"You need to sift through these remains. Hopefully you will be able to find the murder weapon," Dr. Brennan said absently to her eager intern. When she turned around, Mr. Nigel Murray rolled his eyes. He was well acquainted with doing the dirty work for his boss, but this was really…gross. He mentally kicked himself for the lack of a better adjective.
The first step would be to find a way to drain the puss from the body. Maybe a giant turkey baster. Yes, that should do the job. Vile. Repugnant. Repulsive. Nauseating. Mr. Nigel Murray was mentally listing off the words should have replaced gross in his mental processing. As he was going through his internal vocabulary rolodex, he began to drain the liquid content of the body with a glorified vacuum cleaner. More scientific than a turkey baster, and a little bit more entertaining.
When the majority of the foul smelling puss was gone, Mr. Nigel Murray began to fish around with his gloved hands. There were a number of foreign objects in this poor man's fully exposed rib-cage. He assumed they were products of the body's less than ideal resting place; the dumpster at a construction site on the "wrong side of the tracks". No matter how long he was in America, these sayings and aphorisms would likely never make sense. For a minute, he reeled after getting a whiff of the body. Foul smelling was a grotesque understatement. While he had been around his fair share of nauseating bodily fluids and other things pertaining to deceased human beings, this was by far the most potent. There was something almost inimical about it; something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He was far from the type who believed in premonition or any other superstition for that matter, but there was definitely something "off" about this body.
The light-headedness came first. It was as though his body was ordering him to sit down. Mr. Nigel Murray tried to fight that urge, at least for a minute. It would not look good for him to pass out on the platform in the lab of the woman he admired most. It would be like a major league baseball player passing out when he was at bat. He smiled to himself at his American culture reference before the nausea hit. His knees gave out from underneath him, and he frantically grabbed at the table for anything that would keep him upright. He was too distracted by the falling to realize that he should have thought twice about grabbing blindly at the table.
Once he was safely on the ground, the nausea abated momentarily. As if they had planned it, as the nausea retreated a sharp pain in his left hand charged into battle. Everything was moving so quickly, but at the same time, he seemed to be frozen in time. When he finally got his arm and head to do what he wanted, he glanced at where the pain was coming from. There was blood dripping from his left palm, and on closer inspection, Vincent could see a nail protruding from his torn flesh. "Shit," he muttered under his breath.
Booth and Brennan had heard the fall, and they made it to the fallen intern just as he was uttering the first and last expletive they would hear from his mouth. Booth was immediately in soldier mode and he knew that they needed to move Mr. Nigel Murray. The floor around him was soiled with whatever substance was coming from the body. Lifting him carefully in his arms, Booth stood up slowly and made his way down the platform steps and towards one of the chairs.
Dr. Saroyan was already on her way over when Brennan called for her. When she saw the prone form in the chair, she picked up her pace to a run. "What happened?" she asked.
"Got dizzy…" Vincent answered weakly.