1
Detective Tom Powell squinted from under his brown hat at the burnt-orange sun that filtered through the smoke-filled sky. He flicked his cigarette at the massive pile of garbage before him. “All right, let’s see it.” He followed the thin old man down shoreline of decaying meals, broken toys and discarded newspapers. The old man slowed, then stopped and pointed into the pile. “Right there,” he said.
“Nice,” Powell said flatly, as he stared into the cloudy eyes of the woman who stared up at him. Only her head and part of one shoulder protruded from the dense pile of refuse. A large wound above her brow seemed to lay her skull wide open. Powell reached into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a pad. “Green eyes. Looks like brown hair. What do you make her age at pop, middle to late twenties?” The old man stared down at the head and said nothing. “Any idea where this particular garbage came from?” The old man looked over at Powell and shrugged.
“I might as well ask her,” he said reaching up into the garbage above the body and pulled out a small rectangular sheet of paper. He studied the telegram. “Hotel Duval, September 11,” he said slowly as he wrote on his pad. “Gotta start somewhere. I’m gonna call for the coroner and some uniforms. Don’t touch anything till I get back, OK?” The old man looked down at his rugged shoes. “Hmm…,” he said.
