Death sneaks up on you the way a windshield sneaks up on a bug.
I dedicate this book to all the bugs Ive loved before.
What you are now
What I am you will be
The Experts Praise DANA KOLLMANN
and Never Suck a Dead Mans Hand
For a public obsessed with forensics and cold case files, heres a book that offers a gritty, witty, and heartfelt examination of a real-life crime scene investigator. Dana Kollmann gives insight into her work as a highly trained CSI specialist who, unlike her TV perfect counterparts, must deal with gruesome evidence and data, hoping to solve near-impossible cases complete with blood, corpses, and maggots. Graphic and action-packed, its a must-read for anyone curious about real crime scene investigation techniques.
Aphrodite Jones, New York Times bestselling author of Cruel Sacrifice
Never Suck on a Dead Mans Hand is informative, hilarious, and impossible to put down. Kollmann breaks down stereotypes about forensic investigation fed to us by popular TV shows and reveals that the truth is strangerand much funnierthan fiction.
Corinne Botz, author of The Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death
Riveting and irreverently honest Dana D. Kollmann entertainingly walks readers through her life on the front lines of one of the most misunderstood professions today a candid, educational thrill ride true-crime fans will devour.
M. William Phelps, New York Times bestselling author of We Thought We Knew You
If you enjoy Bones but want to know the truth behind the fiction, read Never Suck on a Dead Mans Hand. Author Dana Kollmann is the real deal! Never Suck a Dead Mans Hand is the book for forensics fanshonest and accurate enough for crime writers to use as a reference but witty and gritty enough to make it a fun read for anyone. Dana Kollmann presents the reality of forensic work in Never Suck on a Dead Mans Hand!
Austin S. Camacho, author of the Hannibal Jones mystery series
This is as raw and real as it gets. Kollmanns experience on crime scenes and in the crime lab shines through on every page. For everyone who wants to know just how human, funny, and tenacious real CSI people are!
Connie Fletcher, author of Every Contact Leaves a Trace: Crime Scene Experts Talk About Their Work, from Discovery Through Verdict
Informative, witty Kollmann delivers terse commentary and gory detail while puncturing common misconceptions about forensics.
Booklist
Fans of CSI and Court TV, your book has arrived. Kollmann has the enthusiasm, wit, and natural storytelling ability to make this memoir sparkle. Highly enjoyable.
Publishers Weekly
Detailed, honest, and gross good practical advice.
Tampa Tribune
Fans of TVs CSI franchise will relish these gritty stories.
Sacramento Bee (AP national)
For the CSI-obsessed: Do you scratch your head over how those fabulous actors on CSI and its many spinoffs can work with equipment so state-of-the-art that it allows them to interrogate and arrest suspects, looking great in the process? Then this book is the necessary dose of reality check for you. With more than a decades experience of crime scene investigation (including several in Baltimore Countys police department), Dana Kollmann is well equipped to give the real scoop on the life of a CSIfrom a plastic bag mistaken for a dead body to the mind-numbing paperwork to, yes, sucking on a dead mans finger. If Kollmann occasionally wields her gallows humor with a bit too much blunt force, she deserves kudos for telling the truth about CSI land: that TV glamor masks a far more complex profession.
Baltimore Sun
Contents
Never Suck a Dead Mans Hand
Introduction
Last year I rejoined the living. I turned in my uniforms, flicked the last bits of mung (a generic reference to unidentified human chunks) from the soles of my boots, and gathered my court summonses. I was still technically on maternity leave, but I knew long before I left for my twelve-week hiatus that I wouldnt be coming back. I had cleaned out most of my personal belongings before my leave started and was grateful that a few of my friends offered to pack my remaining things and leave them in a box beneath my desk. I was grateful because I hate good-byes, and I just wanted to sneak into the building, drop off a few things, grab what was left of my personal effects, and get out quickly without being noticed.
My plan worked. It was 2:00 A.M. on a Friday, and I knew all too well that everyone would be busting their chops running from one Crime Lab call to the next. I placed the last of my uniforms on my supervisors desk along with my pepper spray, conduct and field manuals, keys, biohazardous equipment bag, respirator, rubber boots, and identification card. I couldnt help but notice her calendar and the big letters under March 7 that read: DANA BACK ON SHIFT 1. I felt a lump growing in my throat and blinked back the tears that had begun to well up in my eyes. I couldnt believe that I was doing it. I was quitting. I was never coming back. Never, ever again.
I picked up my ID card and looked at the photograph one last time. It was discolored from being exposed to fingerprint powder every day for the past ten years of my life and deep gouges ran through my face from the card being swiped hundreds of times through the readers that secured the Lab. Even without the discoloration and gouges, it was still an awful picture of me, but I smiled thinking back to the morning it had been taken. I had been on overtime because of a stabbing in the pouring rain the night before. A woman beat the hell out of her husband with a frying pan and then stabbed him, all because he complained about the way she cooked his fish. When she was finished punishing him, she threw the frying pan off the balcony. I remembered getting rain soaked as I photographed the frying pan, a spatula, and the poor little lake trout filets that were hanging in the azaleas. I looked a wreck in the photograph, but had the excuse of being soaking wet, covered in grease, and smelling like fish. I shoved the card under my pile of uniforms.
I walked into the Labs main area and took down the placard above my desk that had my name on it. Then I peeled my name off my mailbox. I didnt bother to look through the mail that had accumulated over the past three months. If it was important, they knew where they could find me. I grabbed what remained of my things, turned off the light, and left.
It was a straight shot to the elevator, but I decided to take the long way out and cut through the evidence processing laboratory. The room was pitch dark with only a dim ray of light from the street eleven floors below casting a faint glow on the superglue chamber. I set my things on the evidence table and walked over to the window. Everything outside looked so quiet and peaceful. It was such an irony that the most spectacular view was from the very room where evidence from the most heinous and violent of crimes passed through for processing.