Micael Connelly - The Last Coyote

'What happened when you called was that I had found out earlier that my partner, you know, my partner before all of this, had been paired up with a new man. I've been replaced already.'

'And how'd that make you feel?'

'You heard how I was. I was mad about it. I think anybody would be. Then I called my partner up later and he treated me like yesterday's news. I taught that guy a lot and

'And what?'

'I don't know. It hurt, I guess.'

'I see.'

'No, I don't think you do. You'd have to be me to see it the way I did.'

'I guess that's true. But I can sympathize. Let's leave it at that. Let me ask you this. Shouldn't you have expected

your partner to be paired up again? After all, isn't it a department rule that detectives work in pairs? You are on leave for a so-far-unknown period of time. Wasn't it a given that he'd get a new partner, whether permanent or otherwise?' 'I suppose.'

'Isn't it safer to work in pairs?' 'I suppose.'

'What is your own experience? Did you feel safer the times you were with a partner on the job as opposed to those times when you were alone?' 'Yes, I felt safer.'

'So what happened was inevitable and inarguable, yet still it made you angry.'

'It wasn't that it happened that brought it on. I don't know, it was the way he told me and then the way he acted when I called. I really felt left out. I asked him for a favor and he ... I don't know.' 'He what?'

'He hesitated. Partners don't do that. Not with each other. They're supposed be there for each other. It's supposedly a lot like a marriage, but I've never been married.'

She paused to write some notes, which made Bosch wonder what had just been said that was so important.

'You seem,' she said while still writing, 'to have a low threshold for the toleration of frustrations.'

Her statement immediately made him angry but he knew that if he showed it then he would be confirming her statement. He thought maybe it was a trick designed to elicit such a response. He tried to calm himself. 'Doesn't everybody?' he said in a controlled voice. 'I suppose, to a degree. When I reviewed your records I saw that you were in the Army during the Vietnam War. Did you see any combat?'

'Did I see any combat? Yes, I saw combat. I was in the middle of combat, too. I was even under it. Why do people always ask, did you see combat, like it was a goddamn movie they took you to over there?'

She was quiet for a long time, holding the pen but doing no writing. It seemed like she was simply waiting for the sails of his anger to lose the wind. He waved his hand in a gesture he hoped told her that he was sorry, that it was behind him, that they should move on.

'Sorry,' he said, just to make sure.

She still didn't say anything and her stare was beginning to weigh on him. He looked away from her to the bookshelves along one wall of the office. They were filled with heavy, leather-bound psychiatry texts.

'I am sorry to intrude on such an emotionally sensitive area,' she finally said. 'The reason -'

'But that's what this is all about, right? What you have is a license to intrude and I can't do anything about it.'

'So, then, accept it,' she said sternly. 'We've been over this before. To help you we have to talk about you. Accept it and maybe we can move on. Now, as I was saying, the reason I mentioned the war was that I wanted to ask you if you are familiar with post-traumatic stress syndrome. Have you ever heard of it?'

He looked back at her. He knew what was coming.

'Yes, of course. I've heard of it.'

'Well, Detective, in the past it's primarily been associated with servicemen returning from the war but it's not just a war or post-war problem. It can happen in any kind of stressful environment. Any kind. And I have to say I think that you are a walking, talking example of this disorder's symptoms.'

'Jesus ... ,' he said, shaking his head. He turned in his seat so he wasn't looking at her or her bookcase. He stared

at the sky through the window. It was cloudless. 'You people sit up here in these offices and have no idea ...'

He didn't finish. He just shook his head. He reached to his neck and loosened his tie. It was like he couldn't get enough air into his chest.

'Hear me out, Detective, okay? Just look at the facts here. Can you think of anything more stressful to be in this city during the last few years than a police officer? Between Rodney King and the scrutiny and villainy that brought, the riots, fires, floods and earthquakes, each officer on this force has had to write the book on stress management and, of course, mismanagement.'

'You left out killer bees.'

'I'm being serious.'

'So am I. It was on the news.'

'With all that's happened and gone on in this city, with every one of these calamities, who is in the middle every time? The police officers. The ones who have to respond. The ones who can't stay at home, duck down and wait until it's over. So let's go from that generalization to the individual. You, Detective. You have been a front-line contender with all of these crises. At the same time you've had your real job to contend with. Homicide. It's one of the highest-stress jobs in the department. Tell me, how many murders have you investigated in the last three years?'

'Look, I'm not looking for an excuse. I told you before that I did what I did because I wanted to. It had nothing to do with riots or-'

'How many dead bodies have you looked at? Just answer my question, please. How many dead bodies? How many widows did you break the news to? How many mothers did you tell about their dead children?'

He 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 comer 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 LA. 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.