"I have no idea what you're talking about," Wohl said. "I thought you had called to demand to know what, if anything, has developed in the Woodham kidnapping."
There was a pause.
"Okay," Mickey said. "What if anything has developed in the Woodham case?"
"Well, since you put that to me as a specific question, which is not the same thing as me volunteering information to one favored representative of the press, I suppose I am obliged to answer it. The State Police have found a body near Durham, Bucks County, 4.4 miles west of US 611 on US 212, which they feel may be that of Miss Woodham."
"When?"
"They reported the incident to the Philadelphia Police less than an hour ago," Wohl said.
"Anybody else have this?"
"Since no one has come to me, as you did, Mr. O'Hara, with a specific question that I am obliged to answer, I have not mentioned this to anyone outside the Police Department."
"Thanks, Peter," Mickey O'Hara said, "I owe you one."
The line went dead.
Wohl broke the connection with his finger and dialed first Chief Coughlin's number and told him what had happened and what (minus Mickey O'Hara) he had done about it. And then he called Commissioner Czernick and told him the same thing.
Then he called Sergeant Frizell in and told him to have a Highway Patrolman take one of the new cars over to Inspector Paul McGhee in Traffic with the message that he could have the use of it until a car was available to him from the motor pool.
Then he settled down to deal with the mountain of paperwork on his desk until such time as Washington checked in.
****
A mile the far side of Willow Grove, Jason Washington switched off the siren.
"If this is Miss Woodham," he said. "And we won't know until we get a look at the body-maybe not even then, maybe not until we get her dental records, they didn't say how badly she was mutilated, only that she had been-this may be the first break we've had in this job."
"I don't understand," Matt said. He had been thinking that it was suddenly very quiet in the car, even though the speedometer was nudging eighty.
"Well, maybe somebody saw a van drive in. The site is supposed to be a summer cottage on a dirt road; in other words, not a busy street. People might have noticed. Maybe we can get an identification on the van, at least the color and make. If it's a dirt road, or there's a lawn, or some soft dirt, near the cottage, maybe we can get a cast and match it against the casts on Forbidden Drive-do you know what I'm talking about?"
"Yes, sir," Matt said. "When I Xeroxed the reports, I read them."
"If we get a match on tire casts, that would mean the same vehicle. If we can get a description of the van, that would help.If he brought her out here in a van, andif the body they have is Miss Woodham. And obviously, he has some connection with the summer cottage. I mean, I don't think he just drove around looking for someplace to take her; he knew where he was taking her. So we start there. Who's the owner? Our guy? If not, who did he rent it to? Does he know a large, hairy, wellspoken white male? Do the neighbors remember seeing anybody, or anything? Hell, we may even get lucky and come up with a name."
Matt wondered if Washington was merely thinking out loud, or whether he was graciously showing him how things were done. The former was more likely; the latter quite flattering.
"I see you got rid of the horse pistol in the shoulder holster," Washington said.
"Yes, sir," Matt said. "I bought aChief's Special."
"After I told you that, I had some second thoughts," Washington said.
"Sir?"
"What kind of a shot are you?" Washington said.
"Actually, I'm not bad."
"I was afraid of that, too," Washington said. "Listen, I may be just making noise, because the chances that you would have to take that pistol out of its holster-ankle holster?"
"Yes, sir," Matt replied.
"The chances that you will have to take that snub-nose out of its holster range from slim indeed to nonexistent, but there's always an exception, so I want to get this across to you. The effective range, if you're lucky, of that pistol is about as long as this car. If you, excited as you would be if you had to draw it, managed to hit a mansized target any farther away than seven yards, it would be a miracle."
"Yes, sir," Matt said.
"I don't expect you to believe that," Washington said.
"I believe you," Matt said.
"You believe that 'what ol' Washington says is probably true for other people, but doesn't apply to me. I'm a real pistolero. I shot Expert in the service with a.45.' "
"Well, I didn't make it into the Marines," Matt said. "But I did shoot Expert with a.45 when I was in the training program."
"Do me a favor, kid?"
"Sure."
"The next time you've got a couple of hours free, go to a pistol range. Not the Academy Range, one of the civilian ones. Colosimo's got a good one. Take thatChief's Special with you and buy a couple of boxes of shells for it. And then shoot at a silhouette with it. Rapid fire. Aim it, if you want to, or just point it-you know what I'm talking about, you know the difference?"
"Yes, sir."
"And then count the holes in the target. If you hit it- anywhere, not just in the head or in the chest-half the time, I would be very surprised."
"You mean I should practice until I'm competent with it?" Matt asked.
"No. That'snot what I mean. The point I'm trying to make is that Wyatt Earp and John Wayne couldn't shoot a snub-nose more than seven yards, nobody can, and expect to hit what they're shooting at. I want you to convince yourself of that, and remember it, if-and I reiteratein the very unlikely chance you ever have to use that gun."
"Oh, I think I see what you mean," Matt said.
"I hope so," Washington said. "My own rule of thumb is that if he's too far away to belt in the head with a snub-nose, he's too far away to shoot."
Matt chuckled.
"Where the hell are we?" Washington said. "We should be in Canada by now. Pull in the next gas station and ask for directions."
Route 212, a two-lane, winding road, was fifteen miles from the gas station. They had no trouble finding the dirt road 4.4 miles from the intersection of 611 and 212. There were a dozen cars and vans parked on the shoulder of the road by it, some wearing State Trooper and Bucks County Sheriff's Department regalia, and others the logotypes of radio and television stations.
A sheriff's deputy waved them through on 212, and advanced angrily on the car when Matt turned on the left-turn signal.
"Crime scene," the deputy called when Matt rolled the window down.
"Philadelphia Police," Washington said, showing his badge. "We're expected."
"Wait a minute," the deputy said and walked to a State Trooper car. A very large Corporal in a straw Smokey the Bear hat swaggered over.
"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 l
and 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.
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 stopped 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 youwere 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 genera! 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."
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