor in front of me. Det. Porte is also averting his eyes. As always, I feel like a voyeur intruding on somebody's most private and vulnerable moments.

The grandmother goes to her son and nudges him up. "Put her down, son. Let the lady do her job. We'll be back soon." The white paper crinkles as he lays the child on the table. I hear a quiet sob from deep in his throat. The grandmother puts her arm around him. As they pass me I touch the father's arm and whisper to him. "I'll take care of her. I promise." He meets my eyes before allowing his mother to lead him out of the room.

The door shuts with a click. I sigh deeply and look over at Det. Porte. "This sucks," I say.

"Yeah. At this rate we're not going to get out of here for another hour, at least."

I turn to the tiny form on the table. I fold back the blanket. Her skin is as white as snow except for some flushing around the upper chest area. I look closely for crease marks from the couch cushions or blankets that might indicate how she was positioned at the time of death. There is nothing. I'm not surprised. She was found shortly after she died and then was moved. There was no time for impressions to settle.

She's wearing nothing but a diaper. I estimate her to be about 2'5" tall with plenty of baby fat. No bruises or traumas. My initial impression that she would be too big for a roll-over is strengthened. I check her eyes to be sure. I am looking for any sign of petechiae, small pin-pricks of hemmhoraging that are indicative of asphyxiation. Nothing. Her bright blue eyes are crystal clear. I open her mouth to look for bruising or damage to the frenulum. Again, nothing. "She appears well cared for. No indication of neglect or abuse. If she asphyxiated, it would have been at a very, very slow rate because there are no signs of petechiael hemmhorage in her eyes and no pressure marks on her body. The only scenario I can imagine is if dad was drugged to the point that he didn't feel her struggling or heard her making noise." Det. Porte takes out a pad of paper and starts writing.

I feel her torso and her extremities. I bend the joints in her feet, fingers, and knees looking for rigor. It's slight. Just beginning. "She's still very warm." I check my watch. "It's been four hours since she was found. Usually a baby will cool at a much faster rate than an adult. I would have expected her to be near room temperature and in full rigor right now, but she's been wrapped in a blanket and pressed against her father's body for hours."

I turn her on her side to check her back. The skin is flushed red from blood settling to the lowest point. I press a finger into the flesh and watch as it blanches white. "Lividity has not yet set." I take some photographs and then swaddle the little girl back up in the blankets. I glance at Porte as I work, remembering what the DA said about the child possibly ingesting her father's prescription psych meds. "There's nothing conclusive here. We'll have to wait for tox to come back before we know anything for sure."

"Maybe you'll have more luck getting the dad to talk. He doesn't like me for some reason." Porte smiles sheepishly.

"I can't imagine why not." I say sarcastically. "You're like a big teddy bear. All sensitive and in touch with your feminine side..."

Porte grunts. "Yeah. That's me. You want me to bring the dad back in? I'll just sit over there in the corner and hope he forgets I'm here."

Porte leaves the room and returns mementarily with the father and grandmother. I am sitting next to the baby on the edge of the examining table. I have my hand touching the blanket. I want dad to know that I am watching over his little girl.

He walks over and kisses her cheek, whispering something that I can't quite hear as he does so. I back away again, not wanting to make the father feel at all that I'm stealing his baby.

"Do you know what happened to her?" The father asks.

People ask me this a lot after I examine a body and only very rarely can I give them something solid in response. "No. I'm sorry. We won't know anything until after the autopsy and toxicology come back. That can take a while, so I need you to try and be patient. I know you're looking for answers and it's frustrating to wait, but it may be a couple of weeks or longer before we can give you any difinitive cause of death."

He nods his head and looks me straight in the eye. "I didn't hurt my baby. I was a good father."

I say nothing, only reach over and touch his arm. "I am going to need to ask you some questions to help us figure out what happened to your daughter. Some of them may seem insulting to you, but keep in mind that they are necessary questions that we ask every parent who suffers the loss of a baby, good parents and bad parents alike. Okay?"

He nods again. I start out asking him to give me the general story of what happened from the time he woke up in the morning. He explains that he and his little girl woke up late in the morning. He said he fed her a cereal bar and was just getting ready to take his meds when the phone rang. He left the bottle open on the counter. When he got back the little girl had pushed a stool up to the counter and was standing on top of it. He was afraid she'd eaten some of the pills and swept her mouth with a cloth. He found nothing and assumed everything was okay. "I should have taken her to the emergency room," he says. "I should have." Yes. You should have, I think to myself sadly.

"Can I hold her while you talk to me?" He asks.

"Yes. Go ahead." He picks the child up and sits back down in the rocking chair. He looks down at her and then up at me again. "Why is she so stiff?" He asks me. "She wasn't like this before."

Det. Porte speaks up from the corner of the room. "It's part of the process of decomposition. It's called rigor mortis." I glance over at Porte in irritation. I probably wouldn't have said it in quite that way.

"It's normal," I say. The father seems to accept this as he continues to rock in the chair.

I ask him about his daughter's prenatal care. Was she born full term? He tells me that the girl's mother was on heroine during the pregnancy and she was born a month premature and addicted to drugs. Did she have any resulting disabilities? No. Was she exposed to any illnesses recently? Who besides himself cared for her? How was his health? He tells me he's schizophrenic and suffers from severe depression and he has to be on powerful meds to keep it under control. I imagine how difficult it would be caring for a toddler while in a drug-enduced fog.

After I finish the interview I check my watch again and tell him that it's time for me to take her. He starts to sob and holds the baby close. His mother comes over and whispers in his ear and I move in front of him. I know from experience that unless I reach for the baby he won't let go. I bend down and place my arms under his. I whisper to him that I'm sorry. That I promise to take care of her. That it will be okay. He lets me lift the little girl out of his arms.

There will be no body bag or stretcher for this child. I turn her toward me and tuck her close with her head resting on my shoulder. I feel the familiar weight of her. It's so natural to hold a child like this. Like a mother with her own offspring. Det. Porte takes my bag and opens the door for me. I craddle the back of the little girl's head with my free arm and avoid making eye contact with anybody in the hall. I hear voices all around me rise up in anguished cries. Four police officers flank me on all sides as we move quickly away from the crowd of people and down the corridor.

