Butcher

I walked tothe newspaper-wrapped bundle, looked atthe mud smears onit—and atanother brown stain. Then Igripped acorner ofthe paper andunwrapped itfrom thething inside.

I didn’t know what itwas atfirst. Buttwo minutes later, using thephone ina nearby house, Iwas talking tomy good friend, Phil Samson, Captain ofCentral-Homicide. “Sam, this is Shell. Get somebody outhere onChavez Ravine Road. Ithink I’ve found a—a leg.”