Welcome to the Body Farm, where the science of death takes center stage.

Written by Rene Ebersole

Just past the ordinary parking lot lies the world's most advanced graveyard, which also doubles as a dynamic laboratory for law enforcement and forensic experts.

On Valentine's Day, the gravediggers completed their task. Exhausted, their long-sleeved shirts soaked in a mix of rain and perspiration, they stood by the freshly dug holes—four deep trenches in the heavy clay. Nearby, teams of young men and women in rubber gloves and medical gowns were getting ready to move the cadavers down the hill.

Navigating the desolate woods, they transported 10 bodies to the burial site. Six were placed in the first, largest grave. Three more filled the second, and one was laid in the third. The final grave remained empty. Afterward, the gravediggers took up their shovels and filled the holes.

Known as 'the body farm,' the University of Tennessee's Forensic Anthropology Center is the nation's oldest and most renowned facility of its kind, one of only four in the U.S. Since the early ’80s, its three-acre woodland has been home to countless bodies—some in cars, others wrapped in plastic, decaying in shallow graves. Graduate students meticulously study the remains for insects, while law enforcement personnel take part in hands-on crime scene training.

Using donated bodies, scientists here have led the way in developing groundbreaking forensic techniques, particularly those aimed at determining time of death—crucial in criminal investigations. 'Our research focuses mainly on decomposition,' says center director Dawnie Steadman, 'but we’re expanding it in new directions.' As the bodies rest in four anonymous graves, the center is set to launch an innovative three-year experiment that could aid in locating hidden burial sites in conflict zones worldwide. With the aid of laser technology, the body farm's research is about to reach unprecedented levels, potentially solving some of the most disturbing unsolved crimes in history.

MAPPING THE FARM

In 1969, the Kansas Bureau of Investigation's director sought guidance on a pressing issue: a dead cow, and the need to determine its time of death. Cattle rustling had become a local epidemic. Thieves would kill cows in the field, butcher them, and store the meat in refrigerated trucks, disappearing before ranchers could notice the missing animals. With thousands of acres to cover, ranchers often found the carcasses weeks later and called the police. But without knowing the time of death, there was no way for the authorities to narrow down the suspects.

The investigator thought that if anyone could determine the age of a cow carcass, it would be Bill Bass, a 41-year-old forensic anthropology professor at the University of Kansas at Lawrence. Bass occasionally assisted in identifying skeletal remains for law enforcement, analyzing bones to uncover the identity and circumstances of the deceased. His qualifications were unquestionable—trained under the world-renowned bone detective Wilton Krogman at the University of Pennsylvania. Krogman, known as the 'medical Sherlock Holmes,' had worked on numerous criminal cases, including homicides, mob murders, and the Lindbergh baby kidnapping. One of the key lessons he imparted to Bass was how teeth could provide crucial insights into a victim's age and identity.

However, Bass had limited experience with large livestock remains. When the request came, he did what any scientist would: he consulted the existing research. 'I found very little,' says Bass, now 85. 'So I called them back and said, “We don’t know much about this, but if you can find a rancher willing to donate a cow, I’ll observe it daily to see what happens.” I added a postscript to my letter, asking for four cows—one in each season—because temperature plays a huge role in decay.' But nothing ever came of that request.

A few years later, in 1971, Bass took a position at the University of Tennessee. He moved to Knoxville, where the state's medical examiner asked if he would serve as the official forensic anthropologist. Bass accepted and quickly realized that Tennessee was a different world. Unlike the dry, sparsely populated Midwest where he had worked, Tennessee was densely populated and much wetter. The bodies there were 'fresher, smellier, and much more infested with insects.' When agents asked how long the bodies had been decomposing, Bass had no scientific basis for an answer.