When we get to the van, Det. Porte opens the back for me. "No. I'll take her up front."

"You sure?" he asks.

"I'm sure."

I step up into the driver's seat and lay the baby across my lap. I just can't bring myself to strap her to the cot or lie her on the floorboard of the van.

"I'll meet you guys back at the morgue," I say before slamming the door and driving away.

The doc is waiting for us. She's appropriately upset that we're an hour late getting back, but understands how it can get with families. Her physical exam is fairly consistent with my own and she echos my doubts about this case being a roll-over.

"Okay," she says. "Did the warrant go through okay?" she asks D.A. Tate.

"Yep. All set, ma'am. We were just waiting for you."

"Well, let's get going. Maybe we can wrap this up before midnight."

"Hey, doc?" I ask. "Do you want me to get a body bag for her?"

"Nah. She should be okay until tomorrow morning."

The doc and detectives leave the office. I am alone for just a moment with the little girl. I wrap the blanket around her tightly, making sure her toes are tucked in and her shoulders are covered. It will be cold in the cooler, I think irrationally.

I softly hum a lullaby as I push the tray into the cooler. I tuck her in between two other bodies, a tiny pink bundle. I am sad and I am drained, but I have hours of work ahead of me yet tonight and I need to go. I touch her forehead.

"Goodnight, little one," I say. I walk to the cooler door and shut it behind me. I pick up my bag and turn off the lights on my way out.

1-13-07a WARNING: DISTURBING

2007-01-13T15:51:00.000-06:00

I call the Doc and she says she'll be at the ME's office to examine the body in 45 minutes. I turn back toward the family and wait with the other four or five law enforcement officials. I want to give them time, but I also need to examine the body and get it back to the morgue as soon as possible.

The cluster of people in the room prevent me from seeing the father or the child. An older man walks out with red-rimmed eyes. He looks me up and down. "Are you the dead doc?" He blurts.

Wow. I'm not quite sure how to respond. "I guess so," I say, "though I've never been called that before."

"Well, he's dead. That's for sure." The man wipes his eyes and watches me, expectantly.

This time I don't say anything.

"You know, I always watch those weird dead people shows on TV. I get a kick out of that stuff."

I nod my head and give him a weak smile. "They're pretty good." (It's about this point where I remind myself that people all handle grief in different ways.)

Det. Porte walks over and whispers in my ear asking if they should clear out the room, now. I look at my watch. The Doc will be at the office soon. "Go tell the father that in five minutes I will need the room cleared so I can examine the body. That way he can prepare himself and we can maybe avert a scene."

Det. Porte nods his head once and heads into the room. The people surrounding the father and his little girl part like a wave and I get a fleeting glimpse of a tall man with short dirty blond hair sitting in a wooden rocking chair. He's got a bundle of pink blanket in his arms and is rocking it gently. He is looking down at a shock of shiny blond curls peeking out from the top of the wrap. There are tiny alabaster toes visible at the other end.

Oh, you poor baby, I think. Pity and grief well up in me and I suddenly remember the feel of all the babies I've carried out of hospitals and homes over the years. I turn away from the door and walk a few paces toward the wall behind me. My heart is racing in my chest and I feel off-balance. I can feel the sharp sting of tears threatening behind my eyes and I concentrate on a sign posted on the laundry shoot in front of me. "CAUTION: DO NOT LEAVE DOOR OPEN" I read it over and over again. I am on a crumbling precipice and I need to do something quickly to keep myself from falling out of control. I study the red block letters that were spray-painted on the metal door with a stencil. I imagine myself in a gray jumpsuit. I am shaking a can of red spray paint, listening as the mixing beads knock around inside. I place a cut-out piece of cardboard stock carefully up on the metal door, tape it down with masking tape, and spray a coat over the top, making sure it's thick enough so the fat letters will be easy to read and thin enough so they won't run...

When I allow myself back to reality a minute or two later my breathing has evened out and my pulse has slowed. I raise an eyebrow as I turn back toward the room. Cool. I can't believe that worked. Visualization. I'll have to remember that.

More later...

1-13-07 WARNING: DISTURBING

2007-01-13T08:12:00.000-06:00

It's 5:00pm on Tuesday night. I'm not on call until 6:00pm, but I've already strapped on the pager and charged up the cell phone. Tonight I plan on going out with some girlfriends that I have been neglecting for the past, oh, year or so. It's always a roll of the dice making plans on nights that I'm on call. I guess we'll see.

5:03pm
HELL! My pager just went off. It's Nancy, my boss from the ME's office. Nancy is a very busy woman, so I've offered, on occasion, to take call early if she should get stuck with anything an hour or so before she's off for the evening. Unfortunately, Nancy more than took me up on the offer so that at least half the time I can expect to get a call or page before my shift starts.

I ignore the page. My pager is not officially on yet, I tell myself. Then my phone rings. I ignore it, too, knowing that if I take an early call I will never make it back in time to go out with the girls. Pretty soon my cell phone starts beeping at me, letting me know I have a message. What if a plane crashed or a chemical plant blew up and all hands are needed? What if the call is for somebody that Nancy knows and she just can't handle it?

DAMN! I open the phone and dial in my code for messages. "Um...Polly? It's Nancy. Can you please call me when you get this message? Thanks." Click.

I look at the phone and scowl. "Coward." I mutter. I walk back up to the bedroom and put the phone back on the charger. LHM is snuggled up under a blanket taking a nap. He stirs and turns to face me as I swear softly under my breath. "Whaa? Everything okay?"

"No," I snap. "Nancy is trying to get me to take call early again but I'm not going to do it. I have plans tonight. If it's my scheduled shift and I get called out, okay. But this isn't mine."

"Hmmm," he mutters and turns back toward the wall.

My pager goes off three times and the phone two more times without Nancy bothering to leave a message. Finally, on her third call (at 5:30pm) she leaves another message. "Polly, I was hoping you could take a call for me. It's a 20-month-old baby that was brought into the ER pulseless and not breathing. I've been holding off the hospital and haven't gotten anymore information than that, but I know this is going to be a long one and I just can't take it."

