“The taps and bags?”
“Sugaring supply companies. The capture bags aren’t expensive, maybe forty cents each. Most small producers now prefer them to buckets. Slip the bag over a collar, run the tubing straight in from the tap, empty the sap into a collecting point, toss the bag, repeat until the tree runs dry. Bags are also better at keeping out bugs and debris.”
“Can’t be that many sold.”
“More than you’d think.”
“Can you purchase them online?”
Rodas nodded. “Got someone making calls.”
Karras was still on her phone.
I wrapped my arms around my torso, hands tucked under my armpits for warmth. Cold was rising through the soles of my boots and spreading through my bones. The chill coming from more than the weather.
“That an evaporator?” Ryan chin-cocked the fire pit.
“Yeah. Better than the cauldrons, but still takes a lot of fuel.”
“Seriously?” I snapped. “We’re discussing advances in the art of syrup production?”
“The woodshed’s beside this one.” Rodas ignored my outburst. “Not much left. I suspect the neighbors helped themselves over the years.” Turning to me. “You know much about maple syrup?”
“We’re wasting time here.” Rude, but I was freezing. And anxious. And fed up with the male-bonding routine.
“Then let’s use it to learn something.” Rodas took my nonresponse as invitation to continue. “During the growing season, starch accumulates in the roots and trunks of maples. Enzymes transform the starch into sugar, then water absorbed through the roots turns it into sap.
“In the spring, alternating freezes and thaws force the sap up. Most folks tap once daytime highs hit the forties. Around here, that’s usually late April.
“The sap then has to be processed to evaporate out the water and leave just the concentrated syrup. That means boiling between five and thirteen gallons of sap down to a quarter of a gallon of syrup. You can do that entirely over one heat source.” Rodas gestured at the fire pit. “Or you can draw off smaller batches as you go, and boil them in pots.” Pointing at the pots.
“Is this really relevant?”
Rodas grinned at me. “You need some coffee? I have a thermos.”
“I’m good.” Curt.
“The bottom line is, maple syrup is roughly sixty-six percent sugar. Just sucrose and water, with small amounts of glucose and fructose created during the boiling process. Some organic acids, malic, for example. A relatively low mineral content, mostly potassium and calcium, some zinc and manganese. A variety of volatile organic compounds, vanillin, hydroxybutanone, propionaldehyde.”
“Hallelujah. A chemistry lesson.” I wasn’t believing this.
“Sucrose, glucose, and fructose. Gooey and sweet. That bring anything to mind?”
Holy shit. I got it.
Before I could respond, Rodas’s eyes went past me toward the open doors. As I turned, Karras stepped into the light. Droplets glistened on her shoulders and hat.
“Good to go, Doc?” Rodas asked.
“Bring on the show.”
Rodas inserted gloved fingers under the metal lever securing the lid. Flipped it outward.
The lid lifted easily. But nicks and gouges on its periphery and on the barrel’s rim suggested much more effort had been needed the first time around.
Rodas stepped back, lid held up and away from his body.
Ryan and I moved in.
CHAPTER 22
SLEET HISSED ON the tin overhead.
The generator hummed.
The CSS camera clicked softly.
The corpse was floating just below the surface, head up and tilted sideways, crown pressed to one side of the barrel. Long blond hair wrapped its face, molding the features like a wet suit on a surfer.
No. Not floating. Submerged in thick brown goop.
An image flashed. An exhibit at the Centre des sciences du Montréal. Bodies preserved by replacing the water and fat in the tissues with polymers. Plastination. Not the same process here, but the effect was eerily similar.
Karras spoke first. Brisk and cool. Here to do her job, not make friends. “I’ve made arrangements to take the whole barrel.”
“How long has she been in there?” Rodas asked.
“I’ll know more after I examine the body. And if the victim is male or female.”
“Point taken.”
“I’m happy to help,” I said.
“Our facility is closed to the public.” As though addressing an amateur.
I explained my qualifications.
“Given the state of preservation, an anthropologist shouldn’t be necessary.”
“First looks can be deceiving.”
“Really.”
“I know I’m out of jurisdiction.” Trying to appease for my indelicate comment. And my churlishness earlier. “And I understand—”
“Probably not.”
Easy. “May I at least observe?”
“Dr. Brennan and Detective Ryan are working homicides potentially linked to Nellie Gower.” Rodas intervened on my behalf.
“That what this is about?” Karras tapped the rim of the barrel with one gloved hand.
“Possibly.”
Karras eyed me flatly. “You know your way around an autopsy?”
“I do.”
“Once the body’s out of the syrup, it’ll head south fast.”
“It will.”
“I’ll be working through the night.”
“As would I.” Holding her gaze.
“In Burlington.”
“Take the Jeep,” Ryan said to me. “I’ll stay and help with things on this end.”
And that’s what we did.
Vermont’s chief medical examiner is headquartered in the Fletcher Allen medical complex on the western edge of Burlington. Burlington is on the western edge of Vermont, all the way across the state from St. Johnsbury. Fortunately, it’s a small state.
Nonetheless, the drive was brutal. I was unfamiliar with Ryan’s Jeep. And with dusk, the temperature dropped and the sleet turned to ice, clogging the wipers, reducing visibility, and turning the roads treacherous.
I arrived at 6:40. Karras and the barrel were already there.
The facility was not unlike many others in which I’d worked, including those at the MCME and the LSJML. There were multiple autopsy rooms, each with a tile floor, erasable board, metal and glass cabinets, stainless steel counters and centerpiece table.
Without the outerwear, I could see that Karras was a large woman with thick limbs and pendulous breasts. I doubted she cared. Her demeanor suggested cotton briefs and sensible shoes.
After the normal routine of logging in, the barrel was X-rayed with a Lodox scanner that allowed real-time viewing on video displays. Karras and I observed the body section by section: bones, skull, and teeth white; soft tissues gray; air in the gut and passageways black.
The barrel held a single human corpse, legs flexed at the knees, arms tucked to the belly. Nothing radio-opaque. No belt buckles, zippers, watches, or jewelry. No dental restorations. No bullets. I spotted no obvious skeletal trauma.
X-rays completed, a technician wheeled the barrel by dolly to an autopsy room. He took samples of the syrup while Karras recorded observations concerning the barrel’s particulars and condition.
After shooting a zillion photographs, the tech placed a screen over a floor drain, and together we all laid the barrel on its side. With much effort and considerable swearing, we freed the body and transferred it to the table.
When finished, we were all coated with syrupy sweat. Here and there, we wore leaves that had transferred and pasted to our skin.
As Karras dictated and took more photos, the tech placed additional screens over large stainless steel pots into which the remaining syrup would be transferred for inspection. Perhaps the vegetation, maybe pollen or an insect, might pinpoint the season the individual had died.