brought his hands up and rubbed his face. All he knew was that he wanted to hide from her.
“A lot,” he finally whispered.
“More than a lot…”
He exhaled loudly.
“Thank you for answering. I’m not trying to corner you. The point of my questions and the treatise on the social, cultural and even geologic fragmentation of this city is that what I’m saying here is that you’ve been through more than most, okay? And this doesn’t even include the baggage you might still have from Vietnam or the loss of the romantic relationship. But whatever the reasons, the symptoms of stress are showing. They are there, plain as day. Your intolerance, your inability to sublimate frustrations, most of all your assault on your commanding officer.”
She paused but Bosch didn’t say anything. He had a feeling she wasn’t finished. She wasn’t.
“There are other signs as well,” she continued. “Your refusal to leave your damaged home can be perceived as a form of denial of what is happening around you. There are physical symptoms. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? I don’t think I need to ask to know that you’re drinking too much. And your hand. You didn’t hurt yourself with a hammer. You fell asleep with a cigarette in your hand. That is a burn and I’d bet my state license on it.”
She opened a drawer and took out two plastic cups and a bottle of water. She filled the cups and pushed one across the desk to him. A peace offering. He watched her silently. He felt exhausted, unrepairable. He also couldn’t help but be amazed by her at the same time she was so expertly cutting him open. After she took a sip of water she continued.
“These things are all indicative of a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress syndrome. However, we have one problem with that. The word post when used in such a diagnosis indicates the time of stress has passed. That’s not the case here. Not in L.A. Not with your job. Harry, you are in a nonstop pressure cooker. You owe yourself some breathing room. That’s what this leave is all about. Breathing room. Time to recoup and recover. So don’t fight it. Grab it. That’s the best advice I can give you. Grab it and use it. To save yourself.”
Bosch breathed out heavily and held up his bandaged hand.
“You can keep your state license.”
“Thank you.”
They rested a moment until she continued in a voice meant to soothe him.
“You also have to know you are not alone. This is nothing to be embarrassed about. There has been a sharp increase in incidents of officer stress in the last three years. Behavioral Sciences Services just made a request to the City Council for five more psychologists. Our caseload went from eighteen hundred counseling sessions in 1990 to more than double that last year. We’ve even got a name for what’s going on here. The blue angst. And you have it, Harry.”
Bosch smiled and shook his head, still clinging to what denial he had left.
“The blue angst. Sounds like the name of a Wambaugh novel, doesn’t it?”
She didn’t answer.
“So what you’re saying is that I’m not going to get my job back.”
“No, I’m not saying that at all. All I am saying is that we have a lot of work ahead of us.”
“I feel like I’ve been broken down by the world champ. You mind if I call you sometime when I’m trying to get a confession out of a hump who won’t talk to me?”
“Believe me, just saying that is a start.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to want to come here. That’s all. Don’t look at it as a punishment. I want you to work with me, not against me. When we talk I want you to talk about everything and nothing. Anything that comes to mind. Hold back nothing. And one other thing. I’m not telling you to completely cut it out, but you have to cut back on the drinking. You have to have a clear mind. As you obviously know, the effects of alcohol stay with an individual long after the night they were
“A lot,” he finally whispered.
“More than a lot…”
He exhaled loudly.
“Thank you for answering. I’m not trying to corner you. The point of my questions and the treatise on the social, cultural and even geologic fragmentation of this city is that what I’m saying here is that you’ve been through more than most, okay? And this doesn’t even include the baggage you might still have from Vietnam or the loss of the romantic relationship. But whatever the reasons, the symptoms of stress are showing. They are there, plain as day. Your intolerance, your inability to sublimate frustrations, most of all your assault on your commanding officer.”
She paused but Bosch didn’t say anything. He had a feeling she wasn’t finished. She wasn’t.
“There are other signs as well,” she continued. “Your refusal to leave your damaged home can be perceived as a form of denial of what is happening around you. There are physical symptoms. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? I don’t think I need to ask to know that you’re drinking too much. And your hand. You didn’t hurt yourself with a hammer. You fell asleep with a cigarette in your hand. That is a burn and I’d bet my state license on it.”
She opened a drawer and took out two plastic cups and a bottle of water. She filled the cups and pushed one across the desk to him. A peace offering. He watched her silently. He felt exhausted, unrepairable. He also couldn’t help but be amazed by her at the same time she was so expertly cutting him open. After she took a sip of water she continued.
“These things are all indicative of a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress syndrome. However, we have one problem with that. The word post when used in such a diagnosis indicates the time of stress has passed. That’s not the case here. Not in L.A. Not with your job. Harry, you are in a nonstop pressure cooker. You owe yourself some breathing room. That’s what this leave is all about. Breathing room. Time to recoup and recover. So don’t fight it. Grab it. That’s the best advice I can give you. Grab it and use it. To save yourself.”
Bosch breathed out heavily and held up his bandaged hand.
“You can keep your state license.”
“Thank you.”
They rested a moment until she continued in a voice meant to soothe him.
“You also have to know you are not alone. This is nothing to be embarrassed about. There has been a sharp increase in incidents of officer stress in the last three years. Behavioral Sciences Services just made a request to the City Council for five more psychologists. Our caseload went from eighteen hundred counseling sessions in 1990 to more than double that last year. We’ve even got a name for what’s going on here. The blue angst. And you have it, Harry.”
Bosch smiled and shook his head, still clinging to what denial he had left.
“The blue angst. Sounds like the name of a Wambaugh novel, doesn’t it?”
She didn’t answer.
“So what you’re saying is that I’m not going to get my job back.”
“No, I’m not saying that at all. All I am saying is that we have a lot of work ahead of us.”
“I feel like I’ve been broken down by the world champ. You mind if I call you sometime when I’m trying to get a confession out of a hump who won’t talk to me?”
“Believe me, just saying that is a start.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to want to come here. That’s all. Don’t look at it as a punishment. I want you to work with me, not against me. When we talk I want you to talk about everything and nothing. Anything that comes to mind. Hold back nothing. And one other thing. I’m not telling you to completely cut it out, but you have to cut back on the drinking. You have to have a clear mind. As you obviously know, the effects of alcohol stay with an individual long after the night they were
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