Ellery stopped in the doorway.
The other radio car patrolman was straddling a chair, cap pushed back on his head, looking about helplessly.
Roger Priam lay stiffly on his bed staring at the ceiling.
And all over Priam’s body, on his blanket, on his sheet, in the shelves and compartments of his wheelchair, on his typewriter, strewn about the floor, the furniture, Wallace’s emergency bed, the window sills, the cornices, the fireplace, the mantelpiece ― everywhere ― were frogs.
Frogs and toads.
Hundreds of frogs and toads.
Tiny tree toads.
Yellow-legged frogs.
Bullfrogs.
Each little head was twisted.