The Albuquerque warehouse district is cold as hell at midnight. And
dark. This little spot goes dead around 6 p.m. and refuses to drag its
scraggly ass up until 5. I’ve been sitting in the cold for two hours,
cursing Matt Staggs and chain smoking.
A single tweet from Matt two week ago piqued my interest, beginning a
chain reaction that ends with me on a wild chicken chase to find out
who’s been leaving the corpses of black hens in a dusty family cemetery
for two years.
A story that has...
