A Forensic Anthropologist's Office: The Body Farm

Article Tools

Print

E-mail

Comments

RSS

The human body goes through a number of changes when it dies. Scientists have a pretty good handle on what happens within the first few hours: The heart stops, the brain ceases functioning, fluids leak out, stiffness sets in, and so on. At this point, a trained professional can make a pretty good guess about how long a person has been dead. It's in the days and weeks beyond death that forensic scientists still struggle to understand the process of human decay. That's where the bugs come in.

"One of the best ways of telling how long a body has been dead, up until about two and a half weeks, is to look at the insects," says Bass. "The blowflies arrive first, stay for a while, then lay their eggs, which hatch into maggots. The maggots then metamorphose from the worm to the fly stage, and the process starts all over again. This cycle usually takes 18 to 21 days." A trained eye can look at the bugs in a body and tell how long a person's been dead by the stage of metamorphosis.

Most of the bodies on the Farm at the time of my visit were in advanced stages of decay: skin transformed into a leathery sheath, bones exposed. But it's the recent arrivals, skin still pink and ripe, that give you pause.

As you might imagine, says Bass, "not everyone wants to do this." In fact, Bass doesn't want to do it much longer himself. He soon plans to retire from his teaching post and from his work with the FBI and local law enforcement. Until then, he has a pool of graduate students who are eager to tap his forensic knowledge. His method is simple, Bass explains: Give each of the students one skeleton per week and have them tell him "who the person was—gender, age, everything." The bones never lie.

Once a year, Bass holds a memorial service for the people who donated their bodies to the Farm. This year I'm invited to attend. A cardboard box containing the remains of a randomly selected skeleton is laid on a large conference table in an anthropology department classroom. A simple white linen cloth covers the box. The gathering is small, just a few students and professors. Also present are James McSween and his son. McSween donated his wife's body to the Farm, something they discussed before she died. He has come here to find connection and comfort with the decision he made.

After the service is over, Bass huddles with the McSweens in a corner. His tone is that of a pastor after a Sunday service—calm, reassuring. He gestures toward the door, and father and son make their way down narrow halls and stairways to the skeleton-storage room in the basement. I follow at a respectful distance. There, several long tables and desks compete for space with rows of floor-to-ceiling shelving. On the shelves are some 2,000 cardboard boxes just like the one from the memorial service.

The three men work their way around a table and stop before a wall of boxes. Bass searches the labels. "Here she is," he says, and pulls down one of the boxes. He carefully removes the lid, reaches inside, and lifts out the skull. A small number is written on its base. The number matches the label on the box. Bass' tone is gentle, instructive, as if he were a gardener noting the details of a flower.

RSS | Comments | E-mail | Print