Thanksgiving Dinner

This whole nasty mess started on Thanksgiving a couple of years ago. I was a fresh detective in Homicide, which is why I was on call that night. Didn't mind though, since I don't have much of a family, and what I have I don't like all that much.

The night had been pretty quiet, at least for me. I knew emergency services were busy as hell, what with extended families getting together and doing some heavy drinking and all. That always does it, but so far no one had gone far enough to need me. That of course changed with the shrill howling of my phone.

Forty minutes later, I pulled up outside an old worn-down house. It was a bit out of the way, and frankly, without GPS I would never have found it. It was one of those remnants of the old city that you can walk past a hundred times and never really see. The kind that all the kids in the neighbourhood knew of and feared. You remember right? The house you and your friends were convinced was occupied by an old witch, or maybe some older kid had told you the same story he once heard, that some maniac had butchered a whole family and still lived in the basement, the sort of stuff only kids take seriously. As I got out of my car, all those feeling rushed back as I looked up at the delapidated house. They didn't stay long though, I'm an adult and a cop so I turned my mind to the present and walked up to the patrol men who were the first responding officers. Turned out to be a veteran sergeant and a rooky trainee.

I knew the sergeant vaguely, not enough to remember his name though, so I just nodded and asked, 'What's the situation?'

I remember thinking it odd that a veteran would look so pale. In my five years on the force, I had seen some horrific sights, people wounded in ways I never imagined possible before, but human nature is a funny thing, and you can get used to almost anything. That the rooky was a mess came as no surprise, he was white as a sheet, and against all regulations, sat on the hood of the patrol car and smoked. You do what you have to in order to survive. I didn't give a shit if he needed a smoke.

The sergeant scratched his neck and looked at me with haunted eyes. 'Sir, I don't know...I-I, just look for yourself, OK?' He turned away and spat, mumbling under his breath. That's when I noticed a very pale, shaking woman sitting on the porch, mumbling and sobbing quietly.

'Who's she?' I asked nodding towards her. The sergeant glanced at her.

'She's the one that called us. Says she owns the house, inherited it from her grandma, hasn't been here in years.'

I shrugged and went up to the front door. Like a glorious cliché it stood slightly ajar, the dimly lit hallway just visible through the crack. I glanced at the woman, but judged her to be in no condition to talk to me yet. I looked back and saw both of my fellow brothers in blue staring at me, almost as if daring me to cross the threshold. For a second I almost asked the sergeant to come with me, but my pride stopped me, and I opened the door.

The house was a mess. Not in the way I expected, with furniture thrown around, with all the familiar sights of a struggle. No, it was orderly in that sense, it was just old and very dirty. Dust lay heavy everywhere except in the hall leading towards the dining room, which seemed to be the only room that was lit. Cautiously I stepped over to the double doors separating it from the hall. The room was lit by candlelight from two huge silver candelabras on the table, which was cluttered with the remains of a large Thanksgiving feast. Plates with scraps of food, dirty cutlery, glasses with the dregs of wine at the bottom, and lots of bowls and plates with food left in them. If it wasn't for the rest of the house being what it was, it didn't look out of place in any house in America that night. Except for one detail. One ghastly, disgusting detail that made me want to scream and vomit and run away. How do I explain this?

Imagine a classic Thanksgiving feast. Or for that matter any large family feast. The bowls with sweet potatoes, the corn, the greens, all that good stuff, and in the place of honor, the roast. But this was no turkey. Oh no, this was the stuffed, cooked and picked clean carcass of a human baby!

I stood there, I don't know how long and just stared. My mind tried to understand, but it couldn't. I've seen what rage can do, and it's ugly. Likewise hate and jealousy. But to calmly take someones child, butcher it, and prepare it like a piece of meat bought at the supermarket and then sit down with your friends and eat it? That I can not wrap my mind around. I hope the day never comes when I can.