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bent to absorb the impact. He felt the jolt mostly around his waist, where gravity tugged at his gun belt. Jostled leather groaned and creaked. Cuffs and ammunition rattled inside their cases. Standing up straight, Hanson gave the belt a couple of pulls to bring it back up where it belonged. |
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He rubbed his sweaty hands on the front of his shirt. |
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Well, he thought, you're here. |
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Now, if he only knew why. |
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He walked slowly over the grass, eyes on the north goal post straight in front of him. |
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He was kidding himself if he thought he might find anything new. The boys had gone over the area thoroughly last night, and again in daylight. They'd photographed, picked up, tagged and taken away everything: the poor bastard himself, his clothes, matches and cigarette butts, the gasoline can, candy wrappers and other shit that probably had nothing at all to do with the crime, even some of the sod surrounding the main standard where the kid had been tied. There'd been talk of taking the goalpost, as well, but the chief decided against it. They had stripped off the charred remains of the padding for evidence. |
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Hell, there was nothing left to find. |
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But Hanson, patrolling the neighborhood, had found himself circling the high school, slowing his car each time he had a view of the distant goalpost and staring out his window at the damned thing. Finally, he'd parked in front of the stadium. |
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And left the car without even radioing in. |
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