Determined to fill this gap in knowledge, Bass took action. 'In 1980, I went to the dean and said, “I need land to place dead bodies on.”' Bass recalls. 'Everyone asked, “What did he say?”' Bass continues, 'He didn’t say much. He picked up the phone and called the person who handled land at the agriculture campus. I went over to meet him.' The man offered Bass a couple of unused acres behind the University of Tennessee Medical Center, a spot once used for burning trash.

CSI: FARM

On his newly acquired land, Bass led the first systematic attempt to understand what happens as a body decomposes. Together with his students, he recreated crime scenes by burying bodies in shallow graves and placing them in abandoned cars. Their early experiments were simple: How long before the arms detach? When does the skull become visible? How long does it take for the flesh to completely disappear?

It didn’t take long for them to discover that temperature plays a crucial role in the rate of decomposition. A body breaks down faster in warmer climates, like Florida, than in colder ones, like Wisconsin. Factors like exposure to sunlight, shade, and the type of clothing a person was wearing also affect the speed of decay. Bodies decay quicker in wool than in cotton because wool retains more heat. Over time, the team created timelines and statistical models that could accurately estimate the time of death based on environmental conditions.

Then there were the insects. One of Bass’s graduate students focused on tracking the insects that feed on dead bodies. Blowflies are the first to arrive, playing a crucial role in determining the time of death. These flies lay eggs in moist openings such as the eyes, mouth, nose, and any open wounds. By studying the life cycle of the insects, the team could accurately gauge the hours since death, with atmospheric conditions taken into account. This method revolutionized forensic science, bringing entomology to the forefront.

As the anthropology program expanded to offer a Ph.D. track, Bass began running field courses for police officers and FBI agents. He became an invaluable member of investigative teams working on high-profile cases, from serial murders to celebrity plane crashes. Although retired now, he still consults on complex cases. 'The smell deters many people,' Bass admits. 'But I never view a forensic case as a dead body. To me, it’s a challenge to uncover who that person was and what happened to them.'

In the decades since the body farm’s establishment, it has educated hundreds of graduate students, law enforcement agents, and scientists. 'It’s impressive,' says Frank McCauley, an agent with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation for 25 years. McCauley, who was once Bass’s student, continues to attend a week-long law enforcement course on forensic evidence collection. 'It provides you with the knowledge and resources to recognize and understand what you may be dealing with,' he says. 'I consider Dr. Bass a national treasure.'

With more and more people volunteering annually to donate their bodies to the body farm, the center keeps expanding. In fact, it recently acquired a new plot of land that promises to advance forensic research even further. The story goes back to 2007, when a forensic anthropologist from Vancouver, Amy Mundorff, was rock climbing in Squamish, British Columbia. Mundorff, who carried a Prada keychain adorned with a skull and crossbones, had previously worked at the New York medical examiner’s office. She was also a first responder during the 9/11 attacks, later spending years identifying victims before moving to the West Coast. Accompanying her on the climb was Michael Medler, a geographer from Western Washington University.

As the two scientists scaled the towering granite cliffs, their conversation turned to their work. Mundorff had always wanted to use her expertise from New York to address global human rights issues, but she was well aware of the challenges in the field. She shared with Medler a particularly frustrating experience when, while investigating a 1995 genocide site in Bosnia, a colleague had followed a lead and dug at a suspected grave site—only to find nothing. Although all known graves in Bosnia had been unearthed, more than 7,000 people were still missing. Where could they be? Without better technology, the mystery might never be solved. While forensic scientists collaborating with human rights organizations had attempted to use satellite imagery and aerial photography, these methods proved inadequate in identifying unknown burial sites.

Then Medler asked, 'Has anyone tried lidar?' Lidar, a remote sensing laser technology, works by analyzing light reflections to detect small changes in the land’s topography. Medler had learned about lidar while studying the impact of forest fires. Unlike satellite imaging, lidar can penetrate tree canopies, enabling it to reveal where the ground has been disturbed. The two scientists realized they may have discovered a breakthrough. Eager to collaborate on a study, they quickly realized, however, that lidar was costly. To run real experiments, they would need funding and the backing of a research facility. They searched for grants but came up empty-handed.

