Julie pulled up in her Chevy Camaro, ready to plant a new orange tree in her little backyard, where she spent most of her free time. Her garden was scattered with mismatched brightly-colored flowers and fruit trees-- it was more of an experiment than a landscaping masterpiece. Grabbing what she needed-- a shovel, potting soil, fertilizer, a painted watering can, and her new orange tree-- she chose a spot on the left border of her backyard to begin her hole. The spot right next to her neighbor’s rickety wood fence had missing panels where she could see a barren plot of land with dead, haylike grass and patches of loose dirt. No flowers? No grass either? The shovel was almost as tall as her and her spindly arms struggled to break the strangely tight-packed dirt. Slowly but surely, the pile by her feet grew and the hole widened and deepened until her shovel struck something hard. What was that crunch? At the bottom was beige cloth wrapped around something... Curious, she dug more to reveal…

“Oh my god!” she exclaimed. That is not what I think it is. That is not really a body. There is no way that’s a body. Okay… It’s okay. Just pull it out. Now squatting, she reached into the now enormous hole and strained to drag it out. 

Now that it was lying in her backyard out of the hole, she hesitated. She sat evaluating the possible contents until a wave of courage washed over her allowing her to slowly rip back the cloth. My body is shaking uncontrollably like an earthquake and I am not prepared for this. She was then almost overcome by the unmistakable, putrid stench of rot and death. With the rancid odor seeping into her pores, her body involuntarily heaved while forcing herself to pull back the rest of foul cloth. It’s dead. It’s bloated and it’s oozing and it’s dead. I have to tell someone, right? It can’t have been there that long, I can still see it’s a woman. A young woman. A young woman now swollen and spotted and bruised. She slowly backed away from the body--as if turning around would inflict something worse--until she reached her porch and sprinted and slammed the door behind her, to protect her from what lay outside. Slamming herself against the wall where her phone was hung, she picked up the receiver and dialed 911. She twirled the cord nervously in her fingers until an operator answered with practiced, routine speech. 

“Nine-one-one operator. What’s your emergency?” the calm voice asked.

“I was digging a hole in my backyard and I found a body, and it’s dead, and I don’t know how long it’s been there, or where it came from or how it got there--but it’s dead,” Julie rapid-fired into the phone. Her distress made her voice squeaky and impossible to control.

“Okay. Where are you? And what’s your name?” the operator asked. She sounds shockingly unfazed.

“I’m on 648 East Pine Street,” she quavered.

“And your name?”

 “It’s Julie. Lewis.” 

“Thank you. Help is on the way and please stay where you are.” The phone cuts off and Julie hung the phone back on the wall. Trudging into her living room to wait, she realized she tracked dirt all over her red shag carpet. Never one to make a mess, Julie was neat and tidy and particular (never once been thrown off her game). Channeling her usual calm--which she needed to dig very deep for this time-- she grabbed a notebook and a pen atop the stack of Rolling Stones magazines on her coffee table. She marched outside and began to jot down the details.

The police sirens wailed until they were outside her door. She ran around the side of her house out to the front and ushered the two policemen and forensic team back the way she came. They asked her some routine questions, the team rolled the body out on a gurney, and left. She felt unsatisfied, abated by the nonchalance of the officers and somehow knew it would be put in a file on a shelf. 

Weeks went by with no progress. Julie feared her dissatisfaction was becoming a reality and then decided she was far more dedicated to the case. With this newfound confidence, she walked out her front door and turned back to look at her house. It was a small, brick cottage and the realtor had told her it was “ranch-style” when she moved in before college. Her eyes scanned to the left and her neighbor’s house caught her eye like never before. It was unkempt with peeling brown paint, a broken wooden porch, twisted lawn furniture strewn on the front yard of more dead grass, and an old rusty F-100 Ford truck. My instincts are telling me to knock on the door. I should knock, Maybe they know something? But I don’t know them. Would they know something? Her instincts and false bravery got the best of her and she brought herself to knock. Immediately the door swung open as if someone had been waiting for her. The smell of stale cigarettes and booze assaulted her nostrils.

“How can I help you?” the man spoke hoarsely. He towered over Julie, broad-shouldered under a stained t-shirt. He smelled of unwashed musk, his face smeared with grime, and buggy eyes glared at her from under large, thick framed glasses--the kind ladies wore to make a fashion statement. Strange.

“This is going to sound very odd, but do you know anything about a body buried in between our backyards? Maybe you saw someone or heard something?” she asked, as polite as possible. His face changed, from irritation to pure rage. He grabbed her with all his strength and threw her into the mess of his house. Picking up a baseball bat from the side of his door, Julie struggled to her feet to face him. With unrelinquishing speed and force, the man charged and raised the bat over his head. Julie’s bravery had gone and all the was left was preparation for the impact. She crumpled onto the floor and faded out of consciousness.

Creeping through his backyard, the man’s intentions were nothing less than compromised. With a beige sack over his shoulder, he stepped into Julie’s backyard, breaking even more of the fence. Into the hole the sack went, and the man buried it. On top, he planted the orange tree.