Denver ? The massive white limousine rested beside Speer Boulevard. Windows had been gunned out. Blood stained the snow. Women and men moved as close as police would allow.

They were staring at the H2 Hummer limousine, which seats as many as 23 people. They were trying to make sense of a few seconds of violence that never will make sense.

This is where Darrent Williams lost his life. On a stretch of Speer Boulevard between 10th and 11th streets, some angry fool used a handgun to shoot Williams in the neck and take from him, and us, all his tomorrows.

The limo rested in the snow, right beside the peacefully flowing Cherry Creek. It rested there as a temporary monument to senselessness.

Jon’te Dotson, 11, and his friend Steve Armijo, 15, rode their bikes from their homes near 9th and Navajo. They heard about Williams’ death on TV. They wanted to see the limo with their own eyes.

“It makes me feel sad,” Dotson said as he sat on a red Sting Ray. “Why would somebody shoot somebody for nothing? Just because of a fight? It’s stupid.”

It is stupid. We shoot each other at a ridiculous rate in our nation, and this death stains all of us. It’s the curse of our land.

We often turn to euphemisms when we talk about handguns. They protect us from evil, we say, and their use is guarded by our Constitution.

But handguns also offer a horrifically convenient way to place someone – in this case a bubbly Denver Broncos cornerback – 6 feet under. The handgun that left blood in the snow and sent Williams to the morgue didn’t protect anyone.

Williams was pronounced dead in Denver Health Center, just east of the limo. A few hours earlier he had been running with a football at Invesco Field, listening to the shouts of thousands of Broncos fans.

For no good reason, Williams reclined on a hospital bed in a room with white walls. His friends stood in a cramped, drab waiting room, hoping for good news. He was dead because of some silly argument. He was dead for no reason.

Speer is a road from my youth. I grew up a few blocks from Denver Health Center and often rode my bike down the boulevard to the downtown Denver library. I drank cherry milk shakes with my father at the Arby’s that sits a few doors down from the red-tiled nightclub at 1037 Broadway where the arguing began that apparently led to the shooting.

It was strange to stand on this familiar ground, on a sunny day, on the first day of the new year, gazing at bullet holes and blood while talking to strangers about Williams. Sad. Tragic. Frightening. Unbelievable. These were words I heard over and over.

He was just a kid. I remember listening to him talk with amazement last season about the kindness Champ Bailey offered him. Bailey had reached out to Williams, encouraged him, informed him he could be special.

“He’s just a real cool guy,” Williams said. In his excitement, he sounded about 14 years old.

Williams had not yet lost his ability to be amazed. He was still thrilled and a little surprised to be playing football for a paycheck. He was so full of promise, and on Sunday night so much seemed ahead.

By the wee hours of Monday morning, he was lost to us forever.