The grizzled forensic examiner snorted as he stepped under the yellow police tape into the abandoned lot. Behind him, the news crews were taking up positions, hoping for something incendiary to put on the evening news.
“Vultures. Ghouls.” He grumbled, his words long and drawn out, thickened with a Southern accent.
A young uniformed cop waved him toward a corner of the lot, where several more police were gathered. As he walked, the examiner noticed a profusion of beer bottles scattered around. Not uncommon or unexpected, but the were surprisingly…clean.
“Bunch’a bones down here, doc.” Said the cop that waved him over.
Sure enough, there was a scraped out hollow, about three feet across and half that deep, filled with bones of various sizes.
“Looks like some of ‘em been chewed.” Volunteered another.
The examiner took a step forward and felt something crunch under his shoe. He shifted his foot to look at what he’d stepped on: a spent charcoal briquette.
“Son, you kind of vegetarian or something?” The examiner sighed.
“Sir, no, I…what?”
“Well, yes, sir, that’s why we called it in.”
“Barbecue ribs, you idiot. You ain’t investigatin’ a murder. You investigatin’ a party.”
Memphis is probably the only place in the world where a pile of gnawed bones isn’t cause for alarm, but rather the tell-tale sign of a good party.