Max Gonzale: A Narrative Fiction

The dog carried the bloody fetus in his mouth like a hunting prize. The tiny body was swaddled in a pink button-down shirt. The sleeves hung at the dog's side, dragging through the weeds, flapping like wings in the breeze.
"Max, put that down and get over here."
Unhurried by the call of his owner, Max held onto his spoils until he was in front of his master. He dropped the baby on the ground at his feet, stared up into his horrified face, and waited for a pat on the head and that's a good boy. It never came.
"What the hell did you get into now?" Max's owner knelt down to get a better look. He reached for a nearby twig. With it, he lifted the fabric here and there to confirm it was what he thought it was. Bloodied and blue, marked with small cuts on its arms and legs, the fetus was obviously underdeveloped. Without taking his eyes off the bundle, the man whipped out his phone.
Can you send a team to Point Lookout? My dog found something in the weeds. And don't tell my partner. It's best if she skips this one."
Max panted in the detective's face and whimpered, wanting to take his prize back.
"No, let's go to the car."
With Max secured in the car, Detective Gonzales retraced the dog's steps as he waited for the forensics team to arrive. Trampled weeds showed where the dog had been. The detective followed. Back in the woods, less than thirty yards off the main path, the dog had dug into the earth. The detective examined the hole in the ground. Claw marks from the dog and a sharp-edged object marred the partially frozen soil. A grave. Shallow. The marks weren't wide enough for a shovel, not wide enough for a window scraper. A tire iron? Definitely a tire iron.
"G!" a voice cried out. "Detective? Where are you?"
The detective stood and waved his arms. "Send someone