Scent of Evil

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A human hand stuck out of the fresh dirt like a pale succulent plant, except this plant was wearing a silver ring, which twinkled fiercely in the burning sun.

“Want us to check it out?”

I turned at the quiet voice, looking over my shoulder to the top of the embankment. Two young men in white shirts with “Rescue, Inc.” shoulder patches stood above me. The taller one had a medical kit in his hand. Behind them, only half visible from where I stood, was a large, boxy ambulance, its flashing lights anemic in the bright sun.

I shielded my eyes with my hand, feeling the sweat on my forehead. It was the hottest recorded August in Vermont history, with no reprieve in the forecast. I motioned to a fresh path in the slope connecting the street to the narrow dirt ledge we were occupying. “Maybe just one of you. Try to keep on the path so you don’t add to the footprints.”

The tall paramedic who had spoken sidestepped carefully down the path and joined me and Detective Sergeant Ron Klesczewski on the ledge. Klesczewski and I stepped back from the funnel-shaped hole in which the hand was nestled. The medic got to his knees and reached down to the bottom of the hole. I could see the sweat glistening on the hairs of his arm, and the damp impression his shoulder blades and spine made on his uniform shirt.

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