UNTETHERED: MISSING SCENES 5
He filled the time of his suspension as best he could. Much of it he spent trying to find Donny, but every possible lead turned into a dead end. He couldn't even track down Donny's mother. Admittedly, he had very few leads to her, and it was very clear she was making a determined effort not to be found. And, aside from Bobby, very few people seemed to want to find Donny. The warden and several guards at Tate lost their jobs and received sentences after they confessed. Bobby thought their punishments relative slaps on the wrists, but he also knew mentally ill prisoners and their treatment were not at the top of the list of the concerns of the New York State government. The local judge resigned in disgrace, and there would be no trials, no need for Donny or Bobby's testimony. Bobby expected that the members of the NYPD would want to put equal if not more distance from him, but, to his immense surprise (and he confessed to himself, gratitude and relief) he received a call from several of the department's charities asking him to take his usual role as Santa Claus for the coming holiday season. "You're the best Santa we ever had," one of the callers told him. "And the Chief of D's is a jerk…We're not letting his opinion keep our kids from a good time." He volunteered for several extra turns as Santa, both because he had the time and because the stints kept him from brooding over the suspension. Alex extended her usual invitation for Thanksgiving with her family, but Bobby offered his usual gentle rebuffs and spent the day ladling out food at the homeless shelter near his apartment. Alex kept him up to date with events at Major Case with a daily phone call. After the evening she'd brought him to her home under false pretenses, he steadfastly maintained a physical distance from her, but when he didn't answer several of her calls, Alex left a message threatening him with severe physical trauma if he didn't respond to her. He answered her calls quickly after that warning, but managed to convince her that being seen with him at this point wasn't a good idea.
"Yea," Alex snorted into his ear. "Like I care about what anyone thinks."
But he convinced her that some time away from each other might be beneficial to both of them. Her calls still came, offering him gossip, reminding him to eat, and, he realized with a shock, because she wanted to hear his voice. She helped in the search for Donny as much as she could, but she fought a daily battle with mounds of paperwork.
"At least I get in and out at a decent hour," she told him. "I may actually be ready for the holidays this year."
She encouraged him to attend his sessions with the psychiatrist. "We're in this together…Partners and friends…I want you back…So do a lot of people…Logan and Falacci caught that case with the college students…Just watching them deal with it…Helping with some of the paperwork…" Bobby heard the pain in her voice. "I was glad we missed it."
A sharp pang of guilt struck Bobby.
"It's not your fault, Bobby," Alex said, responding to his silence. "You're certainly not responsible for those kids' deaths…And as for your suspension…the Chief had other options…"
"I…I think his only other option would've been to ask for my badge permanently," Bobby said softly.
"The squad and Ross miss you a lot," Alex said. "People want to know when you'll be back."
"Well," Bobby said. "They'll have to check with the psychiatrist I'm seeing."
He confessed to Alex and himself that he liked—or at least tolerated—the doctor he saw on the department's orders. The department provided him with a list of candidates, and Bobby researched each and finally selected the one least objectionable to him. He headed into the sessions with an unusual resolution. In his previous encounters with psychiatrists, psychologists, social workers, and others in the mental health field, Bobby played games. He didn't lie, but he also didn't tell the truth. When he was a child, telling the truth might have sent his mother to an institution or worse, or it might have sent his father and brother to jail. It might have sent Bobby to a foster home or an institution run by the not always benevolent state of New York for more times than the handful he experienced. When he considered his childhood—something he'd been doing a lot of in recent days—Bobby wondered if telling the truth—all of it—might have been a better idea than the telling the stories. By the time he reached the Army, Bobby was an expert at telling doctors what they wanted or needed to hear, and this practice continued as he entered and moved through the NYPD ranks. It helped considerably that Bobby, whether the result of his experiences or his reading or a combination of both, frequently knew more than the professionals assessing him.
