IT HAD BEEN weeks since they’d found her, so the weeds in the dumping grounds may have been an inch or so higher, but other than that it looked the same. Crabgrass rose shoulder-high in places, waist-high in others. Trash was strewn everywhere, some in bags and some loose, some of it freshly laid on top, and some nearly subsumed into the earth itself. The only real differences between that first night and now was that the sun was out and there wasn’t a body here anymore.
Tommy Smith parked the pickup truck that he’d borrowed from a friend. In shotgun was Champ Jennings, who had been one of the first officers at the scene the night they’d found her, and, conveniently, was the strongest man in the precinct.
The redbrick wall of an apartment building in front of them offered a bit of shade at that midmorning hour, though it would be taking that shade back shortly. They would have been smart to get an earlier start, but cops who pulled night shifts weren’t much for morning yard work. They grabbed machetes and hedge clippers from the bed of the truck. Then they got to work on their city beautification project. First was the swinging, as they chopped away at the highest weeds and got them down to a manageable, possibly mowable height. Smith realized immediately that this would be a much harder job than he’d been hoping it would be.
“I don’t think my machete’s sharp enough,” he said.
Champ laughed. “I don’t think your shoulder’s sharp enough, boy.”
Smith swung harder, then Champ laughed again. “Hold up, hold up.” Champ was a farm boy, and after Smith steadied his blade, Champ stepped forward and demonstrated. “Hit it this way, down like.” Smith watched as the big man split the sheaths in a smooth stroke. “That, and add thirty pounds of muscle, and you should be fine.”
They alternated between hacking at the growth and pulling out pieces of trash, stuffing the loose garbage into paper bags they’d brought and tossing them into the truck.
They wore gloves, long-sleeved shirts, and boots to protect themselves from snakes and thorns and poison ivy, not to mention the general nastiness of days- and week-old trash. Every now and then Smith caught a whiff of nearby honeysuckle but mostly he smelled the almost sweet ripeness of refuse. Within an hour the sun was leaning on them hard and Smith’s shoulders were on fire. Eventually Boggs arrived, fresh from some church event and wearing nicer clothes than the task demanded.
Stray dogs came and went, some to watch, others to use the dumping grounds for their own waste-disposal purposes. Smith, digging out an old tire that had become encased in vines and roots, shook his shovel and hollered at the mutts, who trotted off.
Two neighbors joined them for a spell, Samaritans intrigued by the chance to show some solidarity. Could this dumping ground really become a park? Could this spot actually be used for picnics or a playground, or were such thoughts laughable? Was it even worth it to try?
Smith was wiping his brow when he heard a scraping noise. He looked to the right and saw a young man, maybe eighteen, dragging a metal garbage pail toward them.
“No!” Smith yelled, the same tone he’d used to shoo the mutts.
The man stopped and took in the surprising scene before him.
“What am I supposed to do with this, then?” he asked.
“Leave it on the curb. Collection for this neighborhood is Tuesday morning.”
“Yeah, same day as Jesus comes back to save us all, right? When’s that ever happened?”
Smith walked over to the man, who was slight and thin and sweating himself from dragging his trash around the building. He reached into his pocket and handed the man one of his cards.
“We spoke to the Sanitation Department. They’ll be here every Tuesday. If they’re not, you call me. Officer Tommy Smith. All right?”
The man read the card. Or appeared to read it. Smith couldn’t tell. “All right.”
Smith heard the pail scraping its way back home as he attacked a patch of bamboo.
Hours later, the group had whittled back down to Smith and Champ. One by one the others had tired or remembered other things they had to get to. The bed of the truck was piled high with weeds and branches on one side, man-made garbage on the other.
“If we’re gonna drive this to the dump before roll call, we need to stop now,” Champ said.
Smith surveyed the lot. They had cleared perhaps a third of it, down to the last few inches thanks to a mower they’d brought with them. The other half, however, was still sneering at them.
“It’s a start,” Champ said. “It’s a start.”
Smith wanted to agree. But he kept his mouth shut, as he loathed unfinished jobs.