A baby. I close the phone without bothering to erase the message. I immediately start asking myself questions I don't have answers to. How did a baby end up dead in the ER? Was it a boy or a girl? Was it abuse? Neglect? An accident? I can feel my anxiety level rising. As soon as I start asking the questions, I know this is my case. I am now vested and need to get the answers.

I dial Nancy back and she answers on the first ring. "Hey, Nanc. What's up?" She gives me the few details she already has. A roll-over death. Dad was taking a nap with the little girl and when he woke up she was behind him, face-down between the couch cushions.

I call the ER and get further details from the nurse. She doesn't know much, either. She tells me that there are cops swarming the place and that the father is in the room holding the baby. "He's been holding her since the doctor pronounced. We can't get him to let go." I swollow a lump in my throat imagining this man rocking his dead baby. When you get right down to it, a body is a piece of evidence. We (and hospital staff, for that matter) are strictly instructed to prevent anybody from handling it after death. On the other hand, this father's baby just died. I reason that the damage is already done. "Just make sure that only the parents handle the body and that they know not to remove any tubes or alter anything. "They know. I already told them." The nurse assures me.

I head to the ME's office right away. I pick up an infant death questionnaire and a special doll that we use for reinactments. This is an invaluable tool when trying to determine what position a baby was in at the time of death because when a baby is found unconscious adults invariably move them.

Twenty months, I think as I drive to the hospital. That's really old for a roll-over. She wasn't a helpless infant anymore. You would think she would have struggled or screamed loud enough to wake dad.

I arrive at the back entrance and am greeted by two security guards in scarlet blazers. We chat as we take the elevator up to the first floor. They tell me there are at least twenty family members gathered in the ER and that they are very emotional. I walk down the long hallway that leads to the "family room", a place designated for those who just lost a loved one or who are waiting out an emergency situation. A crowd of people are loitering in the hall outside of Room 1. Room 1 is where ER staff always put bodies before transferring them to the morgue. It's right across from the family room and is out of the way of the rest of the ER. As I approach, Det. Port sees me and begins walking my way. We whisper greetings and he tells me what he knows..which isn't much.

"This guy is a piece of work. He won't tell us jack about what happened. We've got cops outside his home but he won't allow us entry. The DA is getting a search warrant as we speak."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. A search warrant? I thought this was a roll-over."

"Yeah. Well, things aren't adding up. Seems he fell asleep on the couch with the kid on his chest. Less than an hour later, his girlfriend showed up at the house and woke him up. No kid. He pulled back the blanket and she was lying there by his feet with her face in the cushions. They thought she was sleeping so they covered her with the blanket and went into the kitchen to make dinner. About an hour later, they went back into the living room to wake her and dad noticed that it smelled like vomit. He picked her up and saw she was blue in the face. They called 911 and did chest compressions and breathing as instructed by the dispatcher until rescue arrived."

I note that CPR was performed. This is very important because many times adults who are trying to save a child do chest compressions and inadvertently break ribs or cause bruising...injuries that look very much like child abuse if not documented.

A short, squat man with a gravely voice approaches us. He's wearing a ratty sweatshirt, jeans, and is carrying a gym bag. I figure he's a family member, but then he reaches out his hand to shake mine. "I'm Assistant DA Tate." Oh. Well. That'll teach me to judge a book by its cover. I grip his hand and introduce myself. He tells me that he wants the doc out here, stat. He wants her to examine the body and then come to the residence after the warrant is issued.

"Well, Dr. Frank is aware of the case as we understood it. A roll-over. She generally relies on my incident reports in these cases and, though I already invited her to accompany me to the home scene, refused the offer. So, before I really piss her off by calling her out in the middle of the night, can you enlighten me as to why this is potential criminal investigation material?"

"Sure." He says. "The father was on anti-psych meds. Really strong ones. To the point where he couldn't function on a job or drive a vehicle. Family said his speech was slurred and he got so off-balance that one time he fell down the stairs into the basement and broke his collarbone."

"Where's the mother?" I ask. "Is there anybody who was helping him care for the baby?"

"Not really. The girlfriend worked during the day, so he was the primary caregiver. The mother is currently in jail on drug charges."

"So, what are you thinking? Neglect?" I ask.

"Well, he mentioned to one of the nurses that he left his little girl and an open bottle of meds on the kitchen counter when the phone rang."

"Possible accidental overdose."

"Yeah."

"Damn."

"Yeah."

More later...

This is Cali.

2007-01-09T20:59:00.000-06:00

Cali is a rescue dog from the local Humane Society that I adopted this afternoon. She's part Border Collie part Golden Retriever (and a few other varieties thrown in there, too, if you ask me). She was a stray that was found near a local grocery store. She was skinny and shy and skittish when I met her the day after the Humane Society got her. I would have taken her home that day, but they have a week waiting period in case her owners (if she had any) came looking for her. Her back paw was hurt and she had a big gash on the back of her head. We think she was rolled by a car.

Anyway, she's really smart and funny. She already knows her name and follows the comands "get your toy", "sit", "stay", "down" and "lay in your bed". Not only that, but she already goes to the bathroom in one precise corner of the yard (after my showing her only twice). Somebody must have loved her very much and spent a lot of time training her. Either that or she's the smartest dog ever.

I am seriously thinking of training her to be a cadaver dog. We'll see how she reacts to me coming home some night with dead guy smell all over me...

My new puppy!!

2007-01-09T20:53:00.000-06:00

12/29/06 WARNING: GRAPHIC/DISTURBING

2006-12-29T15:33:00.000-06:00

LHM and I examine the woman's driver's license picture. She had a broad smile that reached all the way to her pretty gray eyes.

"It's hard to believe that they're the same person," LHM says.

"That person is gone," I say softly. "There's no way we're going to get a visual ID on her, though, that's for sure. Let's hope we can find a dentist with some good x-rays on file."

I return to the living room and mentally walk through just how we are going to remove the body. Fortunately, she's wearing jeans. That will give us some traction. Her upper body is bare but for a thin cotton tank top, though, and that poses a problem.

"I'm afraid that the joints in her shoulders won't hold if we put too much pressure on them," I say. "I don't think lifting her down to the floor is an option."

