He had a peculiar intonation—in his speeches, he tried for gravitas but ended up speaking with that untethered transatlantic accent from old movies. Cochran was a desiccated hard-boiled egg of a man—hair too white to be from anything but a bottle, pale skin spotted with freckles. His dark eyes, blond eyebrows and eyelashes gave him the look of a skinny, naked mole rat, but with perfect, Chicklet teeth. He’d been handsome, once, but time and hatred had bleached him.
