What may perhaps surprise the reader is that there is a scientific explanation for SHC. Experiments on dead human bodies and body parts donated to The Body Farm in Knoxville, Tennessee, have shown it is possible, given certain conditions, that if a body is ignited, it can continue to burn until it is almost completely cremated. Normally, it takes one to three and a half hours for a body to be reduced to bits of bone and ash, and this only occurs in an extremely hot fire or a crematorium oven.
So I have to admit that when forensic anthropologist Dr. Bill Bass first mentioned to me that one of his graduate students had written her master’s thesis on SHC, I thought he was joking.
“People don’t just burst into flames,” I protested as we ate barbecue at Calhouns in Knoxville. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“Not literally burst into flames,” he said, drinking iced tea from a jelly jar as the setting sun played across the Tennessee River. “But burn for considerably long periods of time.”
This strange conversation over baby back ribs occurred last spring when I happened to drop by The Body Farm to see if the scientists there had ever done any experimenting on mummification. I had just returned from Argentina and was still very interested in mummies, and hoped Dr. Bass might be inclined to attempt an old-style Egyptian embalming on one of the bodies donated to the Farm. He saw no good purpose in this and explained that finding an apothecary shop that sold what we needed would be very hard and probably would exceed the budget.
However, Dr. Bass told me, and I sensed he hated for me to go away disappointed because he is a kind, humble man, The Body Farm was doing some rather unusual research on spontaneous human combustion, if I was interested. I replied that I certainly was, and over a period of weeks, I visited The Body Farm numerous times. It is not a pleasant place, and for those readers who are unfamiliar with it, I offer a brief description.
The University of Tennessee’s Decay Research Facility, or The Body Farm as most of us call it, is several wooded acres surrounded by a tall wooden fence topped with razor wire. For some twenty-five years, anthropologists and forensic experts have devoted themselves to studying decomposition, for reasons that should be fairly obvious. Without knowing how the human body changes in different conditions over periods of time, we would have no data to help us determine time of death.
The Body Farm is the only facility I know of that makes it possible for death investigators and scientists to conduct important experiments that are not permitted in morgues, funeral homes, or medical schools. But when bodies are donated to The Body Farm, it is known up front and approved that the remains will be used for research, which in this instance included setting an amputated leg on fire to see if it could sustain almost complete combustion in the absence of external fuel.
I can summarize anthropologist Dr. Angi Christensen’s brilliant work by saying that the tissue was ignited by a cotton wick, and the sample continued to burn for forty-five minutes as it was fueled by melting fat which was absorbed by the wick (known as the wicking effect). Further experiments on burning bones showed that osteoporotic or thinning bones burn much more readily and completely than dense healthy bones. After many meticulous tests and mathematical calculations, Christensen concluded that in some instances, the human body can indeed burn itself up at a very low heat if it is aided by cotton clothing that serves as a wick.
Obese elderly women with thinning bones and cotton house dresses are most likely to fall victim to this rare but ghastly phenomenon, and I offer here the sad case of Ivy, whose last name I will withhold out of respect for her privacy.
Ivy was a seventy-four-year-old white female who, at four-foot-eleven, weighed almost two hundred pounds, according to her driver’s license and descriptions given by people who last saw her in the neighborhood. Up until two years before her strange, fiery death, she worked as a babysitter in Miami to supplement her modest income from Social Security checks and the small amount of cash her husband, Wally, had left her upon his sudden death. Ivy never worked for the same family longer than six months, as she would inevitably alienate the parents after they were subjected to one suspicious situation after another until finally they dismissed the peculiar woman even if they couldn’t prove that she had actually done anything wrong.
Ivy had an insatiable need to be needed, and by her way of thinking, no one was needier than a sick or frightened child. She was careful never to take jobs if the children were old enough to talk intelligently and credibly, and therefore the parents never heard the truth about her misdeeds but certainly became concerned when they would return from outings and discover little Johnny or little Mary with stomach cramps, diarrhea, unusual bumps and burns, or in hysterics.
