My mother once told me, “Angels don’t cry.” I was never quite sure what she meant, though it probably had something to do with not blubbering and causing a scene at dad’s funeral. She was proper like that, most of the time.

I always felt that was a little harsh to say to a ten year old. Perhaps there was more, but the priest interrupted our conversation at that point. We had to go on with the ceremony, the rites, you know, the motions. There weren’t a lot of conversations after that really. There wasn’t much of anything after that.

I could lie and say I haven’t cried since. I could maintain the facade of manliness and stoic reserve that most people see in my day to day life. Detectives aren’t supposed to be emotional and sensitive. You can’t get all weepy in the middle of a deposition—really kills your credibility.

All the same, I’ve shed more than a few tears from time to time, privately and even publicly once or twice.

That’s okay, cause I’m no angel.