"You mean you're afraid she'll fall apart?" LHM asks.

"Yeah. Her body has been decomposing for a month and the connective tissues are likely to be very fragile."

"Great. On that note, I'm going to go get the cot."

"Can you grab a sheet or a couple of towels, too? It will provide more resistance when we grasp the upper torso."

While LHM is getting the cot, I examine the body more closely. She was about 130 lbs, though bloating makes it hard to accurately determine weight. No evidence of trauma, though it's virtually impossible to tell with the body in this state. I see no tattoos or scars. Clumps of dirty brown hair are beginning to slough off the scalp as the folicles deteriorate and soften. I use the corner of her shirt to push down her jaw so I can see inside her mouth. Her tongue is black and swollen and it obscures my view.

I sit back on my heals and huff in frustration as LHM returns with the cot. "There is no point in doing this right now," I say. "I'll finish when we get back to the morgue. There's hardly anything left to work with, anyway. She's so far along that I don't even know if tox will give us answers."

LHM has some bad news, too. "No towels and no sheets."

I roll my eyes. Of course not. "It's my own fault. I should have made sure the van was restocked before we left."

"Maybe we can use the shower curtain in the bathroom," LHM suggests.

I shake my head. "No. It's plastic. We'd be back to the same wet noodle scenario again."

I walk into the bedroom and find a wadded up old sheet on the floor. "This will do."

We place the body bag at the foot of the couch and I ask LHM to hold onto the feet and make sure they don't move as I guide the rest of the body down to the floor. I use the sheet to grasp the arms. I slowly lift them over the head and listen as the joints pop in the socket. "No," I say, shaking my head. "This isn't going to work. I'm afraid we're going to break her." I stand back and reassess the situation.

"What if we tip the couch and let her roll off?" LHM suggests.

I consider...imagining the poor woman spilling off the couch and landing in the body bag with a thud. So little dignity for what was once a human being. But at the same time, it would be worse to tear her arms off and I didn't have any better ideas.

"Okay. Let's do it." I take the cushion from off the floor and place it approximately where I think she will land. LHM goes to one end of the couch and tips it up on it's side. The body begins to slide forward slightly, making a slurping sound as it separates from the couch. I hear LHM gag and look up at him. He wretches again before setting the couch down and quickly walking to the open window for fresher air.

"Oh..." he says, as he turns back into the room and begins to pace. "Sorry," he gives me a quick glance and a smile. "I forgot to breath from my mouth. The smell was just so strong when we started to move her..."

I watch him as he regains control. "Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yeah. I just needed a second. I'm fine. Let's finish this." He sounds determined as he walks back to the end of the couch and tips it again.

This time he angles sharply enough that she falls forward and tumbles onto the cushion before rolling onto her back. She is half in the bag already and it doesn't take much more for me to slide her in position. We place the first body bag inside another one because the outside of the first is covered in decomp fluid. Then we load her into the van and are on the way back to the morgue 10 minutes later.

"So," I say as I drive away from the apartment complex, "what did you think?"

Having just finished spraying himself down with Fabreeze, LHM is now pumping half a bottle of hand sanitizer into his palm. "What do I think? I think I'd rather do the dead rats." he says.

12/27/06b WARNING: GRAPHIC/DISTURBING

2006-12-27T12:30:00.000-06:00

"Your transport guy said that you wanted something?" Jonas is standing in the doorway with his sleeve covering his nose and mouth.

"Yeah. I have some questions. First, who was the last person to see her alive?"

"The sister. She said she talked to her a couple of weeks ago, but she wasn't exactly sure of the date."

"We need to get the date of death down more precisely. Did you check the mailbox yet? Postmark dates on mail that wasn't picked up can narrow it down."

"No. We didn't find any keys."

Yeah. I bet you didn't look very hard, either. "Okay. Also, I noticed there are 59 messages on the answering machine. One of your guys need to check those and mark the date of the earliest call.

"I'll send in a uniform. Anything else?"

"Yeah. Do you have a social security number?"

"No. We didn't find a wallet, either."

I sigh. "Okay, thanks."

Jonas is gone before I finish my sentence.

LHM walks through the doorway a few seconds later with flood light and camera in hand.

"We need to find this woman's wallet and keys." I take the light and walk into the kitchen before flipping the switch. The details of the room reveal themselves in technicolor splendor. The sworm of flies blanketing the liquified bananas on top of the refrigerator. The pot of mystery soup on the stove layered with a crusty pinkish brown film. The dirty dishes in the sink. The mop propped in a bucket full of filthy sludge water.

"Ugh." I say as I pull on some gloves. I open cupboards and find at least 50 or 60 bottles of herbal supplements. I checked the dates on them. Most were new. A few in the back were expired. "We need to take all this in. Maybe a few of these pills she was taking reacted with one another and gave her a heart attack or a stroke or something."

LHM give me a look. "Yeah, it can't be good for a person to take a handful of supplements every day."

LHM is referencing the 13 pills I take every morning. I roll my eyes. "I don't take herbs, I take a few phytonutrients, fish oil, a multivitamin, Vit D, and potassium. All this stuff is weirdo powdered mushroom cap and hogwart root extract and bark of willow..." I make a show of dismissing him, but can't help feeling uneasy. I make a silent vow to revisit this later when I'm not in the middle of investigating a death scene.

I try to pull open the refigerator door and the flies lift off the rotten fruit and decent on me like a cloud. I wave my hand above my head to shoo them away. "The door is stuck. Hold on." I hand LHM the light and try again. I prop my foot against the counter top and pull. There is a loud tearing sound as the seal finally breaks.

I wipe my forearm over my brow and then peer inside. An unopened bottle of milk. Desicated fruit and veggies. Mustard. I pick up the milk and look at the sell by date. Three weeks prior. "About how many days before the sell by date do stores usually stock milk?"

"I dunno. About a week?" LHM guesses.

"Yeah. That sounds about right. I think she's been here for more than two weeks. Let's go take a look at the body."

