The woman in the car had been too frightened to check on the driver of the small truck-she hadn't even gotten out of her car-so Turner nodded in that direction and he and Lanier left the woman and went to see the extent of the damage.
Wade Turner didn't pay much attention to Teddy Angel. There wasn't any question the guy was stone-cold dead. As Turner bent down over the body, he recoiled at the stench of bourbon. And he shook his head when he removed the headphones that were still covering Teddy's ears, startled by the music blaring. The older trooper reached over Teddy's body, picked up the white iPod, lowered the volume. He put the headset on his own head now, smiled, and nodded at his younger partner.
"Stevie Wonder," he said. "Great fucking album."
Lanier, partly to get away from the dead body, partly to get away from his partner, walked away from the cab and crawled into the back of the truck. A minute or so later he heard Turner say, "Anything back there?"
"Not much," Lanier answered. "Looks like he was logging sporting goods. Baseball gloves, team shirts-shit like that." He reached into a box that had split open, picked up a leather outfielder's mitt. "How the hell'd Matt Lawton get his own glove?" he asked, but his partner didn't answer. Turner wasn't into baseball much. Just college football. He probably didn't even know who Matt Lawton was.
If it was possible, the rain seemed to be coming down harder now. It made Lanier feel claustrophobic in the back of the truck, as if someone were hammering on the walls, telling him to get the hell out.