"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 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.