“Briel’s not certified in forensic anthropology.”
“Of course she isn’t. It takes a PhD and years of experience to qualify for ABFA candidacy. Being a pathologist doesn’t make you an anthropologist, or vice versa.”
For several moments we listened to the hiss and pop of the logs.
My eyes drifted to a bouquet on the dining room table. LaManche. His gift had been the first to arrive.
“This would never have happened on LaManche’s watch,” I said. “He’d never use a noncertified expert.”
“The old man would have seen through Briel,” Ryan agreed.
“I hope he’s doing well,” I said.
“So do I.”
Ryan took my hand. Firelight danced in his eyes and bathed his face with a warm, honey glow.
“Are we, buttercup? Doing well?”
I hesitated.
“Yes, dandelion.”
I smiled.
“Very well, indeed.”
FROM THE FORENSIC FILES OF DR. KATHY REICHS
CAMELOT? OR SCAM A LOT?
In this special essay, Kathy Reichs discusses the imperfect relationship between science and the criminal justice system.
“How many guilty have gone free, and how many innocent have been convicted?” Why does Ryan ask that of Tempe?
They’re worried about bad forensic science.
A lot of us are.
Today, science is a routine and crucial tool of the criminal justice system. A latent fingerprint places a defendant at a crime scene. DNA from sperm links an accused to a rape victim. Chemical analysis determines that a drug is illegal. An autopsy establishes that a death is homicide.
The forensic science community includes a wide array of practitioners: anthropologists, biologists, chemists, entomologists, odontologists, pathologists. On television these scientists are portrayed as knights in shining lab coats.
No question. Science is powerful. But does it always smite with the unerring stroke of Excalibur? Is every expert a gallant champion for justice and right?
Recent findings suggest things aren’t perfect in Camelot.
Thus Tempe’s and Ryan’s unease.
“Whether it’s bad methodology, sloppy performance, or intentional misconduct, jurors can’t always spot junk science,” Tempe says.
She speaks of the Innocence Project, a national litigation and public policy organization dedicated to finding justice for those wrongfully imprisoned. Numbers have risen since her fireside chat with Ryan. As of this writing, 234 convicted persons in the United States have been exonerated through DNA testing.
How could our courts err in so many cases?
Each “forensic science” has its own methodologies, technologies, practices, and standards. There is significant variability with regard to reliability and potential for error. Some specialties are analytical and laboratory based: DNA analysis, toxicology, drug analysis. Terra firma. Others rely on pattern interpretation: fingerprints, handwriting, tool and bite mark analysis. Shakier ground.
“If an expert wears the white lab coat, it’s science,” Tempe says. She is worried about testimony based on faulty science, on imperfect testing and analysis, or on imprecise, exaggerated, or false claims.
Examples abound. An expert in Illinois relocated to Texas testified on lip print analysis, an anthropologist on identification through shoe prints. Neither methodology had been validated. Using goggles and a blue laser, a dentist in Mississippi identified bite marks, scratches, and other injuries that no one else saw. His results can’t be photographed or reproduced.
A chemist in Tennessee, later Texas, routinely presented inconclusive findings as conclusive, altered laboratory records, and reported scientifically impossible or improbable results. A Toronto doctor performed over a thousand autopsies on children, though he never certified in forensic pathology.
Innocent people went to jail. Mothers lost custody of their kids. Perpetrators who could have been convicted were acquitted.
Tempe doesn’t like it. And she’s not alone.
Recently, the Science, State, Justice, Commerce, and Related Agencies Appropriations Act of 2006 became law. Under the terms of the statute, Congress tasked the National Academy of Sciences with evaluating the state of forensic science in the United States. On February 18, 2009, the NAS issued its long-awaited report.
It was a doozy.
The report described disparities in forensic science operations in federal, state, and local law enforcement jurisdictions and agencies. It found that medical examiner systems vary in the extent of services and the level of expertise provided. Given these factors, the committee concluded that the reliability and quality of information arising from the forensic examination of evidence available to the legal system varies substantially across the country.