Several former clients of hers called her Poison Ivy behind her back and claimed she doctored their children’s food with laxatives and other medicines, and by overspicing. One couple was certain the woman had burned their two-year-old with a cigarette deliberately, although Ivy claimed the child had grabbed the cigarette out of the ashtray and stomped on it, thus explaining the eight burns on the bottom of his tiny feet. Tales and scandals swirled about Ivy, and she finally decided it was best to retire, which was when her real problems began.
Home alone most of the time in her tiny stucco house, Ivy spent her days drinking cheap port, smoking, and eating snacks in front of the television. She was very stooped and round-shouldered from osteoporosis, and her arthritis seemed to flare up more often. No one called anymore or needed her for a thing. She grew to hate her life and everybody who had ever touched it, and never imagined that she was well on her way to becoming a case study in spontaneous human combustion.
As fate would have it, Ivy was in an especially foul mood on Christmas Day, 1987, when she put on a long-sleeve cotton housedress because the weather was a bit nippy. She fixed herself a strong screwdriver after opening the deluxe box of Whitman chocolates that were a gift from her son, who lived nearby but never came to see her and rarely called. She parked herself on the vinyl couch in front of the TV and drank and smoked the morning away. It was here on this very couch that her badly burned body was discovered two days later when the Cuban lady who lived next door became concerned because Ivy had not picked up her newspapers.
Virginia Chief Medical Examiner Dr. Kay Scarpetta worked the case, you, the reader, might be interested in knowing. She was beginning her career as a resident forensic pathologist at the Dade County medical examiner’s office and responded to the baffling scene. Fire investigators and the po-lice had never encountered anything like this, which isn’t surprising since there have been only some two hundred cases of SHC reported since the 1600s. Ivy’s torso was almost completely incinerated, including the bones, yet there was no sign of a fire anywhere in the house. Although not much was known about SHC at the time of Ivy’s death, in retrospect it is fairly easy to reconstruct what happened.
Ivy passed out drunk and a lit cigarette dropped out of her mouth, setting her cotton housedress on fire. As her body began to burn, fat melted and the cotton became saturated and served as a wick. Ivy sustained low heat combustion possibly for many hours before the fire extinguished itself long after Ivy was dead. It’s just lucky I did research on this rare phenomenon, because I know enough to realize two things about the mysterious death of fisherman Caesar Fender, whose burned body was recently discovered on Canal Street:
SHC is not a paranormal event, nor does Caesar’s death meet the criteria in any sense.
In the first place, the grayish-white residue in his chest cavity clearly suggests an external fuel source. Also, Caesar was not very old or overweight, and it is unlikely his bones were thinning. Most significantly, he was not wearing cotton and a wicking effect could not have occurred. Nor was there any evidence that he was smoking at the time of his death, even if a witness, who is now the main suspect, claimed there was a Bic lighter in Caesar’s pocket. That alleged lighter or pieces of it were not recovered at the crime scene or the morgue.
This lea
ds me to suspect that a flare gun was used to commit what is clearly a murder, and I have a feeling Dr. Scarpetta is thinking the same thing. This makes Caesar’s death quite different from what happened to Poison Ivy, who craved getting attention at the expense of others. Her syndrome is known as Munchausen’s by Proxy, which simply means that someone harms another person who can’t defend himself or describe what really took place. Victims are often young children or the infirm. The motivation of the perpetrator is to gain sympathy, attention, or feel needed as he rushes his victim to the doctor or the hospital.
“Oh, I don’t know what’s wrong with my little baby,” the wicked perpetrator will sob to the doctor. “But he’s got terrible diarrhea again and is dehydrated and too weak to get out of bed. I’m just so distraught, I don’t know what to do. I love my little baby so much, and I’ve already lost two babies, and if I lose another one I will lose my will to live!”
