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 wasnât very good at: The nicer things, the lighter things. Smiling, for example. Theyâd passed him by somehow, or maybe heâd refused to let them in, he didnât 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. Heâd 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 ageâor sheer exhaustion more likelyâcould 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. Heâd fought it when he was younger. Heâd 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, âAnd where do you think youâre going?â
He often wished heâd have turned out to be a better man.
âAnd screw that too,â heâd think in the very next second. He was a middle-aged cop and good at it. All right, so heâd missed out on some of the nicer things in life. All right, so he wasnât the oh so virtuous guy heâd started out to be. Guys like that donât 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 thatâs what it took, or stick a gun into a meth-crusted mouth until the guy vomited and confessed where a missing child was. Thatâs what it often came down to, because real bad guys eat good guys for breakfast. You blink, youâre dead. This wasnât TV or some cock ânâ cunt crime novel with a vampire love triangleat the end. This was Chicago, and the sign over detective James Manganâs door said Room 70, Violent Crimes Task Forceâemphasis violent.
M angan stepped into the hallway when he saw Kevin Lachlan start to make another phone call. âMr. Lachlan,â he said, gesturing him into the room. âThanks for coming in today.â
âSorry,â Lachlan said, putting the phone away. âI have a lot going on at work.â
âNo problem. Iâm Detective Mangan.â He gestured to Coose. âMy partner, Frank Cusumano.â Coose pulled out a chair at the table and Lachlan sat. Mangan sat across from him. âSorry itâs so hot in here. The ACâs out. I keep calling maintenance. They donât like me.â
âUh-huh,â Lachlan said, glancing around the office. He stood, took off his jacket, and sat back down.
âYou okay?â Mangan asked.
âIâm afraid I ⦠Iâm not feeling too well.â
This is a subtle whore, echoed in Manganâs head, a closet lock and key of villainous secrets .
Coose asked him, âYou want I should get you some water?â
âPlease.â
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 wasnât 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.
âBetter?â Mangan asked him.
âYes. Thank you.â
âGood. So. Look. Iâll try and get you out of here as quick as I can, all right? So, to start with, Mr. Lachlanâis that Irish? You Irish?â
âScotch Irish.â
âUh-huh,â Mangan said, the words we have scotched the snake, not killed it darting through his thoughts. âSo to begin, Mr. Lachlan, I want to apologize right off the bat because Iâm going to have to ask you some things, and
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