Two weeks ago I gave a talk to about forty seniors at the Painters Mill High School. Most of the students viewed police work as an exciting and glamorous career chock-full of high-speed chases, CSI-esque science, and dangerous undercover work that nets millions in dirty cash and concludes with some scumbag drug dealer going to jail. A misconception perpetuated by movies and television. No one likes to burst the bubble of a young mind, so I was hard-pressed to point out that reality couldn’t be further from the truth. But I did.

Sweeping a metal detector over a nine-thousand-square commercial hog operation is a prime example of exactly how unglamorous police work can be, especially when your efforts are hampered by steel panels, concrete manure pits, and falling-down feeders. So far my search has netted a screwdriver, six beer cans, spent shotgun shells, several nails, and a garter snake. It’s hot and humid, and with the close proximity of the creek to the east, the mosquitoes are the size of bats and just as bloodthirsty. I’m two hours into my grid and working my way north, when I find the skull. I’m standing at the base of one of the manure pits atop a decades-old buildup of pig shit—that, much to my relief, has composted to soil—when I spot the curved globe sticking out of the dirt.

Propping my metal detector against the concrete wall, I tug the spade from my back pocket and squat for a better look. The skull is smooth and white and looks to be intact. Using the spade, I pry it from its nest. I’m no expert, but it looks very much like a pig skull. It’s elongated and relatively flat from crown to nose, with small tusks jutting upward from the lower jaw. I glance down, see a glint of white from a second bone. I unearth several vertebrae. A dozen or so ribs. The blade of a shoulder. Picking up the metal detector, I slowly sweep the area. When no alert sounds, I leave the bones and move on.

I’ve only advanced a few yards, when a wave of nausea seesaws below my ribs. It’s been happening on and off all morning. I attributed it to hunger, and so far I’ve been able to ignore it. But no more. I prop the metal detector against the fence. I barely make it to the edge of the concrete pen area before throwing up in the weeds. I’m bent at the hip with my hands on my knees, thinking I’m not quite finished, when I hear Glock behind me.

“Chief?”

Raising my hand, I wave my index finger and throw up again. I stay like that for another minute, embarrassed because I’m spitting and sweating. Finally, I straighten and tug a tissue from my pocket and wipe my mouth. “Sorry,” I mutter.

“You need some water or something?” he asks.