We reach another door. Someone has fired a shotgun into it, which left dozens of pellet holes and an opening the size of my fist. Glock muscles it open. We go down a short stairwell and find ourselves in the belly of a warehouse-type building with a loading dock and dozens of old pens. Most of the steel panels are gone. Some are rusted and broken down. I suspect the equipment and furnishings of this place were auctioned off a long time ago. What didn’t sell was simply left behind, and over the years, people helped themselves to whatever they needed. About half of the pens include concrete manure pits that are about four feet deep. Some have grates in place; others simply drop off.

Through a door on the far side of the warehouse, I see the facade of a dilapidated Quonset hut barn with a big sliding door and tiny square windows.

I take in the sheer size of the place and sigh. “A lot of ground to cover.”

“You want me to call Skid or T.J.?” Glock asks.

I think about scheduling and overtime and shake my head. “Let’s see how much ground we can cover. If it’s not enough, I’ll get them out here tomorrow.”

He nods. “You know, Chief, with those remains showing signs that the vic was mauled by hogs, and he actually worked here, this is the place to look.”

“The question is, did he leave that titanium plate behind?” I look down at my metal detector. “The guy at the rental place give any instructions on how to use this thing?”

“Yup.” He reaches over and hits the power button. “There’s your ON button. Sensitivity is set high, so it’ll pick up just about anything, including beer tabs and crap. Since we’re both a couple of amateurs, he thought that was best.” He grins. “I think ‘idiot proof’ was the term he used.”

“Not intended in a literal sense, I’m sure.”

Another laugh, and then he offers instruction on technique. “All we have to do is set up a grid. Walk it. Sweep back and forth, like this.” He demonstrates.

I pull out my phone and call up a photo of the titanium plate. “This is similar to the piece we’re looking for. There may or may not be screws with it.”

He nods. “I’ll start on the north side, Chief. You want to take the south? We’ll work our way toward each other?”

“Good plan.”

He motions toward the Quonset hut barn. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to check that out first.”

“Remember what I said about zombies,” I call out.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s every man for himself.”

We part ways. I go right, to the south side of the maze of pens. He descends the steps and starts toward the Quonset hut barn.

*   *   *