The Butcher's Son by Dorien Grey

having preceded him throughout the state and, indeed, the nation, guaranteed a good turnout for his announcement. His take-no-prisoners/hang-’em-at-the-airport approach to law enforcement had pretty much polarized people as few others, in or out of government, have done or could do.
    The darling of the conservatives and the Antichrist to liberals, the fact was that, while nearly everyone had a strong opinion on what the chief was, almost no one had even the foggiest idea of who he was. I, personally, had reached the conclusion there was the uniform and all it represented, and there was the man, and that each was the other.
    At precisely four-thirty, the chief’s entourage filed into the room, forming a precise prearranged tableau that would have been the envy of any military drill team. The family was there, all perfectly scrubbed and coifed, beaming with pride and looking like a Christmas card photo. Kevin had his left arm, as always, wrapped lovingly around Sue-Lynn, who, as always, cradled little Sean at exactly the most photogenic angle. The other children were lined up in descending order of importance in front of Mrs. Rourke, whom I hadn’t even noticed on my first glance.
    On either side of the raised platform stood various pillars of the community and a smattering of local and state bigwigs. Closest to the podium in the gaggle of dignitaries on the right hand side of the stage, leading the applause as the chief strode into the room, stood a proud Carlton Carlson.
    The chief stepped up to the podium, laid several large sheets of paper on it, and began.
    “Before I make the announcement for which this news conference was called,” he said, his voice stentorian in its solemnity, “I would like to say a brief word in acknowledgment of the recent fatal fire which struck our community, and to personally convey my own and my family’s deepest, heartfelt condolences to the relatives of those who died.”
    The relatives? That’s it? That’s it? I thought for a second there I was going to lose it. You fucking bastard! I wanted to scream: What about the victims? What about their lovers and their friends? What about the entire gay community? Why don’t you just go up and piss on their coffins?
    The chief, of course, was as oblivious to my rage as he was to anything else that didn’t serve his own purposes. After only a momentary pause, he continued.
    “While I’m sure you all have questions regarding the progress of the case, I can only assure you that we are at a critical stage in the investigation, and are devoting all the efforts of both the fire and police departments to find and prosecute those responsible for this act. But since it is an ongoing investigation, I will be making no further comments at this time.”
    There was a muted murmur from the crowd, which the chief silenced by an authoritarian raising of one hand.
    “It is” he said, launching into his speech, “exactly this type of rampant lawlessness which underscores the urgency of providing those charged with protecting our citizens the tools and support they must have to do their job properly and thoroughly. We must once and for all say to the criminals who roam our streets with impunity: Enough!”
    He then laid out a detailed and carefully worded litany of everything that was wrong with the current governor and his policies—which was to say everything . I had to hand it to his trainers—his message was a puff pastry of political correctness, but the filling was pure stormtrooper.
    He rambled on for what seemed like an eternity, and I totally tuned out until at last I dimly heard “And it is to this end that I am today announcing my candidacy for governor of this great state!”
    There was a burst of enthusiastic applause from the assembly on the stage. Flashbulbs strobed the room, and before the gathered reporters had a chance to start shouting their questions, C.C. shot me a stern glance from across the room. I cued the guy with the sound