Bertil gazed into a clump of ferns and saw a butterfly fluttering in a sunlight sword. Jennifer would like that, he thought. She was always asking him if he saw any animals on his patrols. He always had some lame answer, that he had seen such animals, but that he didn’t have time for the shot. The truth was he’d been too lazy to get his ass out of the seat. Not anymore. He stopped the car, lowered his window, and reached into a small backpack on the front seat. Digital camera in hand, he braced his elbows on the window frame. Bertil peered through the viewfinder, trying to locate the butterfly. The shutter clicked. He removed his eye from the viewfinder and checked the LCD screen.

Darn, all blurry, he thought. Sorry sweetheart. Maybe she’ll like the photos anyway.

As he continued down Julip Road, a breeze caressed his face. Offsetting the pleasantness of the breeze was the knowledge that the autumns were much warmer than he remembered ten years ago. Before he could roll the window back up, the sour stench of rotting flesh wafted into his car. After holding down a half pound of cinnamon roll, Bertil stopped the car and hoisted his 260-pound frame out of the vehicle. He brushed cinnamon roll crumbs off his uniform and stretched.

“Fooking slob,” he said.

The sour stench came from the west side of the road, and he followed it with his nose like a trained bloodhound. The hard part was not following the smell, but rather keeping his meal down. He’d learned to trust his nose over the years—a useful tool for busting the occasional meth lab and marijuana field. And it was almost too easy to tell who was drinking and driving from his nose alone. The youngsters in the area who smoked pot were easy pickings, especially if they had any paraphernalia in the car. But he didn’t always turn that evidence in. It relaxed him and helped with his back pain. To be fair, he never gave the kids more than a warning as long as their supply was under an ounce. Maybe they knew what he was up to. Oh well. It didn’t matter as they couldn’t do anything about it. Besides, they were focused on replenishing their stashes rather than vengeance. Perhaps he’d feel bad, or dishonest about it all, but the dang stuff was so dang helpful there was no point. Sometimes comfort and performance superseded morals. Yes indeedy. What he wouldn’t give to have a little toke with Mindy Jacobs.

The stench worsened as he trudged through the lady ferns. A few feet ahead, red liquid dripped from a misshapen fern. Officer Bertil cupped his hand over his mouth to stop the gag reflux. When all was clear, he bent down and examined the blemished lady fern.

Strange. Real strange.