“Well, coping does not represent a homogeneous concept. It’s a diffuse umbrella term. Coping can be described in terms of strategies, tactics, responses, cognitions, or behavior.” There he goes with his psychobabble bullshit.
“I use sex, beer, and my job. However, I liked sex, beer, and my job before he shot himself in the head less than five feet from me. So where does this leave me?” While there is some honesty to my answer, I am fucking with him.
“Listen, Liam.” The pen falls to the desk in frustration, and he takes a moment to remove his glasses. “I’m not trying to be the bad guy here. My job is to determine if you’re mentally stable for this position. This line of work leaves little room to be complacent.”
“I don’t have PTSD if that’s what you’re asking.” He doesn’t comment, doesn’t show signs of agreeing or disagreeing, just adds a note to my file before continuing.
“Let’s talk about incident 9837.” He flicks through his paperwork, pulling out a file and opening it up.
“You’ll have to refresh my memory, Doc.”
“Richard Fallon.” He starts reading through the transcripts, but truthfully there is no need. I can recall the incident in clear detail.
“Hetcherson. 11:15 a.m. Do you need me to tell you how this plays out? What happens when you put a bullet in your head? The mess you will make when the bullet leaves the chamber and explodes into your skull. What’s worse, you might not even die. Then what, Richard? Do you want your family to see you like that?”
The scene plays out in my head as he reads the play-by-play of the incident, yanking me back to the night I witnessed the second suicide I couldn’t prevent.
“Sterling. 11:20 a.m. You’re losing him, Hetch.”
“Heterchson. 11:21 a.m. No, the risk is low. Give me more time.” He continues to recite the transcript, and to anyone who wasn’t present that night, his monotone recap almost makes it seem boring. Inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. But I know differently. They’re my words. That’s me trying to save a distraught man who had just lost his wife.
It was far from boring.
“I remember the case.” I cut him off, not wanting to hear any more.
“Five minutes later Richard Fallon discharged his weapon.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think there would have been a different outcome had anyone else on your team taken lead negotiator?”
“No.” I speak the word with the utmost certainty. “Regardless of who took lead negotiator, Richard Fallon went there to die. He wasn’t responding to compassion or understanding. We didn’t have much time to begin with. I had to go in with hard reality.”
“But you still lost him.”
“Yes.” I hate the way my fist clenches on that word, my body’s reaction to the failure coursing through me because of the truth. His eyes track my movement, landing on my clenched fist with a knowing glance.
“How do you feel when you’re called out for a possible suicide?”
“About as excited as having to sit here and answer these questions.”
“Deflecting with humor is a sign of negating the real issues at hand.” His jab shuts me up, and I wait for the next question. “Do you think what happened to your father hinders how you handle a negotiation situation?”
“I don’t believe so, but I’m not the professional. You tell me. You have my file.” I know I’m not helping my case here, but I’m growing tired. Never mind I’ve been a member of Team One for the last two years. Our unit has the top success rate in the force, and yet even with a record number of high-risk call-outs, today still comes back to him.
“You still hold a lot of anger toward your father.” Again, with his carefully crafted observation. It’s not a question, but he’s baiting me to respond.
“Of course I’m fucking angry.” My still-clenched fist finds the metal table in front of me with a resounding thud. “Is that what you want to hear? I'm pissed? Even three years later? Well, there you have it.” I squeeze my fingers open and closed a couple of times to calm myself down.
“And what exactly are you angry about, Liam?”
“I don’t know. Take your pick. I’m angry because he chose a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Or that he brought me into it, and subsequently what it did it to my family. There is a lot to be angry about. And maybe I don’t have a right to be angry, but you know what? The anger keeps me holding on. It keeps me caring. You may think I can’t do this job because of what happened. Go ahead, write up your recommendation. But let me tell you something, the minute I stop being angry is the minute I stop caring. And the minute I stop caring is the minute my emotional capacity starts to hinder how I deal with this job.”
“You don’t think this anger affects how you respond to a high-risk situation?” I almost envy his composure, his ability to not react to the tension.
“No, I don’t.” I want to believe my words more than anything, hope I am skilled enough to fool him, but a small part of me isn’t sure.