“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.
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.”
“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.”
“I heard what Lieutenant Ward said,” Matt said. “A ’69 dark red Ford with a door on the side.”
“Maroon, kid,” Lieutenant Ward said. “Not red, maroon. This ain’t whisper down the lane.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said, terribly embarrassed. “Maroon.”
“And a pushed-in, on the right, grill,” Washington added, quickly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Pennsylvania tag. So tell Inspector Wohl that. Find out if Harris decided to come out here. If he did, tell Wohl that you’ll bring the casts in as soon as they’re set and dry, and that I’ll ride back with Tony. If he’s not coming, then I’ll do what I can here and go back with you. Or you can take the casts in and come back for me. Ask him how he wants to handle it.”
Forty-five minutes later, five miles north of Doylestown on US 611, a Pennsylvania State Trooper turned on his flashing red light, hit the siren switch just long enough to make it growl, and caught the attention of the driver of a Ford LTD that was exceeding the 50 mph speed limit by thirty miles an hour, and which might, or might not, be an unmarked law enforcement vehicle.
Matt was startled by the growl of the siren, and by the State Trooper car in his rearview mirror. He slowed, and the Trooper pulled abreast and signaled him to pull over. Matt held his badge up to the window, and the Trooper repeated the gesture to pull over.
Matt pulled onto the shoulder and stoppe
d and was out of his car before the Trooper could get out of his. He met him at the fender of the State Police car with his badge and photo ID in his hand.
The Trooper looked at it, and then, doubtfully, at Matt.
“What’s the big hurry?” the trooper asked.
“I’m carrying tire casts from the crime scene in Durham to Philadelphia,” Matt said. When that didn’t seem to impress the trooper very much, he added: “We’re trying to get a match. We think the doer is a serial rapist we’re looking for.”
The trooper walked to the car and looked in the backseat, where the tire casts, padded in newspaper, were strapped to the seat with seat belts.
“I didn’t know the Philadelphia cops were interested in that job,” the Trooper said, “and I wasn’t sure if you were really a cop. I’ve had two weirdos lately with black-walled tires and antennas that didn’t have any radios. And you were going like hell.”
“Can I go now?”
“I’ll take you through Doylestown to the Willow Grove interchange,” the Trooper said, and walked back to his car and got in.
There is a stoplight at the intersection of US 611, which at that point is also known as “Old York Road,” and Moreland Road in Willow Grove. When Matt stopped for it, the State Trooper by then having left him, his eye fell on the line of cars coming in the opposite direction. The face of the driver of the first car in line was familiar to him. It was that of Inspector Peter Wohl. He raised his hand in sort of a salute. He was sure that Wohl saw him, he was looking right at him, but there was no response. And then Matt saw another familiar face in Wohl’s car, that of his sister.
What the hell is she doing with Inspector Wohl?
The light changed. The two cars passed each other. The drivers examined each other, Matt looking at Wohl with curiosity on his face, Wohl looking at Matt with no expression that Matt could read. And Amy Payne didn’t look at all.
When he had spoken with Wohl from the pay phone in the little general store in Durham, Wohl had ordered him to bring the tire casts into Philadelphia as soon as they could safely be transported. “Harris is on his way out there, and I’m going out there myself. One or the other of us will see that Washington gets home.”
He hadn’t mentioned anything about bringing Amy with him. What’s that all about? And Harris? I must have passed him on the road. With my luck, when I was being escorted by the Trooper. What would Harris think about that? Or maybe even he drove past when I was stopped for speeding! Oh, Christ, what a fool I’m making of myself!
He had just begun to wallow in the humiliation of having passed out upon seeing his first murder victim when he became aware of the radio, first that W-William One was calling W-William Two Oh One; next that W-William One was Inspector Wohl, and finally that W-William Two Oh One was Washington’s—and at the moment, his—call sign.
He grabbed the microphone.
“W-William Two Oh One,” he said.
“The crime lab people are waiting for those casts,” Wohl’s voice said. “So take them right to the Roundhouse; don’t bother stopping at Bustleton and Bowler.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said.
As he tried to make up his mind the fastest way to get from where he was to the Roundhouse, he turned up the volume on the J-Band.
There came the three beeps of an emergency message, signifying that the message that followed was directed to all radio-equipped vehicles of the Philadelphia Police Department:
Beep Beep Beep.
“All cars stand by unless you have an emergency.
Wanted for investigation for homicide and rape, the driver of a 1969 Ford van, maroon in color, damage to right portion of the front grill, all-weather tires mounted on the rear. Operator is a white male, twenty-five to thirty years of age, may be armed with a knife. Suspect is wanted for questioning in a rape-homicide and should be considered dangerous.”
There was a brief pause, then the beeps and the message were repeated.
Jesus, Matt thought, I’d like to spot that sonofabitch!
He did not do so, although he very carefully scrutinized all the traffic on Broad Street, and on the Roosevelt Boulevard Extension, and then down the parkway into downtown Philadelphia, looking for a maroon van.
