Grenade Sump

Haley's Woods 9:45 am

Maxine's Crime Scene

We made our way up the path leading to the incident location. As we approached, I noticed the gauze and bandages still on the dirt.

The trail leading up to the spot tracked footprints to and from. Different size shoes, different patterns, but all in the same direction. When we got to the location, it bore the scars and marks of a massive struggle to live and breathe. Deep grooves covered the dirt, and the pine needles and leaves showed drag marks. Maxine left scattered divots in the attack's circle from her boots.

Bellagamba walked over to greet us. He was still cocky. His chest puffed out, and his chin high and mighty. As if he owned it, he seemed to occupy the space between us.

With his mouth open and his yellow, bloodshot eyes glaring at me, he chewed on a toothpick. He hadn't forgotten that I slapped him away from me last night. Truth be told, if he didn't get that look off his face, I'd slap the shit out of him again.

I stepped toward what they called the dugout and paused. I circled the pit, knowing this was so much more than a guy who dug a hole to jump an unsuspecting woman.

"This isn't a pit," I said. "Whoever built this knows what he's doing. Have you found anything useful?"

I scanned the bottom filled with leaves and branches soaked from the night's temperature change, which would make getting DNA difficult.

"Nothing as of yet, but if you have better eyes than us, be my guest," snapped Bellagamba.

I moved around the front and sides of the hole, kneeling and standing, taking in the angled slopes.

"Does anyone have a tape measure?" I asked. One of the CSI investigators holding a clipboard groaned as if I annoyed him.

"We already measured it," he murmured, shaking his head at me. "Its length is about five-foot-ten, and the width is almost six feet even." He put his head back on his clipboard, returning to whatever he was doing before I interrupted him.

"What about the depth?" I asked.

He sighed, dropped the clipboard toward his hip, and took the tape measure from his belt. As he tossed it at me, I stared him down, ready to jump across the five-by-six hole and punch him in the mouth.

My uncle said nothing. Just laughed and shook his head.

I found the highest spot nearer to the front of the pit and extended the tape straight down until it hit the center. Then, flexing the aluminum ruler, I evened it out.

"Three feet, two inches. Put that in your book." I struggled to restrain lashing out at the next person who screwed with me.

"What did you say?" he said. "Is that an accurate measurement or an approximate one? I need to know the square footage and—"

"Listen, asshole, I don't have the time or the crayons to explain this to you. Just write it down."

"Nephew," shouted my uncle. "Here." He walked to the front of the pit and pointed his pointer and forefinger at his eyes, keeping my stare. "What do you have?"

I felt excitement wash over my body, returning me from exhaustion. A surge of energy coursed through my veins, and my eyes sparkled with life. Before heading towards the rear of the pit, I pointed out the back and sides.

"KOCOA," I said and kneeled. Bellagamba rolled his eyes and took the toothpick from his mouth. He dropped his shoulders and cleared his throat.

"Cocoa. Really. Is your big assessment a chocolate bean from Brazil? Who the hell let this guy near my crime scene?"

While several detectives and CSI investigators laughed and mocked me, I clenched my fists but stayed in the kneeling position. I looked at my uncle, who calmed me down with a slight nod.

"Key Terrain, Observation, Cover & Concealment, Obstacles, and Avenues of Approach. This isn't a pit, dumbass. This is a two-man fighting hole."

Bellagamba threw the toothpick from his mouth and stepped toward the side of the pit where I still kneeled.

"I've had enough of you, freaking piss-ant. I'm gonna punch you in —".

Another Detective intervened as the clumsy and overweight Bellagamba stumbled, trying to get to me. That's when my uncle finally opened his mouth.

"Lieutenant," he snapped. "Go take a breather. You've been at it all night."

I didn't respond and didn't care to. I knew I'd hear it later from my uncle and father. However, I didn't plan on giving them the chance. When we finished here, I was going to stay with Max.

"This is a primary fire position," I said. "Take notes, Investigator. It's a two-man skirmisher's hole. We used them in the Marine Corps. We dug these at OPs and FOBs, a kind of perimeter security and ambush. The length of this position is equivalent to two M-16s, and we set its width based on the height of the tallest Marine."

"That would make our assailant approximately six feet?" asked the CSI investigator.

I nodded, moved to the front, and peered down the straight edge that dropped.

"Do you see how the front drops straight down, but the rear and sides slope into the hole at forty-five degrees? This gives the attacker easy access to get in or out and maintains a visual on his victims."

