Ilsa Chertoff's arthritis protested the early-morning chill, but after forty years as a court stenographer, discomfort was something she had learned to push aside in favor of routine."Easy, Bozo," she murmured as her black Labrador tugged impatiently on his leash.
She checked her watch.Six-thirty, precisely—the same time she had begun her walks for the past twelve years, ever since she had retired from the courthouse.The familiar weight of her binoculars hung from her neck, ready for any early risers of the avian variety that might cross their path.
Heritage Park stretched before her, its winding paths bordered by maples beginning their autumn transformation.Dew clung to the grass, sparkling in the slanted morning light.She knew every bench, every turn of the trail, could recite the Latin names of most of the trees and flowering plants they passed.After decades of recording every word spoken in courtrooms, Ilsa’s memory stored details others overlooked.
“We'll take the eastern path today,” she told Bozo, who had stopped to investigate something near a cluster of ferns.“The nuthatches were active there yesterday.”
Bozo's ears suddenly perked up.He raised his head, nose twitching rapidly as he sampled the air.Ilsa recognized the change in his posture—something had caught his attention.
“What is it, boy?”she asked, scanning the surrounding trees for movement.Perhaps a deer or raccoon had left a fresh scent.
Bozo whined, a high-pitched sound that seemed out of place in the tranquil morning.He pulled at the leash with unexpected force, nearly yanking it from her grasp.
“Bozo!Heel!”Her command went unheeded as the dog strained forward.Instead of continuing on their usual route, Bozo dragged her toward a narrow side path she rarely took, one that led deeper into the wooded area of the park.The dog’s nails scratched against the dirt as he pulled, his whining growing more insistent.
“This isn't our way,” Ilsa protested, but curiosity overcame her annoyance.In seven years together, she had never seen her dog behave this way.
The side path curved through a denser section of trees before opening onto a small clearing where the park management had installed a picnic area last spring.The wooden structure stood alone in the clearing, its roof shingled in cedar that still retained its honey color, not yet weathered to gray.Four large picnic tables with attached benches were there beneath the shelter.
Bozo's pulling became frantic now.The leash bit into Ilsa's palm, and she winced as her arthritis flared in protest.
“What on earth has gotten into you?”she muttered.
That's when she saw it—something white draped across the surface of the farthest picnic table.A sheet, perhaps, covering what appeared to be a rounded object.In the growing light, it stood out starkly against the dark wood of the table.
“Someone's forgotten their picnic supplies,” she said aloud, not believing her own words even as they left her mouth.Although people occasionally left trash in the park, this looked intentional, arranged rather than discarded.
Bozo growled, a sound she rarely heard from him.The hair along his spine stood erect as he strained toward the covered object.
“Stay,” she commanded, her voice sharper than intended.To her surprise, Bozo halted a few feet from the table, though his body remained taut, as if ready to lunge forward.Ilsa approached the picnic table cautiously.The white fabric—a sheet, as she had guessed—covered something rounded, like a small dome.
With her free hand, Ilsa grasped a corner of the sheet.She hesitated, suddenly afraid of what she might find.In her years as a court stenographer, she had heard descriptions of crime scenes that still haunted her dreams, details meticulously recorded while her mind recoiled.
“Don't be ridiculous,” she whispered to herself.“It's probably just someone's forgotten picnic.”
She pulled back the sheet in one swift motion.
The scream caught in her throat, emerging as a strangled gasp.Beneath a glass display dome lay fleshy organs of some kind—their surfaces glistening wetly in the morning light.She recognized the distinctive shape of lungs and what appeared to be a liver.
Ilsa staggered backward, her free hand flying to her mouth.Her mind, trained to catalog details even in shock, noted the clean cuts, the absence of blood on the glass, the careful arrangement.Not a random act of cruelty, but something deliberate.Something planned.
"Oh God," she whispered."Oh, God."
With shaking hands, Ilsa reached for the cell phone in her jacket pocket.She struggled to maintain her grip on Bozo’s leash while dialing 911, her finger slipping on the screen twice before successfully making the connection.
“911, what's your emergency?”The dispatcher's voice sounded impossibly calm.
“Heritage Park,” Ilsa managed, her voice unsteady.“The picnic shelter on the east side.I've found—” She swallowed hard.“I've found what might be human organs under a cake dome.On a picnic table.”
“Ma'am, did you say human organs?”The dispatcher's professional tone couldn't entirely mask her shock.
“At least, they might be human.They could be animal, I suppose, but—”
“Stay where you are, ma'am.Don't touch anything further.Officers will be dispatched immediately.Can I have your name?”
“Ilsa Chertoff,” she replied, backing away from the table, dragging Bozo with her.
“If you can move to a safe distance while remaining in sight of the scene, please do so.Officers should arrive within minutes.”