I give this some thought while he waits. "I think I can see why," I say.
"Things become more about image, less about results, in some parts of the Bureau. It's probably the same deal for the shrinks that don't like you."
He smiles again, a tired kind of smile. "Right to the pragmatic center of it as always, Smoky. At least, in things that don't involve yourself."
I wince inside at this. This is one of Dr. Hillstead's favorite techniques, using normal conversation as a cover for the soul-revealing zingers he shoots at you, casual. Like the little Scud missile he'd just popped in my direction: You have an incisive mind, Smoky, he'd said, but you don't apply it to solving yourself. Ouch. Truth hurts.
"But here I am, in spite of what anyone may think of me. One of the most trusted therapists when it comes to handling cases involving FBI agents. Why do you think that is?"
He is looking at me again, waiting. I know this is leading up to something. Dr. Hillstead never rambles. So I think about it.
"If I had to guess, I'd guess that it's because you're good. Good always counts more than looks good, in my line of work."
That slight smile again.
"That's right. I get results. That's not something I parade around, and I don't pat myself on the back about it before I go to bed every night. But it's true."
Said in the simple, nonarrogant tones of any accomplished professional. I understand this. It isn't about modesty. In a tactical situation, when you ask someone if they are good with a gun, you want them to be honest. If they suck, you want to know, and they want you to know, because a bullet will kill a liar as quick as an honest man. You have to know the truth about strengths and weaknesses when the rubber meets the road. I nod, and he continues.
"That's what matters in any military organization. Can you get results. Do you think it's odd that I think of the FBI as a military organization?"
"No. It's a war."
"Do you know what the primary problem of any military organization is, always?"
I'm getting bored, restless. "Nope."
He gives me a disapproving look. "Think about it before you answer, Smoky. Please don't blow me off."
Chastised, I comply. I speak slowly when I reply. "My guess would be . . . personnel."
He points a finger at me. "Bingo. Now--why?"
The answer leaps into my mind, the way answers sometimes did when I was on a case, when I was really thinking. "Because of what we see."
"Uh-huh. That's part of it. I call it 'see, do, lose.' What you see, what you do, and what you lose. It's a triumvirate." He counts them off on his fingers. "In law enforcement you see the worst things a human being is capable of. You do things no human should have to do, from handling rotting corpses to, in some cases, killing another person. You lose things, whether it's something intangible, like innocence and optimism, or something real, such as a partner or . . . family."
He gives me a look I can't read. "That's where I come in. I'm here because of this problem. And it's also this problem that prevents me from being able to do my job the way it should be done."
Now I am puzzled as well as interested. I look at him, a signal to continue, and he sighs. It's a sigh that seems to contain its own "see, do, lose," and I wonder about the other people who sit across from this desk, in this chair. The other miseries he listens to, takes home with him when he leaves.
I try to picture this, looking at him. Dr. Hillstead, sitting at home. I know the basics; I had checked him out in a cursory fashion. Never married, lives in a two-story, five-bedroom house in Pasadena. Drives an Audi sports sedan--the doc likes a little speed under him, a hint at some part of his personality. But these are all flat facts. Nothing to really tell you what happens when he walks in the front door of his home and closes it behind him. Is he a microwave dinner kind of bachelor? Or does he cook steak, sipping red wine alone at an immaculate dining table while Vivaldi plays in the background? Hey, maybe he comes home, slips on a pair of high heels and nothing else, and does the housework, hairy legs and all.
I warm to this thought, a little secret humor. I'll take my laughs where I can get them these days. I make myself focus again on what he's saying to me.
"In a normal world, someone who's gone through what you've gone through would never go back, Smoky. If you were the average person in the average profession, you'd stay away from guns, and killers, and dead people, forever. Instead, my job is to see if I can help you be ready to return to that. This is what is expected of me. To take wounded psyches and send them back into the war. Melodramatic, maybe, but true."
Now he leans forward, and I feel that we are getting to the end of it, to whatever point he's leading toward.
"Do you know why I'm willing to work toward that? When I know I may be sending someone back into the thing that harmed them in the first place?" He pauses. "Because that is what ninety-nine percent of my patients want."
He pinches the bridge of his nose again, shaking his head.
"The men and women I see, all mentally shot up, want to be fixed so they can go back to the battle. And the truth is, whatever it is that makes you people tick--most of the time, going back is exactly what you need. Do you know what happens to most of those who don't?
Sometimes they turn out okay. A lot of the time they turn into drunks. And every now and then, they kill themselves."
He looks at me as he says this last part, and I'm momentarily paranoid, wondering if he can read my mind. I have no idea where this is going. It's making me feel off balance, a little bit wobbly, and a whole lot uncomfortable. All of which annoys me. My response to being uncomfortable is all Irish, from my mother's side--I get pissed off and blame the other person for it.
He reaches over to the left side of his desk, picks up a thick file folder I hadn't noticed before, puts it in front of him, and flips it open. I squint and am surprised to see that it is my name on the tab. "This is your personnel file, Smoky. I've had it for some time, and I've read it through more than once." He flips over the pages, summarizing out loud. "Smoky Barrett, born 1968. Female. Degree in criminology. Accepted into the Bureau 1990. Graduated top of her class at Quantico. Assigned to assist in the Black Angel case in Virginia in 1991, administrative capacity." He looks up at me. "But you didn't remain on the sidelines of that one, did you?"
I shake my head, remembering. I sure hadn't. I was twenty-two years old, greener than green. Excited about being an agent, even more excited about being a part of a major case, even if it was pretty much just desk work. During one of the briefings, something about the case had stuck in my mind, something in a witness statement that didn't seem right. It was still turning in my head when I went to sleep, and I awoke with a 4:00 A.M. epiphany, something that was going to become familiar to me in later years. The thing was, it ended up being an insight that broke the case wide open. It had to do with what direction a window opened. A tiny, forgettable detail that became the pea under my mattress and ended up closing the door on a killer. I called it luck at the time and downplayed myself. True luck was that the agent in charge of the task force, Special Agent Jones, was one of those rare bosses. One who doesn't hog the glory and instead gives credit where credit is due. Even to a green female agent. I was still new, so I got more desk work, but I was on the fast track from that point on. I was groomed for NCAVC--the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, the part of the FBI that deals with the worst of the worst--under the watchful eye of SAC Jones.