"Wow. What a way to go." Taylor whistles. She slides her hand in the pocket of her jacket and tips up the brim of her baseball cap with the other.

"Sure is." I say. Every time I roll up to a scene, I thank god I lost my sense of smell a long time ago. There's only so much Vick's VapoRub can to mask an autopsy.

We stand and watch from the side of the road as the crime scene analysis team suits up in white hazmat gear and side down a mound of snow into the frozen ditch. The cars passing through so early in the morning all take a second to stare at the scene just out of their lines of sight. Exhaust fumes flood the cold air. I read cars emit more pollutants when it's cold due to inefficient catalytic converters.

A chill runs down my spine. I'm not supposed to be on duty right now, and technically I'm not. Special finds call for the closest thing to specialists around. One of the closest specialists around didn't think it would be absolutely freezing. The other one is out of town on vacation.

Taylor nudges my shoe with hers. "Do you need an extra jacket? I have one of yours sitting in the trunk."

I shake my head but thank her and try to explain that I'm just coming down with a cold. She doesn't buy it. 

The sound of a saw cuts through the monotonous hum of reports and EMS waiting patiently for their signal. As the drilling stops, they inch closer and closer, hoping to hear some good news.

One of the people in hazmat suits calls for Taylor to come down. She sighs, passes me her cap, and ties up her hair while she slips down into the ditch alongside the team.

Busy traffic parts like Moses parted the sea as another police car rolls up with the lights flashing. Three officers that are actually on duty have arrived, clueless and concerned. Tyler immediately tosses the keys to Josh and jogs off to get the stream of nosy drivers moving at an insufferable pace. Josh stands beside the passenger door for a second and twiddles his thumbs. He's only been hanging around the precinct for a month or so. He has little to no idea about what he should be doing, at all times. It's like guiding around a lost puppy.

When he sees me, his eyes light up and he squeezes through clumps of people to get to me. "Sorry we're so late. Traffic was a bitch. It's not even rush hour yet and it's this packed, can you believe it? Where's Lieutenant Swift?"

"Good morning to you too, Officer." I point to the ditch. "Checking out the scene. I heard it's pretty gnarly."

He nods and his nose scrunches. "I could imagine. The smell makes me want to hurl. What in the fresh hell is that?"

I shrug. Thank you, god. "Well, it depends on how many bodies there are, how long they've been there, and how much of the water in the ditch froze over, what else scrambled down there. What does it smell like?"

He takes a tentative sniff. "Like someone left a cheese-covered hotdog out in the sun for too long, buried it in dog shit, and then cooked it."

Sounds about right. "Probably exposed to the elements for a bit. I don't suppose they've been dead for too long."

"They?" He asks.

I point to the ground twenty feet away. Between a pair of investigators are two sets of tire treads, both leading down into the ditch. "Hasn't snowed since Saturday, so the tracks wouldn't disappear unless they were tampered with. The end of the road had been shut down for maintenance over the weekend, which explains why nobody saw the tracks or thought they were significant if they were noticed. Two different sets of tires suggest there were two vehicles that crashed, which means more than one driver and more than one victim, since nobody called for help or tried to reach the road. They must've been down there for days."

Josh shudders. "Gosh, just go work for the FBI already. I can't even remember what the weather was like yesterday."

"Really? How did you become an officer?"

"I was a cross country runner in high school and I passed the physical endurance test with flying colors, and then all I had to do was study real hard. Doesn't matter. Don't ask again. Seriously though," he pushes again, "ask for a promotion. Everyone thinks you should've gotten one already. Everyone."

"Big cities and group projects aren't my thing, but thank you for the suggestion. I've already turned down my fair share of promotions."

"Turned them down? That's ridiculous. I think you could do it. Sometimes you just have to make that jump."

"I don't have to make any sort of jump if I have a secure job that I perform well at. Besides, this town is expanding every second. We'll be working in a big city before we know it."

He frowns. "Yeah, but I bet you could do well at a position higher than the one you have now. What a shitty town to be stuck in, man, expanding or not. Shit stains don't wash out."

They don't have my job in other counties, let alone in a place that would allow for an advantage over the one I have now. There is a benefit for staying around for so long. I have my own personalized job. "I'm not stuck here. And shit stains wash out if you catch it early and clean it properly. Anyways, this job makes for light work and easy weekends. There's no reason for me to uproot the perfect life I have here."

"I want the weekends off. That sounds wonderful."

"You already have the weekends off."

"I do?"

"...Yes? What?"

