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lived. A large, cavernous hole had been excavated in his hairy chest. The rib cage had been savagely separated and his heart carved out. Harry Driver's face was eternally fixed in a horrified mask of life's final terror. His body was ivory white, drained of color and grotesquely rigid. |
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"Holy shit," Proctor muttered. He reeled backward, using the wall for support. |
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Dawkins managed two or three halting steps forward, then stopped. |
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The noon hour had come and gone before either Proctor or Dawkins had time to stop and reflect on what they had been witness to. The coroner had come as well as the Saint John's police, a police photographer, the military police investigation squad from Fort Pepperell, and finally, a representative from the Bayside Funeral Home, who deftly removed Driver's body. |
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Dawkins breathed a heavy sigh. "How about a cup of coffee, Lieutenant?" |
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The young man nodded. "I could sure use one." |
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The Inspector led them into the kitchen and put an old copper tea kettle over the gas burner, took out two nondescript cups and set them on the counter next to the glass jar. "Might as well use up Driver's stuff," he said |
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