Dear Laird,
This is my third attempt at writing this letter. My interns dug you a shallow grave beneath an oak tree this morning. You’re in a T-shirt and jeans. Socks but no shoes. Normally I would have helped dig, but I couldn’t this time. I continued our alphabet in my head. U: U2’s “With or Without You.” Okay, a little cheesy, but a solid song. Bono before he found those ridiculous tinted glasses. You’ll be working double duty for our criminology students and the virus inside of you will be part of my study for the CDC. You’ll be in the ground for at least two weeks and then we’ll relocate you to another grave. I could barely recognize you when we put you in the hole. And any glimmer of you will no doubt be long gone when my forensics grad students and the cadaver dogs find you. For them, you are homework without a voice. I will refer to you as subject 27A. They’ll have to figure out you’ve been moved, that any early-stage larvae they find in your second grave cannot be used to determine an approximate time of death. Soil composition, the detritus of the oak tree, and the bacteria and microbes in and around you will have to guide their way.
Two weeks have passed since the memorial and Tatsu is leaving me notes around the house, folded index cards with hearts drawn in marker—I Love You. Let Me Know What You Need. Tonight, he has cooked dinner. Nothing fancy. Linguini and microwaved turkey meatballs （he even pulled out the china someone gave us for our wedding that we’ve never used）。 When we were dating, he cooked regularly. We’d play Twenty Questions and weird relationship board games to help us facilitate the evening—apparently, we’ve never been great at filling the silences. I suppose I should be thrilled he’s making such an effort. I’m surprisingly unfazed. He scoops more meatballs onto my plate, suggests a weekend getaway at a nearby bed and breakfast. I find myself wondering if maybe a dog would have been enough to keep us happy.
Letter Day 18:
Dear Aubrey,
I know shitty things happen to good people for no reason. Sometimes my mom would take me to the park with these balsa wood planes with a rubber-band-powered propeller. We wouldn’t talk much. She’d just sit listening to music and watch me fly my planes until they broke. During the summers, the two of us would take a trip to escape the hustle of life—camping in Yellowstone, a road trip to the Grand Canyon. The year she died we were supposed to go to the Everglades. Then out of nowhere she said she was too tired and wanted to stay closer to home. Maybe I should have known something was wrong. Instead, I strapped a VR headset to my mother, and together we explored the ancient heads of Easter Island, stared up at the Milky Way.
At the body farm, we’re preparing for a mixed group of grad students and local authorities to engage in a trial manhunt for a missing person. I’ve collected scraps of Laird’s dirty clothes for the dogs, prepared documents detailing the scenario: the confession of an incarcerated accomplice allowed for the search to commence. I’m in the field planting evidence that might have been left by the suspect, as well as trash and other scents to tempt the dogs astray, when I see Orli approaching the fence. She’s carrying a bouquet of flowers in her hands.
“They’re going to find him tomorrow?” she asks.
“If all goes to plan,” I answer. “And then he’ll be left out. I’ll be looking at how the virus has survived inside of him in the meantime, if there’ve been any unexpected changes.”
“I thought I could see him before that happens,” she says. She looks down at the bouquet. “I probably can’t leave these. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
I guide Orli to the gate and let her in.
“I can take them,” I say. We walk over to Laird’s grave. I point to a patch of earth covered with branches and dried leaves. I give Orli her space, return to the lab. When I glance back, she’s crouched down, touching the soil. She looks like she’s talking to him. She looks like she’s laughing.
Orli leaves without stopping by the lab to see me. I place the flowers on my desk in a plastic pitcher, tape a few of Laird’s clippings and his photo to the side.
Dear Laird,
I have the files you left. I’m not sure what you wanted me to do, but I’ve decided to keep them. When you have a job like mine, sometimes it’s easier to cut yourself off from the wider context. A body is a subject. A first instar larva signifies death has probably occurred within twenty-four hours, depending on temperature and barring interference. I imagine the people who examined your mother didn’t think of her as a mother or a wife. I told your sister we treat each body with care. I’ve essentially been programmed to talk like that, think like that, to survive day to day. It’s cold, really. If I were anybody else, you would be just another case. But I’m not. And when I go home tonight, I’ll take a bath. I’ll bring your iPod in with me and lock the door. I’ll play the songs we shared until the smell of the lab has washed away. For now, it’ll be the Violent Femmes, as I write this and wait for someone who has no idea who you really are to tell me you’ve been found.