In 2009, Mundorff secured a position as a professor in the University of Tennessee’s anthropology department and relocated to Knoxville. Now with the necessary resources, land, and support from a prestigious institution, she reached out to Medler. She told him they were going to test their lidar theory. Medler was ecstatic and agreed to consult from a distance.

As soon as Mundorff settled into her new role in Tennessee, she wasted no time laying the groundwork for the lidar project, all while simultaneously working on a study analyzing the DNA within skeletal remains. Just six months into her tenure, she received an email from Katie Corcoran, a prospective graduate student. Corcoran had used lidar on archaeological sites and wanted to apply the same technology to locate mass grave sites. 'I was amazed,' says Mundorff, 'because she pitched our idea right back to me.'

To kick off the study, Mundorff needed a fresh parcel of land. The center had recently acquired a neighboring property, which was quickly designated for the project. Ten bodies were set to be used, donated by individuals eager to contribute to advancing forensic science. But there was one obstacle: The new land needed fencing—one for privacy and another with barbed wire for security. However, securing the necessary approvals took three long years, tangled in university bureaucracy. Frustrated, Mundorff waited. Finally, in February 2013, the fences were erected, and by Valentine’s Day, the burial site was ready for the bodies.

Mundorff and her team primarily focused on how decomposition alters the chemical makeup of the soil and nearby vegetation. This is why securing new land was crucial—far away from previous cadaver decay sites. If the nitrogen released from the bodies infiltrated the soil, it would theoretically act as a fertilizer for the plants, making them grow taller and greener than the surrounding vegetation due to the nitrogen-rich, aerated soil. This subtle difference—possibly undetectable to someone walking through a jungle—could be picked up using lidar.

Mundorff and her team also had another theory they were testing using thermal imaging technology. Decomposition generates significant thermal energy, which could be tracked by imaging equipment to identify 'warm' areas. Last fall, a colleague from Oak Ridge National Laboratory set up $150,000 worth of thermal gear on the property. With temperature probes placed in the ground, a massive camera took pictures every five minutes, allowing the team to monitor temperature fluctuations overnight. On the first night, Mundorff and Corcoran camped out at the center, their sleeping bags spread on desks. They wanted to ensure nothing happened to the equipment (what if it rained?). Ordering takeout Mexican food, they set an alarm to check on the camera every hour. 'Katie carried the spider stick,' Mundorff recalls. 'She has no fears.'

THE FUTURE OF FORENSIC SCIENCE

At present, data from the ongoing experiment is just beginning to accumulate. However, what Mundorff and Corcoran suspect—and hope to confirm—is that graves with multiple bodies release more heat compared to those with fewer remains. (The empty grave serves as a control, representing a site where a hole might exist but no bodies.) 'Hidden graves are scattered all over the world, and many are in areas that remain dangerous,' says Mundorff. 'Being able to detect them remotely is the first step in recovering the bodies and bringing them back to their families—and in gathering evidence if criminal prosecutions follow.'

In the coming three years, around a dozen researchers and graduate students will continue to monitor the four graves. If everything goes as planned, this project could support countries grappling with the aftermath of mass losses—hundreds, thousands, or even millions of people. Human rights investigators are actively searching for genocide victims in nations like Argentina, Cyprus, Bolivia, Guatemala, Uganda, Libya, Sudan, Syria, and more. Steadman hopes the center will play a crucial role in helping families locate their missing loved ones. Meanwhile, Bass intends to remain involved in the effort by donating his own remains to the body farm. 'I’ve always enjoyed teaching, and I see no reason to stop once I die. If my skeleton can teach students something, I’m fine with that.' He is not alone in this commitment; nearly 3300 people from all 50 states and six countries have signed up to follow his example.

This story originally ran in Mytour magazine in 2014.