The sun beamed down through a cloudless sky as I pulled into the landfill.

I spotted a black and white cruiser to my left in the main parking lot.

A uniformed officer waved at me from near the cruiser.

Standing next to him was a man in an orange reflective vest wearing a Florida gator's cap. After parking next to the cruiser,

I stepped out of my air-conditioned, unmarked car and ventured into the Florida humidity.

The pungent reek of the landfill filled my nostrils as I walked up to the two men.

I've never seen anything like it,

the uniformed officer said, without preamble.

Something strange is going on.

I recognized his face,

but couldn't remember his name off the top of my head.

His nameplate said Fitzgerald.

I looked into his worried face for a moment.

Although young, he wasn't a rookie anymore. His concern gave me pause. Detective Daniels, I said, reaching a handout toward the man

in the orange vest. He had a bushy red mustache with flecks of gray in it. That along with

the crow's feet at the corners of his brown eyes spoke to his age.

I'm Gerald Thurman, he said.

The landfill manager here.

I had never met this man before, but I got the feeling he was just as scared as Fitzgerald.

We shook hands and then stood in silence for a moment.

I was waiting for one of the two men to fill me in. Well? I said, finally, looking at the officer. All the call said was suspicious activity. I don't see why you need a detective for that.

So can you tell me what's going on here? A pained look came over Fitzgerald's face.

...