Bones on Ice: A Novella Read Free

cases,” I clarified.
    “Damnedest thing.” Ortiz moved the marker and shot from another angle. “You’re freezing, so you strip.”
    “The cause is unclear, maybe malfunction of the hypothalamus.” That is the part of the brain that regulates body temperature. “Or loss of muscle tonus.”
    “That can make you want to show off some skin?” More repositioning and framing. More clicks.
    I gave him the 101 version. “When you get cold, your muscles slow the flow of blood to your limbs. As you weaken, the muscles become exhausted, relax, and there’s a sudden surge of blood. This creates a hot flash, which fools people into feeling like they’re burning up.”
    “Some turned animal. We’d find ’em naked, dug into holes.”
    “Terminal burrowing.” Absently.
    Terminal burrowing, also called hide-and-die syndrome, refers to victims seeking small, enclosed spaces—hiding under beds, nesting in closets, digging burrows. Another agonal behavior not well understood. Another source of confusion for untrained law enforcement. A body in a wardrobe or trunk taken as evidence of foul play.
    Hypothermia: accidental death masquerading as murder.
    “Freezing seems a horrible way to go.” Ortiz tossed that out unsolicited.
    “It’s probably like falling asleep.” I might have been premature on my “strong, silent” assessment of Ortiz, although I didn’t disagree with his statement.
    Photos done, Ortiz put the camera away. “You want help stripping him?”
    “Her,” I corrected. Presumably, her.
    “We’ve got a lot of intake, a four-car wreck out on I-77. But I can stick around if you want.”
    The failure at visual ID was disappointing. Ditto the absence of teeth. I shook my head. Reluctantly. I was going to have to do this the hard way.
    “Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll call down if I need you.”
    “I’m here until four P.M. ” And he was gone.
    I should be so lucky.
    Before starting my long list of tasks for the prelim, I slipped out to grab a Diet Coke. Thus fortified, I cranked the AC as low as possible and began the most hated part of my job: paperwork.
    Dropping onto the stool at the computer terminal, I logged into the network and opened a file. Larabee had assigned a case number: ME215-15. I filled in the date, my name as the investigating anthropologist, and various administrative data. Then I moved on to information about the victim.
    Name: Brighton Hallis. Presumed.
    I paused, realizing how little I knew about this young woman. Eye color? Height? Weight? Tattoos? Scars? Surgeries? I left all antemortem descriptors blank.
    I had one fact. Brighton Hallis was twenty-four when she set off to climb Everest.Same age as my daughter, Katy. The death certificate reported this tidbit, and listed manner of death as “accidental.” Meaning what? Hypothermia? Exhaustion? Hypoxia? Blunt trauma from a crack on the head? Botulism from a bad energy gel shot? A coil of rope in the library with Colonel Mustard? Frustrated, I sat back.
    Had Brighton been alone at the end? In pain? Frightened? Had she thought of her family? Her best friend? Her dog? Or had death been quick, an odd noise, a change in air pressure, then oblivion?
    I pushed these thoughts aside. Channeled scientist. The body would tell the story.
    Abandoning the keyboard, I donned the tools of my trade: plastic apron over my scrubs, mask, goggles, fresh latex gloves. Thus garbed, I approached the remains.
    The form on the table looked more like a gaudy pile of bundled laundry than a human being. I couldn’t help but admire the quality of the North Face and Mountain Hardware garments. Three years’ exposure in a harsh high-altitude environment, yet fabric damage was minimal. Macabre brand marketing, but impressive.
    Slowly, I worked my way around the body, taking in detail, making notes. Not much to say. The victim liked vibrant colors. The clothes were expensive. When satisfied that I’d missed nothing, I took scissors from an under-counter