"Stephen Goldin - Herds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goldin Stephen)

Stoneham, whichever side that was. He didn't know any of the
details of the case yet, but already he had a feeling in the pit of
his ulcer that it was going to be a nasty one. He muttered
something under his breath about the policeman's lot.

"Beg pardon, Sheriff?" Joe asked.

"Nothing," Maschen growled. He finished his coffee in one
gulp, slammed the cup down on the counter and stalked out of
the diner.

Back in his office, the report was waiting on his desk just as
he had requested. There wasn't much in it. A call had come in at
three-oh-seven a.m., reporting a murder. The caller was Mr.
Wesley Stoneham, calling from the residence of Mr. Abraham
Whyte. Stoneham said that his wife had been murdered by party
or parties unknown while she had been staying alone at their
seaside cabin. Stoneham had arrived on the scene at about
two-thirty and discovered her body but, because the phone lines
at the cabin had been cut, he had had to call from his neighbor's.
A car was dispatched to investigate.

Mr. Stoneham met the investigating officer at the door to the
cabin. Inside, the deputy found the body, tentatively identified as
Stoneham's wife, bound hands and feet, her throat slashed, her
eyes removed, and chest and arms brutally hacked. There was a
possibility of sexual assault, as the pubic region had been cut
open. Facial discolorations and marks on her throat indicated
strangulation, but there were no other signs of a struggle of any
sort about the cabin. Beside the body lay a kitchen knife that had
apparently been used to do the hacking— it was from the utensils
set that was hanging on the wall. The carpet was stained with
blood, presumably the victim's, and a message had been written
in blood on the wall: "Death to Pigs." A stamped out cigarette
that had been only partially smoked was on the floor, and a used
paper match was in one of the ashtrays. The bedroom appeared
untouched.

Maschen put down the report, closed his eyes and rubbed the
backs of his knuckles against his eyelids. It couldn't be just a
simple rape-murder, could it? This one had all the makings of a
psychotic vendetta, the type that attracted wide publicity. He
reread the description of the body and shuddered. He had seen a
lot of gory sights in his thirty-seven years of police work, but
never one that sounded as gory as this. He did not think he was
going to like this case at all. He half dreaded having to go out to
the spot and viewing the corpse for himself. But he knew he'd
have to. In a case like this, with tons of publicity—and with
Stoneham looking over his shoulder—he'd have to handle the
investigation personally. San Marcos County was not big enough