At the Scene

I found Jackson leaning up against a patrol car in the tangle of emergency vehicles, his face ashen in the wash of flashing red and blue lights. I liked this detective, having worked with him before on an arson case. He looked up from his notebook as I approached.

“Evening, Doc,” he grumbled.

“I thought you'd retired,” I said, putting my bag on the ground and bending down to start unpacking my jumpsuit.

“Tonight, I wish I had,” he sighed.

“Bad one?” I asked.

“Five confirmed dead. Possibly more. You'll see, once the fire department and bomb guys have secured the scene.”

“Bomb guys?” I straightened up to look Jackson in the eye.

“Yeah, sorry,” he sighed again. “That's why we called you in.”

“That's the hazard of being a forensic anthropologist,” I said. “Where are the feds?”

“Taking their sweet time. They don't think this is all that big a deal. But when a kid goes and blows hisself and a train platform and a bunch of other kids into mush...” he shook his head.

“Terrorism?” I asked.

“Who knows? College town like this, you get all kinds of weirdos.”

“What can I expect?” I asked as I shrugged into my jumpsuit.

“I'm not a smart man,” he said looking away, “just one that's been on the job too long. I've seen all sorts of the evil we dish out on one another. Rape, murder, torture. I've dealt with it. But this...” he nodded toward the smoldering train station. “Tomorrow, I'd like to wake up and say, 'I don't remember a thing about last night.' And I know, that ain't gonna happen.”

He looked me in the eye. “That's what you can expect,” he said sadly.

Word Count: 300