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  Less than two miles away, Greg Stafford was sitting in his squad car, staring at Travis Langford’s body as it dangled from the winch on his tow truck. The paper on his chest that read BITCH flapped in the breeze like some sort of sick semaphore. Sue sat in her car, still crying. But she wasn’t sad, she was angry. Angry because she wanted to kill that sonofabitch herself. She wanted to shoot him in the balls and laugh as he bled out. She wasn’t sad. Sue felt robbed.