From "The Warden"

After that, and probably to shut down his weekly requests, they'd let him go back out—with MacNeil, an old timer easing through the last couple years until his retirement. The beat was a little inland from the coastal cities, farmland in transition, some of it under contract for development, with real estate signs that promised unrealized dreams of pretty houses and verdant lawns. In between were scrub brush, sandpits, and stunted pines on woodlots that had been cut over too many times. They rode around in MacNeil's cruiser, doing, as he put it to himself, “Roadkill Patrol,” in tribute to the variety and number of smeared, impossibly folded, crushed and exploded specimens they marked and occasionally scraped from the public thoroughfares. “Over next door they sell their roadkill,” MacNeil had said, holding up by the tail a raccoon flattened into its own cartoon silhouette. “What'll you give for this one ?”

       Once they'd been southbound on the turnpike thick with traffic, carried at speed on the evening commute, with walls of buildings on either flank, punctuated only by parking lots, from among which, somehow, had appeared a yearling deer, a little panicked spikehorn that plunged stiff-legged into the melee of vehicles, springing like a windup toy over the hood of a red Subaru, nearly disappearing under the chrome bumper of a semi, but somehow emerging unscathed across three northbound lanes and the median and all but one lane of their side before it went pinwheeling in a high arc nose to the tail  and landed sprawled on the shoulder, all this quicker than it took to think. In the rearview, he saw no-one even slow down, but by the time they'd worked their way around and back across, two cars had pulled up, and the one who'd got there first was backing toward the open hatch of his S.U.V. dragging the deer by its hind legs.

       “Don't think you'd call that huntin',” MacNeil said, hitting the flashers. The scavenger was a heavy set fellow, in suit and tie, red-faced from hauling the carcass all of twenty feet, who paused still holding the legs and looked toward them with an expression that solicited permission. He'd considered telling the man he could keep it if he could hump it the half-mile to the next exit, but didn't bother, thumbing him off without a word. Still, after he got away, he recalled that time by the man's look, pleading indulgence for some strain of cupidity detached from need or even desire, not even really his, but of the place itself like the low charred haze over the cities and thruways and the sweetish smell of carrion baking into the pavement.