‘O’Brien, sir. It’s on his beat. He’s just phoned through.’
‘I’ll go myself. Tel Morris to come on after me with the squad. I’l want ten uniformed men as well.
Have ’em out there fast.’
Olin went quickly down the steps to where his car was parked. He drove away fast, his siren blasting.
Three minutes later another police car, followed by an Emergency Squad truck, went tearing down the street after Olin.
Olin found the shabby 25th Street blocked either end by a big crowd of curious sightseers. There were three prowl-cars drawn up by the sidewalk. The patrol men were keeping the crowd well away from the big blue Packard that stood under a lamp standard, its driving door open.
Olin pushed his way through the crowd and walked down the street to the Packard.
O’Brien, a big, beefy man with greying hair and keen blue eyes, saluted.
‘What have you got there, Tim?’ Olin asked, pausing beside the Packard.
‘I’m making a guess, Lieutenant,’ O’Brien said, ‘but it’s my bet it’s Hater.’
‘Hater?’
Olin moved forward and peered into the car.
‘At the back, under the blanket,’ O’Brien said. ‘I left him how I found him.’
Olin opened the rear door as more police sirens wailed through the night. He lifted the blanket, and O’Brien threw the beam of his powerful flashlight over Olin’s shoulders.
They both stared at the emaciated, half-naked, mud-streaked body, and at the bluish-white face. The adhesive bandage across the mouth had cut deeply, and the flesh each side of it had swollen, giving the dead face a grotesque, horrifying appearance.
‘What makes you think it’s Hater?’ Olin asked.
‘I once worked at Bel more Farm, Lieutenant,’ O’Brien explained. ‘That’s their uniform,’ and he touched the mud-soaked trousers.
‘Ever seen Hater?’
‘I’ve seen pictures of him. Looks like him: same eyebrows.’
‘Yeah,’ Olin said, and stepped back. The stench in the car made him feel ill.
Morris came running up.
‘It’s Hater,’ Olin said.
‘What do you know?’ Morris gaped into the car. ‘He’s got his hands tied.’
‘You’l be tel ing me he’s dead next,’ Olin snapped. ‘Isn’t that damned ambulance coming?’
‘Yes, sir. Should be here any second now.’
Olin looked up and down the shabby street.
‘Isn’t this the street we cornered Baird in last time?’
Morris nodded.
‘Yeah, I guess it is.’
‘Maybe he’s still around.’ Olin looked up expectantly at the roofs of the buildings. ‘Get four men up there. The rest of them had better go from house to house and find out if anyone’s seen Baird.’
While Morris went off to get his men posted, the two interns, who had got off the newly arrived ambulance, carried Hater from the car to the sidewalk. They laid him on a stretcher, and one of them carefully removed the adhesive bandage from his mouth.
‘What did he die of?’ Olin asked, pul ing fiercely on his cigar.
‘Heart failure, from the look of him,’ the intern said. ‘I’d say he’s been dead for two or three days.’
‘What’s the stink in the car, for Gawd’s sake?’
‘Gangrene,’ the intern told him. ‘It’s not from this guy.’
Olin stroked his jaw.
‘Pret y bad?’
‘I’d say it was bad. Whoever owns that stench is about ready for a wreath.’
A patrolman came up and saluted Olin.
‘Lieutenant, there’s a guy wanting to speak to you,’ he said. ‘Name of Dal as. Shal I let him through?’
Olin hesitated, then shrugged.
‘Yeah, let him through.’
Dallas joined Olin.
‘What have you got?’ he asked, looking at the body on the stretcher.
‘Hater,’ Olin said. ‘Not much doubt about it. O’Brien here has seen a picture of him.’
Dallas blew out his cheeks.