Bottom line. In America justice isn’t equally available to all. Why? Understaffing and underfunding.
The NAS report also highlighted a credentialing problem. Most jurisdictions do not require forensic practitioners to be certified by reliable legitimizing organizations. Most forensic disciplines have no mandatory certification programs internally.
Sound familiar? It’s one of Tempe’s favorite themes. Here’s what she says:
“Board certification. Every field now has it. The American Board of Forensic Anthropology, Odontology, Entomology, Toxicology, Engineering, Psychiatry, Pathology, etc. Full accreditation requires attainment of a specified educational level, a lengthy application process, and rigorous examination. And it’s not just a one-shot deal. For continued certification, diplomates must participate in ongoing professional activities and adhere to ethical standards.”
Among its eleven recommendations, the NAS report called for mandatory certification of all forensic scientists and medical examiners. The same way that, for example, states require lawyers to be licensed.
But back up, you say. Weren’t these issues addressed years ago by the Supreme Court?
In 1993, in Daubert vs. Merrell Dow Pharmaceuticals, Inc., the Supreme Court ruled that a “trial judge must ensure that any and all scientific testimony or evidence admitted is not only relevant, but reliable.”
Bravo! So what’s the problem?
First, the Daubert standard applies only to federal courts and to state court systems that choose to adopt it. Second, Daubert appoints the judge as gatekeeper. But how does his or her honor distinguish legitimate forensic methodologies and their practitioners from junk science and charlatans?
Tempe’s point precisely.
“Board certification isn’t a perfect answer, Ryan, but it’s a start. Those letters behind a scientist’s name aren’t just there for show. They’re hard-earned. And they’re a message to judges, prosecutors, law enforcement, whomever, that an expert is legit, that he or she has undergone peer scrutiny and meets a high set of standards.”
Contrary to the television myth, laboratory workers differ from crime scene searchers. Scientists, most with advanced degrees, differ from the technicians who lend them support.
It is the scientists who wield the mighty swords. And, sadly, not all are equally competent. Not all view themselves as champions of scientific truth.
206 Bones is the story of a scientist who wished to become the Grail Knight. Though qualified in one field, the individual aspired to much more. The result was disastrous.
I have selected forensic science as my life work. Like the vast majority of my colleagues, I have sworn to a code of chivalry. The pledge: To protect the innocent from wrongful conviction; to help convict the guilty.
The fulfillment of this twofold promise requires assurance of professional competence across all disciplines, and enforcement of rigorous ethical standards.
How to ensure both?
Tempe and the NAS are right on the mark. Board certification must become mandatory in the hiring of scientists, and in their qualification as experts in court.
And existing boards must not relax their standards to accommodate
all. Technicians are not scientists. The skill sets are different. Certification standards must remain rigorous to clarify this distinction.
Not perfect. But it’s a start.
What do I propose?
Proclaimed to all knights of the realm. Going forth from this day. To sit at the round table ye must:
Suck it up, take your boards, pass the king’s muster.
Scribner proudly presents
Spider Bones
Kathy Reichs
Available Now from Scribner
Turn the page for a preview of SPIDER BONES
1
THE AIR SMELLED OF SUN-WARMED BARK AND APPLE buds raring to blossom and get on with life. Overhead, a million baby leaves danced in the breeze.
Fields spread outward from the orchard in which I stood, their newly turned soil rich and black. The Adirondacks crawled the horizon, gaudy bronze and green in the glorious sunlight.
A day made of diamonds.
The words winged at me from a war drama I’d watched on the classic-film channel. Van Johnson? No matter. The phrase was perfect for the early-May afternoon.
I’m a Carolina girl, no fan of polar climes. Jonquils in February. Azaleas, dogwoods, Easter at the beach. Though I’ve worked years in the North, after each long, dark, tedious winter the beauty of Quebec spring still takes me by surprise.