I squinted toward the middle of the skirmish hole, looking for something specific, but his ground cloth was thick.

"Have you guys checked the interior for evidence or DNA samples?" I asked. My uncle looked at the CSI investigator with the clipboard and the attitude. He pushed back some pages that were neatly folded over the top. He twisted his head as he read one-page front and back and then looked at the hole's floor.

"K-9 units picked up his scent from here...investigators that did the initial came up empty. No fibers, footprints, or anything from the preliminary."

I glanced at my uncle, who waved me on. I jumped past the slope on the left-hand side and into the hole.

"We checked surroundings for the Unsub's urine or bowel movements but found nothing," said the CSI investigator.

I leaned down and, with my hand, started pushing the leaves, sticks, and branches to the right and left, exposing the ground toward the front of the skirmish hole.

"If this guy is who I think he is, he wouldn't leave the hole to do anything. Not without an order of Final Protective Fire or a fallback command."

As I pushed toward the front of the hole, my fingers dropped into a sump. I exposed it by moving all the debris to the side. I opened the measuring tape, holding it across the top.

"Hey, write this down," I yelled. "Opening width is close to seven inches." I pushed the ruler down until it hit bottom. "Two feet-two inches deep." I smiled when I looked at my uncle, who leaned over the front of the skirmish hole. "Here goes nothing," I said.

I pulled up my sleeve, put on a latex glove, and reached into the sump, feeling the dirt loosen as I stretched toward the bottom. When I reached it, I felt something slippery, almost like a plastic baggie. I grabbed and pulled it until I cleared the ditch's opening.

It comprised only half of a sandwich. It was muddy and still had pine needles stuck to it. Despite my confusion, its presence held significant meaning beyond mere evidence. It was a telltale sign of who we were dealing with.

I put the bag underneath my nose and smelled it.

"Yep," I said. "Urine. Marines never leave their graves until ordered to. Not to shit and not to piss. That's what the adult diapers are for."

Holding the baggie, several leaves, and twigs, I hopped from the skirmish hole and stepped toward the CSI investigator. Without hesitation, he set down his clipboard and made a beeline for his toolbox. He removed the top tray and dug into the bottom of the box. He found a paper evidence bag, opened it, and slid the baggie and pine needles inside. With a quick pull, he ripped off the bottom of the red tape and sealed it shut.

Before I could say anything, he initialed his name, badge number, and date and tagged it. He hurried to a separate collection box and dropped it in.

"Uncle Mike," I sighed. "This is a grenade, sump," I said. "A cone-shaped hole narrowing to five inches at an angle of thirty degrees." I moved more debris from the sump's opening.

"We have a major problem here." I rubbed the bottom of my nose with my forearm as we stared into the skirmish hole and at the grenade sump. "This guy is USMC rifleman trained and has probably been in the sandbox at least once. And now he knows we're onto him."

"Great job, nephew. Great job," he said and patted my shoulder. As he opened his cell and dialed, I felt my mobile vibrate in my front pocket. I took it out in haste and opened it.

Max. Thank God.

Clicking on the text icon, the phone showed her message.

                                                               Yes. He smelled like urine and sewage. I felt like he looked

                                                               like a chameleon. It was like a skin camouflage. I couldn't

                                                                really see him that well. His face had some kind of a metal

                                                               plate on it, and he wore a cup...And I love you too!

Besides the excitement of everything coming together, reading those words lit me up.

"Uncle Mike," I shouted. I stepped from the skirmish hole and down the path toward him. "Got something good."

"Hold—hold on. Let me call you back," he said, ending the call. He nodded and sniffled before a smile took his face.

"It's Max. She just texted me that this guy's parka was like the skin of a chameleon."

His left eye squinted as his left lip tightened. Despite being confused, he didn't take his eyes off me.

"He's wearing DNCs. That's why they were weird-looking. You know, Desert Night Camouflage. During the first Gulf War, they used DNCs to reflect the Soviet Night Vision. They didn't work, so the Marine Corps dropped them. But you can still get them online or at Army Navy stores."

"What makes them so weird?" he asked.

"It's a two-color grid, but they only made it in a Parka and Over pants. They issued them to guys on hunter-killer missions."

"So our Unsub is a six-foot Marine Corps rifleman trained as a hunter-killer."

And I guarantee you," I said. "The blade he's using is a ka-bar. USMC standard fighting knife."