‘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.