The world was sparkling like a 9-carat rock.
A relentless buzzing dragged my gaze back to the corpse at my feet. According to SQ Agent André Bandau, now maintaining as much distance as possible, the body came ashore around noon.
News telegraphs quickly. Though it was now barely three, flies crawled and swarmed in a frenzy of feeding. Or breeding. I was never sure which.
To my right, a tech was taking pictures. To my left, another was running yellow crime-scene tape around the stretch of shoreline on which the body lay. The jackets of both said Service de l’identité judiciaire, Division des scènes de crime. Quebec’s version of CSI.
Ryan sat in a squad car behind me, talking to a man in a trucker cap. Lieutenant-détective Andrew Ryan, Section des crimes contre la personne, Sûreté du Québec. Sounds fancy. It’s not.
In La Belle Province, crime is handled by local forces in major cities, by the provincial police out in the boonies. Ryan is a homicide detective with the latter, the SQ.
The body was spotted in a pond near the town of Hemmingford, forty-five miles south of Montreal. Hemmingford. Boonies. SQ. You get it.
But why Ryan, a homicide dick working out of the SQ’s Montreal unit?
Since the deceased was plastic-wrapped and wearing a rock for a flipper, the local SQ post suspected foul play. Thus the bounce to Ryan.
And to me. Temperance Brennan, forensic anthropologist.
Working out of the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale in Montreal, I do the decomposed, mummified, mutilated, dismembered, and skeletal for the province, helping the coroner with identification, cause of death, and postmortem interval.
Immersion leaves a corpse in less than pristine condition, so when Ryan caught the call about a floater he enlisted me.
Through the windshield I saw Ryan’s passenger gesture with agitated hands. The man was probably fifty, with gray stubble and features that suggested a fondness for drink. Black and red letters on his cap declared I Love Canada. A maple leaf replaced the traditional heart icon.
Ryan nodded. Wrote something in what I knew was a small notebook.
Refocusing on the corpse, I continued jotting in my own spiral pad.
The body lay supine, encased in clear plastic with only the left lower leg outside and exposed. Duct tape sealed the plastic under the chin and around the left calf.
The exposed left foot wore a heavy biker boot. Above its rim, a two-inch strip of flesh was the color of oatmeal.
A length of yellow polypropylene rope looped the boot roughly halfway up its laces. The rope’s other end was attached to a rock via an elaborate network of knots.
The victim’s head was wrapped separately, in what looked like a plastic grocery bag. A black tube protruded from one side of the bag, held in place with more duct tape. The whole arrangement was secured by tape circling the neck and the tube’s point of exit.
What the flip?
When I dropped to a squat, the whining went mongo. Shiny green missiles bounced off my face and hair.
Up close, the smell of putrefaction was unmistakable. That was wrong, given the vic’s packaging.
Waving off Diptera, I repositioned myself for a better view of the body’s far side.
A dark mass pulsated in what I calculated was the right thigh region. I shooed the swarm with one gloved hand.
And felt a wave of irritation.
The right lower limb was visible through a fresh cut in the plastic. Flies elbowed for position on the wrist and out of sight up the arm.
Sonofabitch.
Suppressing my annoyance, I shifted to the head.
Algae spread among the folds and creases of the bag covering the top and back of the skull. More slimed one side of the odd little tube.
I could discern murky features beneath the translucent shroud. A chin. The rim of an orbit. A nose, bent to one side. Bloating and discoloration suggested that visual identification would not be an option.
Rising, I swept my gaze toward the pond.
Nosed to the shore was a tiny aluminum skiff with a three-horsepower outboard engine. On the floor in back were a beer cooler, a tackle box, and a fishing rod.
Beside the skiff was a red canoe, beached and lying on its starboard side. Navigator was lettered in white below the port gunwale.
