I majored in forensic anthropology, so I think I can confidently say that life is too short to finish reading this book. There really is no excuse for making such an interesting subject so very dull. After 93 pages, I think I've given this book more than a fair shake -- and I quit.
The book starts out with a rather dry treatment of Gross and Locard's early works on forensic investigation. Okay, I get it. You're looking at the founding fathers of forensics, in a time when we didn't have the same tools we do now. I'm okay with that. And then we move on to Sir Bernard Spilsbury's investigation of a rather notorious murder ... and I had hope, really, I did, that we would see how Gross and Locard applied to the case.
Alas, instead we saw Spilsbury's self-aggrandizing perspective of himself as a modern-day Sherlock Holmes, bolstered by the media giving him what amounts to matinee idol status by talking about how handsome he was compared to ordinarily policemen, etc. And even *that* managed to be somnolent.
I just couldn't take it anymore, and I abandoned the book. I regret nothing.