The Field Museum is closed, but the flesh-eating beetles still must be fed

Flesh-eating beetles swarm over the skull of a white-tailed deer in the Field Museum’s “bug room.” It’s Adam Ferguson’s job to check in weekly to make sure the bugs have enough to eat. | Provided

Once a week, Adam Ferguson strolls the marble-clad hallways of the Field Museum, passing no coworkers or visitors, as he makes his way to a room on the third floor that smells like, well, death.

It’s one of the few signs of life inside a museum that’s been shuttered since mid-March, and Ferguson is there to check on the thousands of tiny black beetles crawling over animal bones big and small in search of scraps of rotting flesh.

“They’re actually really cute: they’re black on top and white on the bottom,” Ferguson said of the voracious little critters.

During a FaceTime chat, he held up what remained of the claws and foot bone of a tiger.

The museum may be closed due to the coronavirus, but the “mission critical” work continues, Ferguson said. The walk-in freezer in the subbasement is packed with animal specimens, many of which have been dissected but still must be stripped of their flesh so researchers can study the bones. The dermestid beetles pick the bones clean without damaging them. And when there’s no more meat, more must be retrieved from the freezer.

As the manager of some 235,000 mammal specimens at the museum, Ferguson is also there roaming the museum’s many dimly lit corridors, checking to see that no water pipes have leaked in the century-old building, possibly damaging specimens.

Ferguson checks in with the security desk each morning, and then might not see another soul for the four hours or so he’s in the museum. It’s just him and thousands upon thousands of beetles diligently going about their work.

“It’s a little creepy,” he admitted. “It’s weird because normally the whole museum is such a buzz of activity, both for visitors and staff.”

Adam Ferguson, who oversees the mammal collection at the Field Museum, says it’s “a little creepy” being in the museum with almost no one else there.

Besides the thousands of daily visitors and dozens of volunteers, the museum typically has a staff of about 470.

But Ferguson doesn’t mind being alone. He doesn’t have to worry about shaving. He can crank up his favorite reggae tunes. At lunch time, he heads up one flight of stairs to the break room.

“That’s where we keep all the food and drinks — a food-only refrigerator. No dead animals allowed,” he joked.

Sometimes, he needs to head to the subbasement to bring up more bones for the beetles to gnaw. Last week, the freezer — big enough to fit a small sedan — was packed with countless species of birds, a “pure bred” goat and several dozen wolves and coyotes.

“There’s a researcher here who specializes in wolves and coyotes, and he’s obsessed,” Ferguson said.

Lauren Smith, a collections assistant in the mammals division, checks on the flesh-eating beetles. | Provided photo.

Typically, there are half a dozen people chopping up animal carcasses in the nearby prep lab.

“I go in there now, and you can hear a pin drop,” he said.

When he’s in the freezer, Ferguson is careful — particularly now that he’s alone — to always leave the door ajar. A few years ago, a colleague at another, out-of-state museum accidentally locked herself in a freezer for six hours.

“It was a Friday night,” he said. “A faculty (member) just happened to be there. They heard her banging on the door and were able to get her out.”

But he said there has been little drama during his weekly visits to the museum. No broken pipes. The “spooky,” jolting elevator that takes staff from the third to the main floor hasn’t broken down with him in it. No rats have scurried across his path.

Will he miss it when things are back to normal? Yes and no.

“You get a lot done when you’re not distracted by [putting out] the daily fires,” he said.