W. Griffin - Special Operations

"Help you?"

"I hope so," Washington said, smiling. "We're from Homicide in Philadelphia. We think we can help you identify the victim."

"The Lieutenant didn't say anything to me," the Corporal said, doubtfully.

"Well, then, maybe you better ask Major Fisher," Washington said. " He's the one that asked us to come up here."

The Corporal looked even more doubtful.

"Look, can't you get him on the radio?" Washington said. "He said if he wasn't here before we got here, he'd be here soon. He ought to be in radio range."

The Corporal waved them on.

When Matt had the window rolled back up, Washington said, "I guess they have a Major named Fisher. Or Smokey thought that he better not ask."

Matt looked at Washington and laughed.

"You're devious, Mr. Washington," he said, approvingly.

"The first thing a good detective has to be is a bluffer," Washington said. "A good bluffer."

The road wound through a stand of evergreens and around a hill, and then they came to the cabin. It was unpretentious, a small frame structure with a screened-in porch sitting on a plot of land not much larger than the house itself cut into the side of a hill.

There was a yellow "CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS" tape strung around an area fifty yards or so from the house. There was an assortment of vehicles on the shoulders of the road, State Trooper and Sheriff's Department cars; a large van painted in State Trooper colors and bearing the legend "STATEPOLICE MOBILE CRIME LAB"; several unmarked law-enforcement cars, and a shining black funeral home hearse.

"Pull it over anywhere," Washington ordered. "We have just found Major Fisher."

Matt was confused but said nothing. He stopped the car and followed Washington to the Crime Scene tape and ducked under it when Washington did. Washington walked up to an enormous man in a State Police Lieutenant's uniform.

The Lieutenant looked at Washington and broke out in a wide smile.

"Well, I'll be damned, look who escaped from Philadelphia!" he said. "How the hell are you, Jason?"

He shook Washington's hand enthusiastically.

"Lieutenant," Washington said, "say hello to Matt Payne."

"Christ, I thought they would send a bigger keeper than that with you," the Lieutenant said. "I hope you know what kind of lousy company you're in, young man."

"How do you do, sir?" Matt said, politely.

"I'm surprised you got in," the Lieutenant said. "When I got here, there was people all over. The goddamned press. Cops from every dinky little dorf in fifty miles. People who watch cop shows on television. Jesus! I finally ran them off, and then told the Corporal to let nobody up here."

"I told him I was a personal friend of the legendary Lieutenant Ward," Washington said.

"Well, I'm glad you did, but I don't know why you're here," Ward said.

"If the victim is who we think it is, a Miss Elizabeth Woodham," Washington said, "she was abducted from Philadelphia."

"I heard they got a hit on the NCIC," Lieutenant Ward said. "But I didn't hear what. I was up in the coal regions on an arson job. Can you identify her?"

"From a picture," Washington said, and handed a photograph to Lieutenant Ward.

"Could be," Ward said. "You want to have a look?"

"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.

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."

"That's all, 'large, white male'?"

"He had hair," Ward said.

"Had hair, or was hairy?"

"Wasn't bald," Ward said. "Late twenties, early thirties.

The mail carrier lives in that little village down there," he added, jerking his thumb in the direction of the highway. "You want to talk to him?"

"Yes, I do, but what I really want first is a tire cast. Is there a phone in the village?"

"Yeah, sure, there's a store and a post office."

"Are you back among us, Matt?" Washington asked. "Feel up to driving down there and calling the boss?"

"Yes, sir," Matt said.

"Well, then, go call him. Tell him what we have-were you with us when Lieutenant Ward gave us the vehicle description?" He stopped and turned to Ward. "I don't suppose we have a license number?"

"No," Ward said. "Just that it was a Pennsylvania tag. But he saw that the grill was pushed in on the right. What caught the mail carrier's attention was that the van was parked right up by the steps. He thought maybe somebody was moving in."