We walk back into the living room. The decedent's flesh is almost black in color. Her lips are swollen and her tongue is protruding from her mouth. Her eyes bulge from their sockets. Purge from her nose and mouth ooze down the side of her face and neck and into her hairline. It looks like clotted black jelly. Bubbles of putrid liquid are under the flesh of her legs and back where her body is touching the fabric of the couch. "Her skin is slipping," I point out to LHM.

"Charming." He replies. "It's all slimy underneath." He directs the light to the puddles of fatty fluid that are soaked into the cushions.

"Yeah. That, my friend, is adipocere. Basically, when a person dies the fat in their body liquifies." I grab his hand and switch the focus of the light back to the head. "Look there." I point. "Maggots." Two kinds of tiny white worms crawl in and out of an opening in the flesh behind the decedent's ear.

"The little thin ones are the same as on the bananas in the kitchen." LHM observes. "And look," he shines the light on a tiny black tubular structure attached to the couch cushion. "It's a pupal case. That means that we're talking at least two generations of flies. At least three weeks."

I look up at him and smile. "I almost forgot you were an entomology geek. You could really come in handy, you know." I reach out and touch the exposed flesh on the torso. Leathery. Dry. The hands are fisted. I look closer. Hard. Mummified. "It's going to be tough pulling prints off of her."

I get up and lead LHM into the bedroom. A bible lay on the bed along with an empty dinner plate with a fork and steak knife. The UV lights are off. No plants are under them. Packets of vegetable and fruit seeds are on a nightstand along with a carbon copy of a lease renewal dated and signed November 20. I rummage through a pile of dirty clothes behind the door and find a jacket with...tah-dah!...keys and a wallet. And a receipt dated November 22.

A uniform cop walks in and tells me that he just finished listening to the answering machine and the first message was from November 24.

"Okay," I say. "I'm going to estimate the date of death to be the evening of November 22nd or 23rd, then. A month."

More later...

12/27/06a WARNING: GRAPHIC/DISTURBING

2006-12-27T10:17:00.000-06:00

We pull into the apartment complex and park. Cops are loitering on the sidewalk outside the building.

"Okay," I say. "Grab a couple of pairs of gloves. Those heavy duty ones. You seriously DON'T want gloves to break when you're moving a decomp. We'll bring the body bag in after I do the investigation, so don't bother with that yet."

"Don't you have HAZMAT suits or something for this?" LHM asks.

"There are paper jumpsuits in the back and booties to slip over your shoes, if you like. We've also got face shields and respirators if you think you'll need them."

"Are you using one?" LHM asks.

I smile at him. "Booties, yes, but I have yet to wear one of the jumpsuits or use a respirator in the years I've been doing this. That would have to be a hell of a messy scene. Also, I need to smell it."

"Smell the scene?" he raises an eyebrow at me.

"Yeah. Smells can provide clues, too. For example, what if the dead guy in question actually killed somebody and stuffed them in the storage unit outside the apartment before taking their own life? Being able to smell two sources of decomp would be rather important. And certain odors like 'nutty' or 'sweet' can point to a poisoning. That sort of thing."

"Yeah, well I don't think we're going to encounter anything as pleasant as 'nutty' or 'sweet' tonight." LHM mutters as he slips out the passenger side of the van.

I walk to the front door of the apartment building with LHM behind me. After a few introductions, I turn to Detective Jonas and get the jist of what they have so far. The decedent is a 40-year-old white female. She lived alone in the apartment and was a factory worker at a local mill. Nobody at work seemed to miss her when she didn't show up for a month. Her boss said that she was pretty unreliable and he figured she just quit without bothering to tell anybody. Her sister said that she'd tried calling several times but it was normal for the decedent to ignore phone calls, so she wasn't worried. "This chick was a serious health and fitness nut, too." Detective Jonas said. "The cupboards are full of herbal supplement shit and she's got huge drums of protein powder on the cabinets."

"Where did she workout?" I was hoping maybe I could interview people at her gym, but also wondered if she went to mine and I might know her.

"I don't think she had a gym. There's workout equipment in the dinette where a kitchen table should be, so I'm pretty sure she worked out at home. Also, there were UV lights in her bedroom where she grew her own organic vegetables. And this is the weirdest thing of all...she's got three or four huge fish tanks full of water but without fish in them."

"Huh," I say. "The UV lights make me think she was growing weed. Any history of drug arrests?"

"Nah. I thought that too at first but I couldn't find anything that would point to her growing pot. She was too concerned with eating clean."

"Hmm. If that's true then maybe the tanks of water were because she was planning on buying baby fish and raising them for her own consumption," I say half to myself.

"Crazy." Jonas said simply. He ran a hand over his bald head and pulled his scarf more tightly around his neck. "It's damn cold tonight."

I give him a sideways glance as I open the front door of the building. A strong smell of decomp wafts out along with warm, moist air. "You're welcome to come in here with us if you like."

LHM and I step into the hallway and walk a few paces. I look behind us at the closing door. "Yeah, I didn't think so."

I walk to the open apartment door and am hit by wave after wave of putrid air. My eyes begin to water. "Breath through your mouth," I say over my shoulder.

"Already on that," LHM mutters.

I see the blue glow of a television casting ghostly shadows over the rest of the room. A dark figure is sprawled on the couch. I flip the light switch but nothing happens. I walk in a bit further and try to turn on a floor lamp by the wall. Again. Nothing. "No lights. But there's electricity because the TV is on."

"Maybe the bulbs burned out." LHM suggested. "The lights were probably on when she died."

"Yeah. Probably." I look around as my eyes try to adjust to the light. One of the couch cushions and the television remote are on the floor. She was struggling for breath, maybe. Or thrashing with pain. I look over at LHM. His face is neutral as his eyes scan the room and light ever so briefly on the body before skimming back to the other details of the scene. It's going to take me a while to learn to read this man that I married. I decide that the best thing to do is to keep him busy.

"Honey, can you please go out to the van and get the flood light? It's in the box between the two front seats. I also need the digital camera. And can you ask Jonas to get in here? I need to ask him some questions."

"I'm sure he'll love that," LHM chuckles. "Anything else?"

I give him kiss on the cheek. "I'll let you know."

LHM walks out of the apartment and I turn back to the scene.

More later...

