Hangman's Game Read Online Free PDF

I noticed the bumper sticker but not the license plate right next to it? It is an obvious mistake. The killer is going to get away, all because of me.
    The officer flips a page on his book. “Okay, let’s move on. Where were you guys before you came here?”
    â€œDinner,” I say. “At Stark’s.”
    â€œAnything happen there that was out of the ordinary?”
    I hesitate, thinking about Jai. However angry he was at Samuel, I can’t believe that had anything to do with the shooting, and I don’t want to point the police toward a teammate simply for the sake of full disclosure.
    â€œNothing that would lead to murder,” I say.
    The officer narrows his eyes. He says nothing, probably hoping that I will rush to fill the empty air, and blurt out whatever I am holding back. But I maintain my silence.
    â€œYou’ll have to go to the station,” he says finally. “I’m sure the chief detective will want to do a more formal interview.”
    Soon another officer drives me to a district police station ten minutes away. In my twenty-eight years, I have never been inside one of these places. As I am led inside, I know that I will have to do a better job of explaining what has happened—to this chief detective, and also to myself.
    *   *   *
    The district police station in South Philadelphia is depressingly municipal. Men sit too close to one another, behind low cubicle walls that offer only the illusion of personal space. Old metal desks squeak with each opened drawer. From the pantry comes the smell of burnt coffee. These people have such important work to do, and such an awful place to do it in. I can’t help but compare it to my workplace, where I stride on plush carpet, fresh towels are always at the ready, and I can drink complimentary protein shakes from an always-stocked refrigerator.
    I sit at an unoccupied desk, on a square-backed wooden chair, where I have been told to wait. After a couple of minutes a detective, a tired-looking older man with thin brown hair and a gray front tooth, walks over to me.
    â€œI’m Detective Senecker,” he says. “Can I get you anything?”
    â€œHave you heard anything about how Cecil Wilson is doing?” I say. “Any update from the hospital?”
    â€œLet me see what I can find out,” Senecker says, removing his phone from a holder on his belt. He turns his back and steps away from me as he dials.
    Cecil cannot die on me. Three years ago I lost my father, who had been my high school coach. My dad and Cecil are the two people who both understood what I do and looked after my interests as if they were their own. The two of them would sit next to each other at games, and my dad made a point of paying for the peanuts and the beers. He’d tell Cecil, “After what you’ve done for my son, your money’s no good with me.” Whenever the two of them got together they referred to it as a meeting of the Board of Directors. It used to be one of my routines that before I would leave the house or hotel for a game, I would speak to my dad on the phone, and he would talk me through various coaching points. I didn’t really need the instruction, but I found reassurance in the ritual. After my dad died, it was Cecil who took on those Sunday morning phone calls. Cecil didn’t bother to talk to me about my drops or my kicking motion, just general chatter about the game plan and the mood of the team and so forth. But he was always ready when I needed him. I think of Cecil dropping to his knees on the sidewalk, one hand on his perforated stomach, yelling at me to get down, still trying to protect me.
    â€œHe’s being operated on. That’s all they’re saying,” says Senecker, turning back to me. He asks if I want some coffee, or a Coke.
    â€œWater would be fine,” I say. He brings me a bottle of water from a vending machine, and then he starts talking to