Polypropylene rope ran from a knot on the canoe’s midship thwart to a rock on the ground. I noted that the knot on the rock resembled the one securing the victim’s ankle weight.
Inside the canoe, a paddle lay lengthwise against the starboard hull. A canvas duffel was wedged below the stern seat. A knife and a roll of duct tape were snugged beside the duffel.
An engine hum joined the buzz of flies and the bustle and click of techs moving around me. I ignored it.
Five yards up the shoreline, a rusted red moped sat beneath a precociously flowering tree. The license plate was unreadable from where I stood. At least with my eyes.
Dual rearview mirrors. Kickstand. Raised trunk behind the seat. The thing reminded me of my freshman undergrad wheels. I’d loved that scooter.
Walking the area between the skiff and the moped, I saw a set of tire treads consistent with the pickup parked by the road, and one tread line consistent with the moped itself. No foot or boot prints. No cigarette butts, aluminum cans, condoms, or candy wrappers. No litter of any kind.
Moving back along the water, I continued recording observations. The engine sounds grew louder.
Mud-rimmed pond, shallow, no tides or chop. Apple trees within five feet of the bank. Ten yards to a gravel road accessing highway 219.
Tires crunched. The engine sounds cut out. Car doors opened, slammed. Male voices spoke French.
Satisfied I’d learn nothing further from the scene, and wanting a word with the industrious Agent Bandau, I turned and walked toward the vehicles lining the road.
A black van had joined Ryan’s Jeep, the blue crime scene truck, the fisherman’s pickup, and Bandau’s SQ cruiser. Yellow letters on the van read Bureau du Coroner.
I recognized the van’s driver, an autopsy tech named Gilles Pomerleau. Riding shotgun was my new assistant, Roch Lauzon.
Exchanging bonjours, I assured Pomerleau and Lauzon the wait wouldn’t be long. They crossed to view the corpse. Ryan remained in the cruiser with the unfortunate angler.
I approached Bandau, a gangly twentysomething with a wheat blond mustache and skin that looked like it really hated sun. Though hidden by his agent’s cap, I envisioned pale hair going south at a rate that alarmed its young owner.
“What’s with the plastic wrap?” Bandau asked in French, looking past me toward
the corpse.
“Good question.” I had no explanation.
“Male or female?”
“Yes,” I said.
Bandau’s face came around, winking my reflection off his aviator shades. My expression was not a happy one.
“I understand you were the first responder.”
Bandau nodded, eyes unreadable behind the dark lenses.
“How’d that go?”
Bandau cocked his chin toward his cruiser. “Local named Gripper found the vic. Claims he was fishing when he saw the canoe. He motored over to investigate, something snagged his propeller. Says he paddled in, saw his catch was a corpse, dialed 911 on his cell. While waiting, he dragged the body ashore then retrieved the canoe.”
“Thorough guy.”
“Guess you could say that.”
“Is he believable?” I asked.
Bandau shrugged. Who knows?
“What are his creds?”
“Lives on Avenue Margaret with his wife. Works maintenance at the wildlife park.”
Hemmingford is located in the Montérégie region, a hair from the Canada-U.S. border. The Montérégie is noted for its apples, maple syrup, and Parc Safari, a combination drive-through nature preserve and amusement park.
When I first started commuting to Quebec, the media were following the story of a group of rhesus monkey escapees from the park. I had visions of the band belly-crawling south through the night to avoid border patrol, risking all for a green card and a better life. Twenty years later, the image still amuses me.
“Go on,” I said.
“I caught the call around noon, drove out, secured the area.”
“And printed the body.” Chilly.
Sensing my disapproval, Bandau spread his feet and thumb-hooked his belt. “I thought it might speed the ID.”
“You cut the plastic.”
“I wore gloves.” Defensive. “Look, I had the new camera, so I shot close-ups and transmitted the file electronically.”
“You compromised the scene.”