It was October 19, 1970. I was just four months out of the Army and trying to settle back into my role with the Cook County Sheriff’s Police. I was in the old courthouse at 2600 South California Avenue, standing on the sixth floor when the peace shattered. Gunfire. Sharp, echoing cracks bouncing off every inch of the marble like the whole damn building was made of a snare drum. I drew my gun and bolted up the stairs to the seventh floor. As I turned the corner, a blast of marble debris smacked me across the face. For a second, I thought I’d been shot. I ducked back, heart pounding, just in time to hear a voice calmly say, “He’s finished now.” They weren’t kidding. About 19 rounds had been fired. Two uniformed officers and a plainclothes detective had emptied their six-shot revolvers into a well-dressed dead man—Gene Lewis, also known as “The Iceman.” He lay on the ground, stone cold and face up, still rocking an iridescent green suit, white shirt, and matching green tie. One handcuf...