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Three things sixteen-year-old Kevin Drumheiser always wanted to see--a naked woman, a big wad of money and a crime scene.
On the morning of Saturday, January 14, as he crossed the elementary school playground in Swatara Creek, shards of sleet stinging his face as he walked, absorbed with his Gameboy and not watching his step, the boy got his wish for all three. The woman lay sprawled on her back in a field of fresh snow and Kevin stumbled over her. Looking down and seeing what had tripped him, the boy lost his breakfast. Stumbling back with his mouth gaping open, he spied the bank bag, bills spilling out of it across the snow. Twenties and fifties. More money than Kevin had seen in his life.
If he'd paid her more attention, Kevin would have noticed the woman was young with long, lustrous red hair; big blue eyes that were open and staring vacantly up at a sky bleached of color by the weather. She had pert, pink-tipped breasts, a caesarian scar on her flat stomach and a Coke bottle was shoved into her vagina.
But Kevin wasn't looking at any of it now. He was bent over, eyes squeezed shut, hands on his knees, retching dry heaves, wishing he'd come another route to his friend's house.
It was a bitterly cold morning, the air stinging his ears and nose. A crow cawed back in the woods and Kevin jumped. His breath came out of his mouth in wispy plumes and steam rose from his vomit in the snow. His footsteps squeaked in the dry snow as he moved back from the corpse.
Kevin's father was a cop and he'd told the boy he'd only seen one crime scene dead body in his career. "It's not something you want to see," Fred Drumheiser had said, "believe me, son. Itisn't." Kevin thought that pathetic at the time. Now he understood.
He wished to hell he'd gone another way to Tommy's house.