We reach another door. Someone has fired a shotgun into it, which left dozens of pellet holes and an opening the size of my fist. Glock muscles it open. We go down a short stairwell and find ourselves in the belly of a warehouse-type building with a loading dock and dozens of old pens. Most of the steel panels are gone. Some are rusted and broken down. I suspect the equipment and furnishings of this place were auctioned off a long time ago. What didn’t sell was simply left behind, and over the years, people helped themselves to whatever they needed. About half of the pens include concrete manure pits that are about four feet deep. Some have grates in place; others simply drop off.
Through a door on the far side of the warehouse, I see the facade of a dilapidated Quonset hut barn with a big sliding door and tiny square windows.
I take in the sheer size of the place and sigh. “A lot of ground to cover.”
“You want me to call Skid or T.J.?” Glock asks.
I think about scheduling and overtime and shake my head. “Let’s see how much ground we can cover. If it’s not enough, I’ll get them out here tomorrow.”
He nods. “You know, Chief, with those remains showing signs that the vic was mauled by hogs, and he actually worked here, this is the place to look.”
“The question is, did he leave that titanium plate behind?” I look down at my metal detector. “The guy at the rental place give any instructions on how to use this thing?”
“Yup.” He reaches over and hits the power button. “There’s your ON button. Sensitivity is set high, so it’ll pick up just about anything, including beer tabs and crap. Since we’re both a couple of amateurs, he thought that was best.” He grins. “I think ‘idiot proof’ was the term he used.”
“Not intended in a literal sense, I’m sure.”
Another laugh, and then he offers instruction on technique. “All we have to do is set up a grid. Walk it. Sweep back and forth, like this.” He demonstrates.
I pull out my phone and call up a photo of the titanium plate. “This is similar to the piece we’re looking for. There may or may not be screws with it.”
He nods. “I’ll start on the north side, Chief. You want to take the south? We’ll work our way toward each other?”
“Good plan.”
He motions toward the Quonset hut barn. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to check that out first.”
“Remember what I said about zombies,” I call out.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s every man for himself.”
We part ways. I go right, to the south side of the maze of pens. He descends the steps and starts toward the Quonset hut barn.
*
Two weeks ago I gave a talk to about forty seniors at the Painters Mill High School. Most of the students viewed police work as an exciting and glamorous career chock-full of high-speed chases, CSI-esque science, and dangerous undercover work that nets millions in dirty cash and concludes with some scumbag drug dealer going to jail. A misconception perpetuated by movies and television. No one likes to burst the bubble of a young mind, so I was hard-pressed to point out that reality couldn’t be further from the truth. But I did.
Sweeping a metal detector over a nine-thousand-square commercial hog operation is a prime example of exactly how unglamorous police work can be, especially when your efforts are hampered by steel panels, concrete manure pits, and falling-down feeders. So far my search has netted a screwdriver, six beer cans, spent shotgun shells, several nails, and a garter snake. It’s hot and humid, and with the close proximity of the creek to the east, the mosquitoes are the size of bats and just as bloodthirsty. I’m two hours into my grid and working my way north, when I find the skull. I’m standing at the base of one of the manure pits atop a decades-old buildup of pig shit—that, much to my relief, has composted to soil—when I spot the curved globe sticking out of the dirt.
Propping my metal detector against the concrete wall, I tug the spade from my back pocket and squat for a better look. The skull is smooth and white and looks to be intact. Using the spade, I pry it from its nest. I’m no expert, but it looks very much like a pig skull. It’s elongated and relatively flat from crown to nose, with small tusks jutting upward from the lower jaw. I glance down, see a glint of white from a second bone. I unearth several vertebrae. A dozen or so ribs. The blade of a shoulder. Picking up the metal detector, I slowly sweep the area. When no alert sounds, I leave the bones and move on.
I’ve only advanced a few yards, when a wave of nausea seesaws below my ribs. It’s been happening on and off all morning. I attributed it to hunger, and so far I’ve been able to ignore it. But no more. I prop the metal detector against the fence. I barely make it to the edge of the concrete pen area before throwing up in the weeds. I’m bent at the hip with my hands on my knees, thinking I’m not quite finished, when I hear Glock behind me.
“Chief?”
Raising my hand, I wave my index finger and throw up again. I stay like that for another minute, embarrassed because I’m spitting and sweating. Finally, I straighten and tug a tissue from my pocket and wipe my mouth. “Sorry,” I mutter.
“You need some water or something?” he asks.
“Nope.” Pulling my chief-of-police face back in place, I turn to face him. “Just the heat, I think.”