12/27/06

2006-12-27T10:05:00.000-06:00

I call dispatch and they give me the address of the decedent.

"So, Clara, can you tell me anything?" I ask.

"Oh..." Clara chuckles. "You're gonna love this one. Been there for at least two weeks."

I groan. I'm the queen of decomps.

"Two weeks? Didn't she have anybody who cared enough to check on her?"

I get the phone number of the lead detective and hang up. While I'm dialing Detective Jonas, I look over my shoulder at LHM and he gives me an encouraging smile.

Detective Jonas answers on the first ring. "Hey!" Jonas sounds chipper. "I haven't seen you in a while! Where've you been, Sunshine?"

"I was on my honeymoon in paradise. You know...far far from here." I smile as I sit back in my chair.

"Isn't that a song? Honeymoon in Paradise?" Jonas asks.

"No. I think it's a low-budget 80's porn flick, actually, but thanks for asking. So, what's up with the decomp?"

Jonas proceeds to tell me about a 40-year-old woman that hasn't been seen for at least two weeks. The apartment complex manager, Zed, called the decedent's sister and the cops that morning because fellow residents were complaining of the smell. After forcing entry, they found her slumped on the couch in an advanced stage of decomposition.

"Any suspicion of foul play?" I ask?

"No. The apartment manager said he propped some mail up on the door two weeks ago and it hasn't moved. All the doors and windows were locked from the inside. I haven't taken a good look at the body, mind you. The smell is just so bad. Do you have anybody to help you move her when you get here? I can't go back in there."

I pull the phone from my ear and look at the reciever in disgust. Big baby. "Don't worry about it," I say and hang up.

I look over at LHM again as he happily continues to work on the desk...completely oblivious to what I'm about to ask of him. Poor, man. He had no idea what he was getting into when he married me.

"Hey, uh, honey?" He looks over at me. So innocent, I think to myself. Like a lamb before the slaughter. "Whatcha doin'?" I cock my head to the side and flutter my eyelashes at him in what I hope is an irrisistably provocative way.

"I'm doing exactly what I've been doing for the past hour." He puts the screw driver down on the floor next to him. "And you can stop flapping your eyes at me. I don't know why you think pretending your going into a grand mal seizure will make me want to help you more. I'll do it, but you seriously owe me."

I jump up from the chair and give him a huge hug. What a guy. I can't believe I was seriously considering demasculinizing him not 10 minutes ago. "Thank you, honey! It's just that the stupid cops are being big babies and refuse to go into the apartment."

"Yeah. I gathered that. Let me go put my crappiest clothes on. I hope this doesn't wreck my sneakers."

While we drive to the scene I coach LHM on how to avoid barfing from the smell. I also tell him to stand back and let me do the talking. "You're the brawn, darlin'. Strong and silent. Like a bouncer only you have to get your hands a little dirty. And don't tell anybody you're my husband."

"Whatever you say." LHM sits back and looks out the window for a moment before turning back to me. "I've had to clean dead rats out of an attic once before and that was pretty horrible. I can't imagine this is any worse than that."

You have no idea. I smile at him encouragingly. "I've never done dead rat before, so you'll have to let me know if it's different."

More later.

12/26/06

2006-12-26T13:07:00.000-06:00

1:06 p.m.

I can't believe I double posted. I AM rusty...

It's Wednesday night and I am on call for the first time since getting back from my honeymoon. You would think I'd be refreshed and excited to be back to work, but instead I'm crabby and irritated. It's raining outside and only a few days before Christmas. It could at least snow if I have to live in the Arctic tundra, I think as I read a magazine and pout in my office chair.

I look over at LHM. He is sitting on the floor trying to put a computer desk together...or I should say re-put it together.

It was originally my project and after 3 hours of nailing, drilling, and screwing, I tightened the last screw and stood back. I called LHM over to join me in admiring my work when he pointed out that one of the bottom shelf panels had somehow allegedly been screwed on backwards so that the lovely particle board side was showing.

"Oh, for hell's sake!" I threw my arms up in frustration. "I'll have to take the whole top and three sides apart to fix that!"

Pause. I looked at the desk again.

"It's fine the way it is," I said finally. "I'll just stack some books on it and nobody will be the wiser."

LHM, somehow not sensing my level of hostility and the danger he was placing himself in, chose that moment to grasp my shoulder conspiratorially, crack a wide (stupid) grin, and offer to fix the desk himself since..."Honey, everyone knows that men are better at this sort of thing, anyway."

I was debating the pros and cons of ruining his chance at fathering offspring when my pager went off.

More later...

Ho! Ho! Ho!

2006-12-26T10:22:00.001-06:00

Merry Christmas, my dear friends!

I'm sorry I haven't been around for a while. I just got back from a very, very long honeymoon with LHM and was incommunicado for the entire trip. It was lovely, but I'm glad to be home with my internet and cell phone again.

I missed you all! And I have a very interesting ME story to tell from last week, but first I have to fix a leak under the sink.

More later today!

Ho! Ho! Ho!

2006-12-26T10:22:00.000-06:00

Just me and a few random kids at the Grand Canyon

2006-08-23T00:33:00.000-05:00

8/23/06

2006-08-23T00:28:00.000-05:00

12:23 a.m.

I can't sleep.

I can't write.

I have a deadline looming and am stuck, stuck, stuck.

Why is it that when my life was hard and I was alone it was easier for me to write? Or do I just need to let things settle down before I can focus again?

I'm very frustrated.

I guess the best thing to do is just (as a good friend of mine recently told me) WRITE. Although his suggestion was to drink a bottle of wine first...

8/13/06 WARNING: GRAPHIC/DISTURBING

2006-08-13T19:46:00.000-05:00

I am standing in a room at the ICU of a local hospital. A nurse in blue scrubs walks in with a pink satin-covered hat box.

"Here you go," she says and places the box on a counter top before leaving the room and shutting the curtain.

I turn from the body on the bed and walk over to the box. My initial thought of "What the hell were they thinking?" is quickly replaced by appreciation for the compassion of those who would prepare this makeshift coffin. I slip the cover off and look at the tiny baby inside. The OR staff washed her and laid her on a bed of white cloth. Her little arms are crossed over her chest and a towel covers the lower half of her body. A six-month-old fetus. She's red because there is no fat under her skin, but other than that she looks perfect.

