I was placed on paid administrative leave, as the regulations dictate. My first day off I went jogging. I passed a Subway. Subway has really good cookies, but I didn’t stop.

Also standard procedure for fatal shootings is a psychological review. I wasn’t looking forward to this. Last time I’d offed a bad guy I’d been off the job for six weeks while that damn shrink sunk his billable hours into me.

This time I was even more eager to get back to my case load. My partners were my best friends, and we all took our jobs very seriously. This time I got sent to a different psychologist, in a fancy glass high-rise downtown. I walked in and sat down, and the bastard walks in holding a saran-wrap covered plate of oatmeal raisin cookies. They were fresh, the scent of them filled the room in an instant.

“Hello, Frank, would you like a cookie?”

Would I indeed. I could tell this was going to be a long process.

“My mother used to bake me cookies,” I blurted.

You should have seen that guy lunge for his little notebook.