Another common reaction after the so-called caretaker has harmed someone in his or her care is to wrap the victim in his or her arms and coo and cry.
“Poor little baby,” the mendacious, cruel-hearted perpetrator cries out, “oh, my poor little baby! How did you burn your little feet? Oh, don’t you worry, I’ll take care of you. Don’t cry, please don’t cry, and don’t be mad at me. I didn’t do anything, you poor little darling.”
Baby wails and shrieks, and in pain and terror clings to mommy, daddy, or the caretaker’s neck as the little one is rushed to the doctor, where the parent or caretaker gets the desired attention and compassion.
I think it is entirely possible that Major Trader, in addition to his pirate proclivities, suffers from Munchausen’s by Proxy. He poisons others to manipulate and feel needed. If any of you, my readers, run across him or know where he is, please call the police immediately. He was last seen eating a breakfast sandwich as he backed out of his driveway earlier today, and has evaded arrest and is now considered a dangerous fugitive. If you spot him, please do not approach him, as he is violent and incapable of remorse. Nor should you accept any food from him, especially sweets.
Be careful out there!
Twenty-five
“That’s what I’m considering.” Dr. Scarpetta’s voice came over the speakerphone in Hammer’s office shortly after Trooper Truth’s latest essay rocketed through cyberspace. “But I would have preferred not having any information about a flare gun or anything else pertaining to my case published on the Internet.”
“No one has any control over what Trooper Truth writes,” Hammer replied as she gave Andy a disapproving look. “He’s anonymous, assuming he’s a he.”
“How did he know about my case in Miami?” Dr. Scarpetta inquired.
“Maybe by doing an Internet search on spontaneous human combustion?” It was Andy who answered. “I assume there was a lot in the news about a case as sensational as that one must have been.”
“As usual, there was.”
“What next?” Hammer asked as she paced.
“I’ve submitted the grayish residue to the trace evidence lab and we’ll see if we come up with oxidized strontium, potassium perchlorate, phosphorous, chemicals like that,” Dr. Scarpetta informed them over the speakerphone. “In the meantime, he’s a death due to forty percent body burns and I’ll have to pend the rest of it, but I think you should work him as a homicide unless we find out he had some sort of flare on his person that accidentally ignited.”
“Trader lied. Big surprise,” Andy said to Hammer as he hung up the phone. “So much for the Hispanic with New York plates.”
UNFORTUNATELY, Trooper Macovich had no way of knowing what Hammer and Andy were discussing. As Macovich waited in his car while Barbie and Regina visited inside the clinic, Cruz Morales walked outside to smoke and noticed the unmarked Caprice. His heart jerked and began to pound. That bitch counselor had called the police! He tossed the cigarette and began to run, immediately snagging the attention of Macovich, who recognized him as the Mexican who had stopped at Hooter’s tollbooth. Macovich tossed his own cigarette and bolted out of the car in pursuit.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!” Macovich yelled as he pulled out his pistol.
YES, I’ve thought about shooting myself,” Regina poured out her heart to Barbie Fogg, both of them unaware of the foot pursuit outside in the parking lot. “But I don’t have a gun.”
“I certainly am grateful for that!” Barbie said with relief.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Regina went on as she wept behind the closed door of Barbie’s office, which was furnished with a faux-finished blue desk, a rose sofa, and an abundance of silk arrangements in soothing pastels. “It’s like I’m from another planet. I think I’m saying the right thing, and then I piss everybody off. I don’t have a single friend, even if I had one . . .” She looked at her watch. “Well, I guess I had one three hours ago but not anymore. I think this is the longest I’ve ever talked to anyone. For sure, it’s the longest anybody’s ever listened,” Regina added pitifully.
“Who was the one friend you had until three hours ago?” Barbie listened intently from a lavender chair.
“Andy. He let me be his partner and then suddenly he turned hateful.”
“His partner? He’s your boyfriend or was briefly?” Barbie was a bit surprised.
