I rush into the Department, pager in hand, and am swamped with people wanting to join me on another shout, High Tower and New Boss are the chosen two, and we jog over to the car, the two of them jostling for the front seat. There's a lot of joking around: with High Tower in the car I am not going to have the same acceleration as I would normally get. New Boss is very excited at the chance of seeing some action on the streets. I'm quiet; I know what we are going to, and I know the impact it will have on these two.
New Boss is in the front seat, holding on for dear life as I hit the road. The two of them continue to joke about my driving skills, and about how different I am out here, compared to in the Department.
The rope hangs from the banisters: a mute reminder of what this man has done. The screams from the back room echo around us as we determine what we already know: this man has managed to do what he wanted to.
We drive back to the Department, each lost in our own thoughts of what we have witnessed.
I have seen many hanging victims, and so have High Tower and New Boss. But they had never been to the house before, and the sights and sounds at the scene of a violent death can never be explained, can never be shared with someone who has only ever dealt with the victims in the sterile, cold environment of a hospital resuscitation room. And what they continue to see in their mind's eye will remain with them forever.
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