A Winsome Murder

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Authors: James DeVita
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acquitted. He received the Cook County Distinguished Service Award and was offered complimentary anger-management counseling.
    He accepted both.
    Mangan knew there were plenty of things in his life that he wasn’t very good at: The nicer things, the lighter things. Smiling, for example. They’d passed him by somehow, or maybe he’d refused to let them in, he didn’t know. Shrinks would have a field day with him. A few of his friends, and most of the women in his life, had at some point taken it upon themselves to help fix him. He’d worked a long time at trying to change himself, and now, if he were honest, and he was, he was tired of it. His new outlook on life, arrived at through the wisdom of age—or sheer exhaustion more likely—could pretty much be summed up as, Fuck it, this is me. He was born with a little gloom around his heart, and he knew it. He’d fought it when he was younger. He’d set ideals for himself, honorable ideals, and tried to rise to them, but his other self, the kid from the street, was always tagging along just a few skips behind him, calling out, “And where do you think you’re going?”
    He often wished he’d have turned out to be a better man.
    â€œAnd screw that too,” he’d think in the very next second. He was a middle-aged cop and good at it. All right, so he’d missed out on some of the nicer things in life. All right, so he wasn’t the oh so virtuous guy he’d started out to be. Guys like that don’t always have what it takes to catch bad guys, the really bad guys: to roll around with them in the muck and the blood, to bite a nose off if that’s what it took, or stick a gun into a meth-crusted mouth until the guy vomited and confessed where a missing child was. That’s what it often came down to, because real bad guys eat good guys for breakfast. You blink, you’re dead. This wasn’t TV or some cock ’n’ cunt crime novel with a vampire love triangleat the end. This was Chicago, and the sign over detective James Mangan’s door said Room 70, Violent Crimes Task Force—emphasis violent.
    M angan stepped into the hallway when he saw Kevin Lachlan start to make another phone call. “Mr. Lachlan,” he said, gesturing him into the room. “Thanks for coming in today.”
    â€œSorry,” Lachlan said, putting the phone away. “I have a lot going on at work.”
    â€œNo problem. I’m Detective Mangan.” He gestured to Coose. “My partner, Frank Cusumano.” Coose pulled out a chair at the table and Lachlan sat. Mangan sat across from him. “Sorry it’s so hot in here. The AC’s out. I keep calling maintenance. They don’t like me.”
    â€œUh-huh,” Lachlan said, glancing around the office. He stood, took off his jacket, and sat back down.
    â€œYou okay?” Mangan asked.
    â€œI’m afraid I … I’m not feeling too well.”
    This is a subtle whore, echoed in Mangan’s head, a closet lock and key of villainous secrets .
    Coose asked him, “You want I should get you some water?”
    â€œPlease.”
    Coose took his cue and left the room. Mangan waited. He let the silence sit. He learned a lot about people from their silences. Lachlan kept wiping his forehead but there wasn’t anything there. Coose came back in, gave Lachlan the water, and left the room. Lachlan sat up a little higher in his chair and drank.
    â€œBetter?” Mangan asked him.
    â€œYes. Thank you.”
    â€œGood. So. Look. I’ll try and get you out of here as quick as I can, all right? So, to start with, Mr. Lachlan—is that Irish? You Irish?”
    â€œScotch Irish.”
    â€œUh-huh,” Mangan said, the words we have scotched the snake, not killed it darting through his thoughts. “So to begin, Mr. Lachlan, I want to apologize right off the bat because I’m going to have to ask you some things, and

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