Taylor comes crawling out of the ditch before he can say anything stupid again. She peels off a set of purple latex gloves and stomps through the thin layer of snow covering the road with the plastic covers over her inappropriately-chosen sneakers. "Morning, Officer Dun. How's the day been treating you so far?"

"Could be worse." Josh gestures to her discarded gloves. "How's yours?"

"Just peachy. Somedays I wish I lost my sense of smell too." She purses her lips and stares at me like I owe her an apology.

"You could invest in, like, nose plugs. You'll miss the smells eventually. I'd kill a man to get a whiff of pizza some days." I say. She just rolls her eyes.

"Funny. Dallon, I am going to give you two options. Josh," Taylor points to Tyler waving on the cars, "as much as I love you, I need you to skedaddle. You really shouldn't be over here. Go deal with the angry commuters."

He nods and walks off. It's obvious the smell of the scene begins to fade away by the pace of his footsteps. The further way he gets, the slower he moves, like he was in a hurry to escape the clutches of old cheese-covered hotdogs.

"Option one, you suit up and go see for yourself." She takes back her cap just to toss it behind me and on to the hood of her car. I forgot I was holding it for her. "You aren't going to like option two."

"Huh. As long as I get paid, I'll do just about anything."

"Option two is you suit up and go see for yourself. You have no choice. I lied."

I knew it. I haven't gotten off the hook that easy in years. "Am I going down there solo? Is anyone else documenting this?"

"I have to go back down. They wanted me to get you. Nobody is shadowing you, and I don't think many officers would keep their appetites if they took one look at it. So, the answer is no, but also yes." She looks at the line of cars and the two officers directing them. "Pete was supposed to be here, like, fifteen minutes ago."

"It's probably just traffic. City is expanding, the single-lane on-ramp freeways can't keep up. You know how it is."

"You're probably right but you always spring to the worst possible outcome. You know how it is. Go get ready, CSI is waiting."

Taylor stands by and twiddles her thumbs while I grab a suit and zip it up. I notice Josh watching as well while Tyler tries to convince him to assist in keeping traffic going.

"You look like the Michelin Man went on a diet and grew like five feet taller." She says.

"You look like a s'mores marshmallow that will never be toasted." I follow her over to the ditch, and we stop some five feet away, over the two sets of tire tracks that I had explained the purpose of earlier. One leads to a steely blue minivan, the other to a killer yellow mustang.

The drivers door to the van is the only one open, but both doors to the mustang hang over the sheet of ice covering the dirt. The back windows to both cars are shattered with no obvious point of breakage.

Cameras flash as I help Taylor down the ladder first. I follow as soon as she reaches the ground. Drops of blood stain about sic feet away from the bottom of the icy wall, one or two in the shapes of handprints. I hold up my own hand to the prints, matching up in size to each of them. I assume the yellow mustang belongs to a male, who's vehicle crashed after the van, presumably on accident.

"Do you want to see him first? Or do you want to look inside the cars?" Taylor asks.

I finish climbing down and take another glance at the scene. All I can see from my angle is an above average car wreck. "What is there to see?"

"DOA's and assorted deaths in the minivan. One guy huddled at the front of the mustang. Evidence in the cars." She opens her mouth to continue, but bites her tongue.

"What else? You said it was disgusting down here. This looks like common scene — as common as it can be, I guess."

"Ah, nothing much," she purses her lips and shuffled her feet, "but, uh, keep in mind that I did say assorted deaths."

I knew she was keeping something from me. "Those can be last. I take it they're inside the van?"

"One in the mustang passenger seat, four assorted in the van, then the guy out front. Him first?"

"Him first." I agree and trail behind her around the right side of the mustang. Silver scratches scrape from the mirror to the rear tires. I look up and see the branches of a tree hanging above.

He's dead, obviously, half of himself buried in a sad attempt to dig a hole in the frozen ditch. His pale skin flashes a light blue tinge on his lips and fingertips. Half-lidded eyes kept the wildlife from clearing out the eye sockets, from what I can tell. His dark hair is matted to his temples, but sticks up in every direction everywhere else. His knees are pulled to his faded Dartmouth t-shirt, hands resting on his jeans. A parka hangs out of the car window.

The thermostat dropped to ten degrees Fahrenheit over the weekend. Judging by the lack of warm clothes, blue tinge to the skin, and and burrowing attempt, it's easy to draw a conclusion that the other investigators have probably made already.