I sigh and place the lid back on the box. Then I return to her mother. A 25-year-old woman with long, stringy dark hair. Huge bandages cover her abdomen where an emergency c-section was performed the night before. There are scrapes on her knees and dirt under her fingernails. I also notice dirt on the bottoms of her feet where she must have been walking around barefoot. I take photographs.

Nurse Katie walks in and begins telling me the story. Beth, the mother, came into the ER last night in excruciating pain. She was having contractions and her cervix was dilated 3cm. The doc couldn't detect any fetal heart beat. Beth told the ER staff that she'd done cocaine two days before. Before she lost consciousness, she kept saying, "I'm so sorry, Jake. I'm scared." Jake is her 18-month-old son.

Beth was rushed into surgery but it was too late. The baby had died when the placenta separated from the wall of the uterus. This was a direct result of the cocaine use. The OR staff couldn't stop the bleeding and Beth died on the operating table.

After several hours of interviewing family...friends...doctors...I somehow get through this case and go home. I sit out on the porch in my backyard, overcome by sadness. I think about the little boy, Jake, who lost his mother. I think about how Beth's friend said she was curled up with him napping on the couch the day before. I try to reconcile the loving mother with the woman that, according to witnesses, purposely tried to abort her fetus by overdosing on cocaine.

I am hurting inside and I call LHM to talk. He listens quietly and after a minute says, "Well, Polly, if you think we should try to adopt Jake I'll support you. We could make a good home for him."

I am touched that he would even contemplate such a thing. I smile and say gently, "It's not like taking in a stray puppy, you know."

After worrying over the whole thing for another few hours, I call Peter, the friend who is watching Jake. We talk for a long, long time. He tells me more about Beth. She was kicked out of her apartment a few weeks ago for not paying the rent. She and Jake were living in a homeless shelter when Peter took them in. Peter got her a job, a new car, and an apartment. You see, he and Beth had been best friends since high school. "She was there for me at a really bad time in my life and I told her I would always be there for her." He was trying to help her get her life back on track. "If you'd only known her five years ago," he says. "She was such an amazing person."

I ask about Jake and what would become of him. Peter's voice cracks and he tells me that he will adopt Jake and raise him as his own. "I'm a single guy and I've never had kids before, but I have a good job and I'll make sure this little guy has a wonderful life. Besides," he says, "when he smiles he looks just like Beth. How could I not love him?"

7/17/06

2006-07-17T09:21:00.000-05:00

7:17 a.m.

I have been drinking my tea chilled lately. (Summer and all.) I take a pitcher out of the fridge and fill a 64oz mug. It's hot in SoCal. And I'm sunburned. My knees are red and scabbed. My face is on fire and my eyes are puffy. Yesterday I went to the beach and was riding waves on the body board for hours. I came within inches of creaming a toddler on two occasions as I rode up on shore. The same kid. Instead of just stearing the board by leaning left or right, however, I panicked (both times) and slid off the back of the board, using my knees to skid to a stop in front of the little girl with the blond curls. She was so tiny I thought I might break her, so I sacrificed my knees. The second time this happened, she looked down at me, stuck out her tongue, and ran off to her mother who was snearing at me from under an umbrella further up the beach. If it weren't for the thrill of salt water mixing into my wounds and sending rivulets of blood down to my ankles, I might have cared. I sighed. Time to hang up the board for the day. It's bad enough to be riding in the water on top of a device that is shaped approximately like a harbor seal, but to mix blood in with that might be less than wise.

Anyway, I am now paying for my day of fun and sun on the beach. LHM walks into the kitchen and stops at the entrance. He's about to leave for work.

I smile at him, peck him on the cheek and say, "Too late now. You already married me." I pat him on the shoulder and hobble back toward the bedroom before saying under my breath, "Sucker."

I hear him yell from the other room some smart aleck comment about false advertising before he slams the back door.

I lay there in silence. Nothing to do. I am on my "honeymoon" and won't be back home for a month. I consider the events of the past month or two. I no longer work for the PI firm. They decided to bring all of the regional positions in-house...to Boston. Since I wouldn't be able to relocate, I decided that Hell, Inc. sucked anyway and I was better off sticking with one job, my death investigator gig. One job? I mean...what am I going to do with myself with all of this extra time?

So, then LHM proposed to me. (Over the phone, although I think I've forgiven him for that at this point.) He is selling his business, and will leave everything he's worked for over the past seven years to move to Chicago and start a new life with me there. We will start out own PI firm. A family business. You know...like "Hart to Hart".

So, does this make me Mrs. Haired-Man?

2006-07-16T22:28:00.000-05:00

5-20-06a

2006-05-20T20:47:00.000-05:00

8:45 p.m.

I'm looking for the webcam... I thought it would be fun to broadcast from the field. Can I even do that?

5-20-06

2006-05-20T12:17:00.000-05:00

12:15 p.m.

I'm sitting in my bedroom surrounded by half-packed boxes. I'm in the process of moving into a house nearby and the question that I keep asking myself is: How did I accumulate so much clothing in the course of three years? My walk-in closet is like an archaeological dig. Layer upon layer of clothes. Sometimes I find an artifact from bygone days...A picture with Olga when we went out clubbing in Chicago. A high-heeled silver shoe that I wore to a formal dance with an exboyfriend... Curiously, I found a lot of female sanitary devices (unused, thank goodness) and enough loose change to buy a weeks-worth of groceries.

The task is daunting and as I look around I come to the conclusion that the best thing to do is put it off until the last minute. We'll see how that works for me.

I'm getting ready to go on a surveillance up in Green Bay (go Packers) tomorrow. It's one day and should be pretty straightforward. The subject lives on a farm and I'm bracing myself for a long day of rolling by the house so as to avoid suspicion.

Last week I went to Boston for our bi-annual supervisor meeting. There, I met my new supervisor for Florida. This man, it turns out, is perhaps the biggest jackass known to man. His incompetence amazes me. I told Corp two days after he was hired that he wouldn't work out. Now he's in his death throws and I guess it's got him crabby. I called him yesterday afternoon to get some information the office was asking for.

