The Night Stalker_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [57]
“There’s a lot of garbage back there. What are you looking for?”
“Commercial garbage from Davie. It’s from a supermarket.”
“That would be section P. If you’d like, I can draw you a map.”
“That would be great.”
The guard drew me a map on a sheet of paper. The landfill was divided into sections that were identified by letters of the alphabet. Going into the guardhouse, he hit a switch, and the gate slid back. I waved to him and drove inside.
Following the guard’s map, I drove down a bumpy dirt road that cut between the hills. It was pitch dark, and my car lurched uncertainly every few feet. There were no other people back here, and I found myself petting Buster as I drove.
Soon I came to a wood sign that read “Section P.” The area was in the process of being filled, and several unfinished mountains of garbage stood in front of me. I grabbed my flashlight from the glove compartment, and got out with my dog.
Landfill excavation was a vital part of homicide investigations, and excavation teams used metal detectors, ground-penetrating radar, and Forward-Looking Infrared (FLIR) technology to look for clues. When it came to looking for bodies, they also used dogs.
I led Buster to the freshest hill, and let him loose. He spent a minute peeing on everything in sight, then scurried up the side of the hill. I followed cautiously, my feet slipping on the mushy ground.
Reaching the top, my dog began to run in circles, having a field day with all the strange and wonderful smells. Then, he disappeared, and for a scary moment I thought he’d fallen down a hole.
Hearing his panting, I followed him down the other side of the hill. He was running fast, and I struggled to catch up. He ran straight to an older hill covered in grass, and went halfway up the side. Then he began digging with his front paws.
“What you got, boy?”
His digging turned frantic. Buster was the kind of dog that would do something until you stopped him, or it killed him. I ran back to my car and popped the trunk. I needed something to help him dig. All I found was a tire iron.
I drove back to the front gate, and found the guard sitting inside the guardhouse, reading a novel. He took off his glasses, and came outside.
“I need to borrow a shovel,” I said.
“You want some help?” he asked.
I should have said yes—another pair of hands would have made my task a lot easier—but I was afraid of getting anyone else involved. I wasn’t supposed to be here, and the fewer people who knew what I was doing, the better.
“No, but thanks anyway,” I said.
I drove back to section P. Buster was still at it, and I plunged my borrowed shovel into the hill, and began to help.
There is no more difficult labor than digging a hole. Soon, sweat was pouring down my face, and I could barely see. I stopped to wipe the sweat away, and looked to the east. The sky was lightening, and I could feel the air beginning to warm up.
I went back to work, and pulled out the plastic bags buried in the earth, and sliced them open with the blade of my shovel. The smell they emitted was disgusting. Each time I inhaled, it felt as if a hole was being eaten into my brain. But I didn’t stop.
Nor did my dog. Buster had locked onto a scent, and each time a bag came out of the hill, he stopped what he was doing to sniff the contents. It was hard to say who was more driven, him or me.
I was still digging when the sun came up. My shoulders were aching, my breathing labored. There was garbage strewn all around me, and the gulls had swooped down from the sky, and were picking at it.
I was beginning to think I’d made a mistake. I had pulled a huge portion of the hill apart, and there were no other bodies hidden in the garbage. Then I heard a car backfire, and saw a pickup truck pull up to the hill.
Four Mexicans jumped out, shovels in hand. They wore bandannas on their heads, and had smiles on their faces. I spoke to them in Spanish, and learned that the guard had sent them. I told them what I was looking for, and their smiles disappeared.
Together, we dug