"Organ failure by hypothermia, assuming there aren't any wounds where we can't see." I say. One or two people in similar suits to mine nod. It's a simple way to go, despite the excruciating pain up until passing.

"I knew that," Taylor mutters, "I knew that. Totally."

I glimpse inside the mustang and find the victim in the passenger seat that Taylor had mentioned. She's bundled in blankets and leaning against the parka. Her eyes are shut and the tips of her fingers are blue. I have to lean inside of the car to see her blonde hair dried down to her skull with what appears to be blood spattered across the headrest. I'm not sure if anyone else has seen it. It's hidden and easy to miss if just a quick glance was spared.

"Hypothermia?" She asks. I hear her shudder. "Her fingers are blue. She looks cold. Hold on a second, I'll go get her your jacket from my car."

"Funny. Well, I think she was shot in the head, but I can't say for sure. The coroner should be able to tell during an autopsy. A brief look would probably do the job."

"That's new."

"Is that good or bad?"

She shrugs. "I don't even know how that fits in with the story, so don't ask me. This in-depth analysis isn't something I do for a living, Dallon. I just fill out the paperwork, tell you what to do, and make sure nobody runs around like a headless chicken."

"I thought I'd ask. Don't get so defensive about it." I try to laugh in light of the situation, but it's difficult. Morale and happiness is important in any case, however. "Quick question for you. Do you smell anything?"

She sniffs the air. "Some really old Parmesan cheese and piss, whatever relevance that holds."

"People say rotting corpses kind of smell like old Parmesan cheese." I say and she immediately gags and holds her breath. "Hey, the fiancé is cooking pizza tonight, you want some?"

"I'd rather fucking die. Go look at the minivan. Get out of my sight, you asshole." She heaves and turns to stalk off towards the empty corner of the ditch, but I catch her arm before she's gone.

"Can you at least tell me if you smell anything else? I'm sort of going in blind." I point to the van and reluctantly, she heads over with me.

She stops a few feet away from the trunk, scrunching her nose and suppressing the urge to violently hurl, but she takes a few more whiffs of the scene for me. "Nothing out of the ordinary. I genuinely don't think drugs or anything like that was involved. Sniffer is clocking out. We'll make Josh pick out the smells next time. Part of the first few months, right? That's not considered to be hazing, is it? Just part of the job description?"

"Sounds good to me. Just, Uh, grab a pen and start adding a few bullet points to his list or whatever." I don't even get the chance to tell her about the Vick's I keep in my car just in case the current situation arose. She's gone and climbing out of the ditch before I can grab on to her again. I don't hear her run off and puke, so I think she's good.

There isn't anything in the trunk that I can make out. The window is shattered and the glass covers the fabric lining, but that's about it. With so many people, you would assume they would be bringing something.

In the back seats, I don't find any personal belongings either. They may have been robbed, maybe they were making a quick getaway. The two people are adults and are still belted into their seats, but they didn't pass away upon impact. They're twisted in strange positions, like they were protecting themselves from something. There are no signs of a struggle, but I know hypothermia can cause hallucinations. I also can't help but wonder if the seatbelts were able to release at all.

The passenger has no possessions either. Blood has dried in a heavy stream from the hairline. There's a mark on the dashboard and blotches of red. Most likely dead on arrival, or soon after arrival.

The driver has no head. Their hands are still attached to the steering wheel, but there is no head. The cut is clean and shows no sign of trouble with removal. There are no indications of serrations or faults in tearing the skin. It's smooth and appears to be almost effortless. Blood is everywhere, which is to be expected. I don't know if they were dead on arrival, and I don't know if this incident was a direct cause of the crash.

I get the chills. I can imagine the smell wafting from the vehicle. I can imagine how cold it would be if I reached out and touched the driver's hand. I can imagine how it would feel to have your organs give out on you, so cold you feel like you're burning alive. It's a cruel death. Unfortunately, nothing I haven't seen before.

Footsteps clang against the ladder and echo throughout the ditch. I turn around to see Pete sliding down as fast as he can. A few people stand above him with his bags of equipment, hesitant to climb down the ladder while carrying so many expensive things. Pete has never exploded in a fit of rage before, and I don't think anybody wants to see that. Ever. We've convinced Josh to avoid him just in case he says something stupid.

"I know I'm late and I'm sorry," he huffs, stuttering on both his words and his steps, "you can clear the scene if we're ready. All the equipment is here, transportation is ready."

I take a few paces away from the minivan to motion to the cleanup crew to start packing everything up. They have a lot to do, and it's going to be an awfully long day.