“I’d appreciate it,” Washington said.
Ward marched up the flimsy stairs to the cottage, and led them inside. There was a buzzing of flies, and a sweet, sickly smell Matt had never smelled before. He had never seen so many flies in one place before, either. They practically covered what looked like spilled grease on the floor.
Oh, shit, that’s not grease. That’s blood. But that’s too much blood, where did it all come from?
Two men in civilian clothing bent over a large black rubber container, which had handles molded into its sides.
“Hold that a minute,” Lieutenant Ward said. “Detective Washington wants a quick look.”
One of the men pulled a zipper along the side down for eighteen inches or so, and then folded the rubber material back, in a flap, exposing the head and neck of the corpse.
“Jesus,” Jason Washington said, softly, and then he gestured with his hand for the man to uncover the entire body. When the man had the bag unzipped he folded the rubber back.
Officer Matthew Payne took one quick look at the mutilated corpse of Miss Elizabeth Woodham and fainted.
NINETEEN
Officer Matthew Payne returned to consciousness and became aware that he was being half carried and half dragged down the wooden stairs of the summer cottage, between Detective Washington and Lieutenant Ward of the Pennsylvania State Police, who had draped his arms over their shoulders, and had their arms wrapped around his back and waist.
“I’m all right,” Matt said, as he tried to find a place to put his feet, aware that he was dizzy, sweat soaked, and as humiliated as he could possibly be.
“Yeah, sure you are,” Lieutenant Ward said.
They half dragged and half carried him to the car and lowered him gently into the passenger seat.
“Maybe you better put your head between your knees,” Jason Washington said.
“I’m all right,” Matt repeated.
“Do what he says, son,” Lieutenant Ward said. “The reason you pass out is because the blood leaves your brain.”
Matt felt Jason Washington’s gentle hand on his head, pushing it downward.
“I did that,” Lieutenant Ward said, conversationally, “on Twenty-Two, near Harrisburg. A sixteen-wheeler jackknifed and a guy in a sports car went under it. When I got there, his head was on the pavement, looking at me. I went down, and cracked my forehead open on the truck fuel tank. If my sergeant hadn’t been riding with me, I don’t know what the hell would have happened. They carried me off in the ambulance with the body.”
“That better, Matt?” Washington asked.
“Yeah,” Matt said, shaking his head and sitting up. His shirt was now clammy against his back.
“He’s getting some color back,” Lieutenant Ward said. “He’ll be all right. Lucky he didn’t break anything, the way he went down.”
Matt saw the two men carrying the black bag with the obscenity in it down the stairs, averted his eyes, then forced himself to watch.
“Did you get any tire casts,” Washington asked, “or did the local gendarmerie drive all over the tracks?”
“Got three good ones,” Ward said. “The vehicle was a ’69 Ford van, dark maroon, with a door on the side. It has all-weather tires on the back.”
“How you know that?”
“I told you, I got casts.”
“I mean that it was a ’69 Ford?”
“Mailman saw it,” Ward said. “Rural carrier. There’s a couple of houses farther up the road.”
“Bingo,” Washington said. “I don’t suppose he saw who was driving it?”
“Not driving it,” Ward said. “But he saw a large white male out in back.”