The Janus Run

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Cole Lang sat alone in a bare little room on the upper floor of the station house. He was still dressed in the baggy sweatshirt, gray sweatpants and sneakers he’d pulled on after he’d called the cops. The coat he’d snagged from the stand after that detective had instructed two uniforms to take him to the Precinct House was draped over the uncomfortable wooden chair. A wall to his left was marked by a long mirror. He assumed it wasn’t there for anyone in the room to check their hair. It would be one of those two-way glass set-ups: he’d seen enough cop shows to know that. He wondered if it was used now or if it had been rendered obsolete by video technology. He presumed that if cops wanted to observe an interview, they could watch the feed on a monitor.

He’d recovered from the shock. At least, he thought he had. Every now and then he shivered. He pulled his coat free and draped it over his shoulders. It was better, but a slight tremor still rippled through his frame from time to time. Gina was dead. She was in her early 30s and she was dead. He shook his head, partly because he was having trouble processing this and partly to try to dislodge the image of her lying on his bed. He had seen death before, but seeing Gina like that, remembering her as young and vital and laughing...

Pull it together, Lang, he told himself. Breathe...

The door opened and a slightly overweight woman with short gray hair stepped in. She was chewing something and her face, smooth and still youthful looking despite the gray hair, was grim.

“Hi, Mr Lang, I’m Lieutenant Rosita Santoro. You okay?”

He heard a faint trace of the barrio in her voice in the way she rolled the “r’s” in her name and spat out the “t’s”. He nodded, pulled the coat tighter around his shoulders.

“It musta been a shock, finding your girlfriend like that. She was your girlfriend, right?”

He nodded again.