Christmas Day 1999 was and will likely remain the most terrifying day of my life.

I was young, pursuing my dream of forensic anthropology at Boston University under Professor Manis.

He was my mentor, intelligent, tenured and inspiring.

Our class had taken trips to his body farm in upstate New York a few times

throughout the semester. It consisted of a variety of environments that were perfect

for studying various rates of decomposition, dense woods, thick brush,

open fields, ponds, creeks, sheds, cabins, and even a swampy marsh. In the center of it all was the Manis home.

An ancient, yet beautiful colonial tucked beneath the massive pines.

On the last day of classes before winter break, Professor Manus gently grabbed my arm

as I was leaving his lecture and asked me to sit with him for a few moments. As we sat and

sipped coffee, he asked what my plans were for the holidays.

The question was unexpected, but not off-putting.

I told him that I was going to stay with my friend Jess. He asked why I wasn't spending it with

family and I went on to explain that I had grown up in the foster system. He apologized profusely, for which I told him it was okay.

Professor Manis took another drink and told me he would be spending Christmas,

as well as the remainder of winter with his sister's family in Florida, leaving his estate and body farm vacant.

I smiled softly as I realized what he was about to inquire.

You're the top student in class by far.

How would you like to work on the Manis body farm this winter

as part of your PhD program and continue my research while I'm down south?" he asked.

Christmas with the corpses.

I couldn't have said yes faster.

...