He had difficulty finding a parking space at the Roundhouse, but finally found one. He unstrapped the casts and carried them into the building. A very stout lady with orange hair came rapidly out of the elevator as he prepared to board it, nearly knocking the casts out of his hands.
That, he decided, would not have surprised him at all. It would be the gilding of the lily. If he had dropped and destroyed the casts, he would have spent the rest of his natural life typing up Sergeant Frizell’s goddamned multipart forms.
No, he thought, that’s terribly clever, but it’s not true. What would have happened if I had carelessly allowed the casts to be broken would be that I would have had to face the question I have been so scrupulously avoiding; whether or not I am, as Amy suggests, simply indulging myself walking around with a gun and a badge, pretending I’m a policeman because I was rejected by the Marines.
I’m not a policeman. I proved that today, both by the childish pleasure I took racing through traffic with the siren screaming and then again by passing out like a Girl Scout seeing her first dead rabbit when I saw that poor woman’s mutilated body. And just now, again, when I was really looking for a dark red van, so I could catch the bad guy, and earn the cheers and applause of my peers.
What bullshit! What the hell would I have done if I’d found him?
Maybe it would have been better in the long run if that fat lady had knocked the casts from my hands; the cops, the real cops, are going to catch this psychopath anyway, and if I had dropped the damned things, I would have been out of the Police Department in the morning, which, logic tells me, ergo sum, would be better all around.
Officer Matthew Payne was not at all surprised to be treated as a messenger boy by the officers in the Forensic Laboratory when he gave them the casts, nor when he returned to Bustleton and Bowler to be curtly ordered by a Corporal he had never seen before to get his ass over to the Peebles residence.
“You’re late,” the Corporal said. “Where the hell have you been?”
“At the Roundhouse,” Matt replied.
“Oh, yeah, I heard,” the Corporal said. “You have friends in high places, don’t you, Payne?”
Matt did not bother to explain that he had been sent to the Roundhouse by Inspector Wohl, and that it had been in connection with police business. The Corporal had just added the final argument in favor of resignation. He did have friends in high places.
Even if I wanted to, even if I had the requisite psychological characteristics necessary in a police officer, which I have proven beyond argument today that I do not, it would be impossible to prove myself a man, uncastrate myself, so to speak, with Uncle Denny Coughlin around, watching over me like a nervous maiden aunt, keeping me from doing what every other rookie gets to do, but rather sending me to a sinecure where, I am sure, the word is out to protect me. And where, I am obviously, and with justification, held in contempt by my peers.
I’ll complete this tour of duty, because it would not be fair to expect McFadden and Martinez to take my duty in addition to their own, but in the morning, I will type out a short, succinct letter of resignation, and have it delivered out here by messenger.
He took the keys the Corporal had given him in exchange for the keys to Jason Washington’s car and drove out to Chestnut Hill.
Charley McFadden had parked his car fifty yards away from the gate to the Peebles residence, on the opposite side of the street. Matt pulled in behind it, got out, and walked up to it.
“I was beginning to wonder if you were going to show up at all,” McFadden said, not critically. “Where’d you go with Washington?”
“He went out to Bucks County, where they found the Woodham woman’s body,” Matt said. “He needed an errand boy.”
“Well, all tho
se Homicide guys think they’re hotshots,” McFadden said, not understanding him. “Don’t let it get you down.”
“What am I supposed to do here, Charley?”
“This is mostly bullshit,” McFadden said. “Most of it is to scare the creep off. Wohl don’t want another burglary here on the Overnight Report. And some of it is because he’s pissed at me.”
“What for?”
“He somehow has the idea I took you out and got you shitfaced last night,” Charley said. He looked at Matt’s face for a reaction, and then went on: “Hay-zus thinks you told Wohl that.”
“No,” Matt said. “I told Inspector Wohl that I got drunk.”
“With me?”
“No,” Matt said. “And if he formed that impression, I’ll see that I correct it.”
“Fuck it, don’t worry about it,” Charley said. “Now, about here. I don’t think this asshole will show up again. If he does, he’s not stupid, he’ll spot your car, and disappear. But if he does show up, and he is stupid—in other words, if you see somebody sneaking around the bushes, call for a backup. Don’t try to catch him yourself. Highway cars will be riding by here every half hour or so, so what you’ll do is sit here and try to stay awake until Hay-zus relieves you at midnight.”
“How do I stay awake?”
“You didn’t bring a thermos?”
Matt shook his head.
“I should have said something,” Charley said. “I’ll go get you a couple of containers of black coffee before I leave. Even cold coffee is better than no coffee. Get out of the car every once in a while, and walk around a little. Wave your arms, get the blood circulating….”
“I get the picture,” Matt said.
“Every supervisor around is going to be riding past here tonight,” McFadden said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Wohl himself came by. So for Christ’s sake, don’t fall asleep, or your ass will be in a crack.”
“Okay,” Matt said. “Thanks, Charley.”
“Ah, shit,” McFadden said, and started his engine. “You want something with the coffee? An egg sandwich, hamburger, something?”
“Hamburger with onions, two of them,” Matt said, digging in his pocket for money. “They give me gas. Maybe that’ll keep me awake.”
Special Operations Page 31