"Bozo," I say, "I need to get a status on the eight late cases from your area that didn't come in yesterday."

Bozo huffs like a beligerant teenager. "Okay."

"We'll start with the Brandy case."

"Huh?"

I clench my fist. Patience, Polly. "You know..the three day surveillance that was run nearly a week ago by your Miami investigator? The one that I haven't recieved one update on yet? The one I've been asking you for since Monday?"

Bozo starts to raise his voice. "I sent an email to the investigator. It might have come in already." He huffs again. "Listen, I'm driving right now. Let me pull over and I'll call you back."

"That's fine. Get your files together and turn on your computer so I can get this status report up to Corp within the hour."

He hangs up. I loosen my death-grip on the phone and play a quick game of Spider Solitaire as a healthy alternative to swearing like a sailor and throwing something.

Ten minutes later, Bozo calls me back. With narry a hello, he starts in... "Okay, I got the report from the 10th but I sent it back for revision because the investigator didn't describe the residence."

"All right. When did you get the update?"

"The 11th."

"Okay. So, that was over a week ago. Have you followed up with the investigator? And what about the updates for the 11th and 12th?"

Bozo's voice raises another dicibel. "I don't know. I've been up since 3:30 this morning and it's going to take me 2 hours to get back home. I'm tired and..."

I interrupt. I've had it. I have listened to him whine for the past three weeks with excuse after excuse for his half-assery.

"All right. You need to stop with the crying to me about waking up early and commuting and how much work it is, Bozo. I was a supervisor and I had to do the same thing... It's part of the job. If it's too much, quit. Otherwise, suck it up."

[Yelling and swearing from Bozo] I hold the phone away from my ear.

"Bozo, please don't raise your voice to me." I say calmly. "I have never done that to you and I expect you to treat me with the same respect."

[Yet more yelling and swearing from Bozo]

Aaaand...he hangs up.

I sit back in my chair and sigh. Well, that went well.

I call Corp and speak to Satan's number 2 man.

"Bozo had another temper tantrum. When are you going to fire him? What did I do to make you hate me so much?"

"His area is a mess. He's almost out. Just let him dig his own grave."

I hang up. Right. Let him dig his own grave. I smile. Well, I might as well make this fun...

I call Bozo back. "Hi, Bozo. How's it going? So where were we? Oh, yeah... Brandy.."

5-4-06

2006-05-04T10:20:00.000-05:00

10:28 a.m.

Thanks for all the nice birthday wishes, bloglit! I got called out to a death at 2am this morning and I kept writing my birth year down instead of 2006. I think I'm already getting senile.

It's PollyMom's birthday today, too, by the way. I remember back when I was a kid Mom used to let me stay home from school on our b-day and we'd spend it shopping or doing some other girl thing together. That's where I learned the fine art of playing hookie.

So, not wanting to break tradition, I'm going out to lunch with Pippie from the ME's office this afternoon. And after I've pigged out sufficiently, I'm driving up to MN so that Mom and I can celebrate our birthday together. I'm not sure I'll get there in time for shopping, but at least there'll be cake and ice cream.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you!

4/21/06

2006-04-21T11:29:00.000-05:00

11:28 a.m.

Right now I'm sitting in a holding room on the set of a TV show called, Desire. I'm not sure what the show is about, but I just finished "acting" as a civilian on a scene where the stars of the show are being booked at a police station for having public sex. (I was just talking on the phone...fully clothed...sickos.)

More later...

I FOUND IT!!!!

2006-04-16T09:47:00.000-05:00

And that Jeremy is pretty darn bright. I think I have enough here to send him more than ears...

4/15/06c Jeremy is on a roll...

2006-04-15T22:42:00.000-05:00

10:42 p.m.

I'd offer Jeremy more of my chocolate bunny, but I'm not sure how much is going to be left. Jelly beans okay?

It was a ceiling fan! The following clue was stick to one of the blades: I hide things. A lot of things right behind me. But if you look really really close, I look just like you!

Figured that one out pretty quickly. It was the mirrored medicine cabinet in the bathroom. That clue said: The Danes, the Geats, and the Swedes. I'm the very first of the English reads.

Huh. Wish I'd paid closer attention in English Lit class...

Any ideas?

4/15/06b And the winner is...

2006-04-15T13:09:00.000-05:00

1:08 p.m.

JEREMY!! It WAS a door mat. I'll send you my Easter bunny's luck rabbit feet.

You guys are great! Though LHM says I'm cheating getting help from my bloglit. The way I figure it...we're talking about chocolate here!

Okay, I'm stuck on another one so perhaps I can ask for a bit more advice.

Under the door mat was a clue that said: 99% of the time I don't even have any gloves. I figured that one out pretty quick. It was in the glove compartment of LHM's car.

The next clue said: I'm hot and wet. Which is probably why I've been a woman's best friend since the 1950's.

That one was pretty simple. It was in the dishwasher. The next clue is sick and twisted and I'm sort of afraid to find out what it means. It says: Suck. Blow. Suck. Blow. *Click* Now I'm light-headed.

4/15/06 And the winner is....

2006-04-15T10:49:00.000-05:00

Cap'n Bob!!!!! You Rock! I'll send you the ears from my chocolate bunny when I finally find it.

BUT I STILL NEED YOUR HELP!

It was a bed. The people who use a bed the most remember it the least...because they're sleeping! Of course, I argued with LHM that beds aren't just for sleeping anymore...

:-)

The clue from under the bed was: We run all day just to get back where we started. Just two good friends who are constantly parted. That one was easy, too. It was behind the clock on LHM's wall. The hands of a clock run all day and are constantly parted.

The clue behind the clock was: Sit up. Lie down. Sit up. Lie down. Where I'm broken, the next clue is found. This one took me a minute or ten, but I figured out it was the futon in LHM's office...which is broken. Good thing he gets to sleep on it and not me.

The next clue has me stuck again. And I have less than 24 hours before Easter.

Here it is: I never thought you were dirty until I met your two friends. Now everytime I see them, they use me and leave me that much dirtier.

I know...I keep telling LHM I don't have friends like that anymore.