The police walking slowly through the cornfield were paying little attention to the rustling crop that surrounded them. Their heads were down, their eyes focused sharply on the tilled earth of the field 100 miles southwest of Detroit. Gradually, as they worked their way up and down the rows, a thick layer of dust settled on their polished black boots. For six long, hot hours, the men doggedly checked out the report they had received by phone. Finally, they gave up and went away, convinced that wherever he was, Jimmy Hoffathe man...
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