most of it was just knowing the bat-thing was still in there , pinned to the corkboard , flayed open and needing to be cleaned up like the weekend road accidents where when you got there the smell of blood and busted guts and spilled gasoline and boiled rubber was like some hideous old acquaintance who would never move out of town ; you smelled it and knew that somebody was dead or almost dead , that somebody else would be crying and screaming , that you were going to find a shoe ?