Small Bones

He’d been a cop for years. Last eight, a detective: Vice, then Narcotics, now Homicide. He’d been a cop long enough — lord knows, a detective long enough — to have seen everything.

He got back up, wiped his mouth. Someone handed him a water bottle, which he fumbled at opening. The others waited patiently, not judging. They’d all been there, one scene or another. It happens. When he’d collected himself, he ducked back under the yellow tape and stepped carefully down into the gully.

“This was your case?”

“Mindy Earlmann. Seven. She’d be ten now.”

“You’re sure?”

“I remember the backpack.”