If ever she had met a woman who was unattractive to men, it was this poor creature. The young woman desperately needed a complete makeover. If Barbie were given the virtually hopeless task, she would start by doing Regina’s colors, which were difficult to determine. Regina’s pale, ignored complexion and dark hair certainly would be enhanced by bold colors such as charcoal and red, but Barbie believed that only the most feminine of women could get away with any accouterment that hinted of strength and assertiveness.
The last thing Regina needed was to look more aggressive. Maybe if she lost eighty pounds, wore makeup, had a good haircut, and began waxing regularly, her appearance would soften, Barbie hoped.
“No, he wasn’t my boyfriend,” Regina was saying with an indignation that belied her hurt feelings and overall horrible opinion of herself.
“Do you get headaches?” Barbie inquired.
Regina blew her nose loudly. “Of course, I do. How could anybody in my position not get awful headaches daily?”
Oh dear, Barbie thought. She would have to work on everything about this wretched girl, including quietly dabbing instead of honking her nose.
“You do scowl a lot and have very strong frown muscles,” Barbie pointed out. “I think Botox would be a very smart place to start. I can hook you up with my doctor. But first, let’s talk about your boyfriend and what happened.”
“Andy’s not my boyfriend!” Regina cried harder, her face blotched and puffy. “He let me be his intern this morning and we went to the morgue and he got irritable.”
“Andy works at the morgue?” Barbie was horrified.
This was going from bad to worse. The last place someone like Regina needed to be was a morgue, and the idea of winter colors only became more distasteful and inappropriate. Anybody who spent time at the morgue should not be wearing bright red and black.
“He’s a trooper,” Regina explained with mounting impatience. “But that lady who runs the morgue didn’t like me, either, and wouldn’t let me watch an autopsy just because I couldn’t spell.”
Barbie listened in perplexed silence.
“You know,” Regina went on, “that lady chief.”
“Oh yes. I’ve read about her and seen her on TV,” Barbie said. “Now with her blond hair and trim figure, she does fine in winter colors. But I’m beginning to see that we should try something different with you. Maybe summer colors. Have you ever worn a skirt?”
“Winter colors? A skirt? What is this, a Mary Kay Clinic?” Regina was insulted and repulsed. “I came here to talk about my problems! I didn’t come here to have you turn me into my mother!”
“We’ll talk about your mother another day,” Barbie directed her client. “One thin
g at a time. We’re going to need a lot of sessions, sweetie. But I think we should get back to Andy, because clearly he has hurt your feelings.”
“I’ve never had anybody like him pay attention to me, and then I have to be such a big dumb fuck and fall for it.” Tears flowed again. “He told me I don’t have any friends because I’m selfish and have no regard for the feelings of others, and then he exiled me to the bay and yelled at me when I was trying to find keys and a body fell on the concrete.”
“Oh my!”
This was far more than Barbie could process, and the images flashing in her mind were more than she could bear and would, no doubt, disturb her much-needed sleep tonight.
“I ruined my chance.” Regina sobbed. “I realize I did and don’t know what to do about it. I want him to respect and admire me for something, but I don’t know what.”
“All of us women need to work hard for praise and admiration.” Barbie understood something at last. “Oh yes, that is very important. So what you need is a little project. What little project could you start that might get you on the right track? Something you do all by yourself that would impress others and give them a higher opinion of you?”
Regina thought hard for a minute, sniffing and wiping her nose.
“What about if we start with waxing and complete skin care?” Barbie suggested. “Then we might chat about dieting and yoga.”
If only Regina could prove herself just once.
“Papa needs a Seeing Eye horse,” she said, feeling a surge of hope. “Maybe I could be in charge of supervising it. Someone will need to feed and brush it and practice commands with it.”
“Does your father have a horse that’s gone blind?” Barbie frowned without changing expressions, the paralyzed muscles in her forehead smooth and uncommunicative.