Into the mine!

Crystal blew her boyfriend away with a small caliber pistol and carried his body around in the trunk of her car during the heat of August until the neighbors began to complain about the smell. At that point she hired a friend with a pickup truck and they hauled the body up to a local mine where they proceeded to drag him down two hundred feet of dark tunnel and drop him into a shaft.

I was called on by one of the detectives to help them with the case by drawing a forensic diagram of the mine. Crystal was insisting she had no help in disposing of her boyfriend and the detectives wanted to prove there was at least one other person involved. They were pretty sure that five foot two inch, one hundred pound Crystal was not capable of carrying a decomposing body down two hundred feet of mine tunnels by herself, and they wanted to show the court why they felt that way. They knew the body had been carried and not dragged, but even if Crystal could have dragged the dead weight, it was so far decomposed that dragging it would have left bits and pieces in clumps and it would have disintegrated before she got it to the actual drop.

I had been in mines before. When I was growing up in Southern California we lived in an area of Orange County where there were some very old cobalt mines in the red earth hills behind the orange groves and houses. My pals and I used to spend hours playing in those caves. We even lit fires in them and played Davy Crockett or Cave Man, which was so incredibly dangerous I shudder now at the thought of it. My parents had no idea where I was or what I was up to but I’m sure if they had known, they would have put a quick and immediate halt to it. Nowadays those hills are covered with expensive homes and the old mines have been cemented over, but somewhere in their depths are the cave dweller drawings made by me and my friends back in 1957.

At any rate, I did not find the idea of going into that mine especially intimidating. It seemed like fun to me. I was ready, in my blue jeans and spelunker boots, pencils and drawing pad in hand, to help solve the murder at hand. It started to take on darker tones when the detectives and mining engineer ordered me to put on an air tank “just in case we run into any poisonous gasses”.

I am verifiably claustrophobic, folks. Telling me to put an air mask over my head and face was akin to telling me to shove banana peels up my nose and tape my lips shut. I was not happy about this and I let them know why. There was simply no way I was going to be able to follow them inside a mine wearing a Self Contained Breathing Apparatus. Nope. Not gonna do it. Wouldn’t be prudent at this juncture.

The discussion was lengthy and they made every bargain with me that they could think of but I stood my ground. I know how unpleasant I am when I’m hysterical. It’s not a pretty sight. And head masks make me hysterical. I almost had a fatal anxiety attack once when I put on a Crash Dummy suit for some school kids years ago. The head mask on that suit felt like being sealed up in a sarcophagus. The SCBA mask was even worse.

Finally a deal was made. They really needed their diagram and I was the only forensic artist the county had on hand. So, grudgingly, the mining engineer allowed me to carry the pack on my back without the mask on. I could hook the mask on my belt and swing it up into place if poisonous gas was detected. Of course he knew and I knew that if any poisonous gasses were detected it would be from me falling down dead, because they were all wearing their breathing masks, so how would they know?

Fortunately there were no poisonous gasses. I am as sure of this as I am sitting here writing this memoir. If there had been any poisonous gasses I would be six feet under. But I fear this is another digression.

The mine in question had long been used as a “party spot” by some of our local youth. The walls going back about twenty feet were smudged with campfire soot and decorated with various graffiti. The floor of the mine tunnel was strewn with cigarette butts, food wrappers, used condoms (hooray for safe sex) and various and sundry bits of trash. There was even a hypodermic needle or two and a five-dollar bill, which I spotted and picked up faster than you can say “cheap”. This has proved to be a sticking point with me over the years. The detective in front of me said he needed to take the fiver for possible evidence and that after the case was settled I could have it back. Needless to say, that never happened. I never saw my five dollar bill again. It probably isn’t in the evidence locker, either, if you get my drift.

Beyond this point in the mine it apparently grew too dark for the partiers to wander because the signs of human habitation disappeared. In the stark glow of the detective’s flashlights, the floor of the tunnel was little more than sand, powdery dirt and pebbles…with patches of human hair and skin here and there along the way. The first detective marked each piece of remains with a little numbered flag and photographed it while the second detective helped me with a tape measure. We catalogued the length, depth and width of the tunnel back to the shaft where the victim was dumped so that I could reproduce it to scale when I got back home.

It had been quite a while since the young man had met his death and been dumped into the mineshaft until that day I ventured into the mine to produce a diagram for the courts; possibly three or four months, maybe more. I only mention this because even after all that time, the unmistakable aroma of death and decomposing remains was lingering like fog in the air. If you ever have the distinct displeasure of smelling a dead body you will never forget. I guarantee it.

My diagram turned out fantastic. Everyone said it was perfect, very professional and exactly what the Prosecution needed to make its case. They were sure Crystal had an accomplice and they wanted to nail him/her. But before they could, Crystal’s attorney struck up a plea bargain and Crystal accepted it, so there was no trial, no diagram in court, and the accomplice remained nameless. The detectives were not happy with this for one compelling reason: there had been an unsolved murder of a girl a year or two before and it was thought that Crystal either had taken part in that murder or knew who did. It was also suspected that whoever helped her take the body of her boyfriend up to the mineshaft had knowledge of the murder. The detectives hoped she might turn over that information on her accomplice if it looked like it would make things easier for her. She did not do that and the case of the murdered girl is now Cold.