For these required sessions, however, Bobby told the truth, or at least as much of it as he could. If he was too dangerous to be on the streets; if he was a threat to civilians and other cops; if he was a weight around his partner's neck, Bobby wanted to know. And if that was the case, he would leave the NYPD, probably leave law enforcement completely. For the first time since he'd drifted into the field when he was in the Army, Bobby considered a life that didn't involve police work. There were other options for him, ones that didn't put a gun in his hands. He could teach—certainly not for the NYPD, but for other places. He could work for another agency. After the Gage debacle, an old associate from his CID days called him to commiserate with Bobby about Declan Gage and let it be known that the FBI would be willing to discuss employment opportunities with him. At the time Bobby dismissed the offer, noting that the FBI authorities would be more difficult to deal with than the NYPD. He also felt a loyalty to the NYPD and Eames and he needed to be near his mother. But the NYPD had shown him little loyalty of late, and his mother was gone. He loved the city of New York, loved it before he know what love or the city were, and love seemed to be the only word to cover what he felt for Alex Eames. But if he could only hurt the things he loved, they would be better off by his absence.
So, he told this psychiatrist what truth he could. Explaining why he ignored regulations and placed himself in danger at Tate was easy; explaining his family ties and the events that led him to Tate was hard. Some things like his complicated relationship with Alex and his questionable parentage refused to emerge, but his experiences in "Heaven" flowed from him. He revealed parts of his life he'd never told anyone to the psychiatrist, who listened quietly, without judgment, and with compassion that grew with each session.
"Look," the doctor said at one point. "We both know that you may know as much if not more about psychology as I do. You certainly have a greater practical understanding and experience of it." The doctor leaned back in his chair. "You know that you're suffering from PTSD—not only from your recent experience, but from things you've never really acknowledged."
Bobby rested his elbows on his knees. His hands dangled loosely. "Yea," he sighed in agreement. He glanced at the psychiatrist. "What…what I need to know is…Am I dangerous? To anyone else? Because if I am…" He stared at the carpet pattern he'd memorized. "I shouldn't be on the job…And we can stop this waste of time…"
A sad smile played at the corners of the doctor's mouth. "I don't think these sessions are a waste of time. You're certainly one of my most interesting and…challenging…patients. And I hope…and believe…they're a benefit to you…As for being a danger…I think that the only person you're a danger to is Robert Goren."
Bobby stared at the carpet for a few moments. "Yea," he finally said. "I think you're right about that."
"Let me be honest about this," the doctor said. "I've evaluated a lot of cops for the NYPD. I can tell when the department wants me to clear…or not clear…someone for duty…"
Bobby shifted in his chair. "And…you sense…that I shouldn't be…"
"Actually," the doctor answered. "I'm getting mixed signals…The Chief of Detectives…well, I think you have some idea how he feels."
Bobby nodded.
"But many of my other contacts," the doctor continued. "They tell me you're the best detective they've ever seen…Not necessarily the greatest cop when it comes to ingratiating himself with the Brass…But a great and ethical one…"
Bobby permitted himself a weary smile.
"The fact is I couldn't in good conscience not recommend that you get back on the job," the doctor said quietly. "Particularly considering some of the others I've sent back…"
Bobby's head shot up as a wave of relief swept over him. Until that moment, he hadn't realized how much he wanted and needed to get back to work. But an equally strong wave of fear and doubt almost immediately followed, and he stared deeper into the carpet's patterns.
The psychiatrist leaned forward. "I have to confess, Mr. Goren…I expected a little more of a positive reaction…although I understand if you have some questions about whether you want to stay with the NYPD…"
Bobby blinked and ran one of his large hands across the back of his neck. "It's just," he said, fighting reasonably well to control his voice. "You have to wonder about someone who stays where he's not wanted…"
"You are wanted…and needed…by a large part of it," the doctor reminded him gently.
"Yea." Faces fluttered through Bobby's mind—Deakins, Ross, the officers and techs who'd helped with his plan to get into Tate, and Alex…Alex. "I…I owe a lot of people…I should…go back…at least for them…And…And if I do really leave…go on to something else…Doing it when I've got a job is a lot better than when I'm on suspension."
"There is a condition," the doctor said. "I want to make sure you're ok…I want to continue to see you."
"It's hard to argue with that," Bobby said after a moment.
Bobby left after that session in a state of doubt and confusion. "What should I do?" he thought. "All these years…I've had this responsibility…And now…" He stopped to stare at his reflection in a store window. "My only responsibility…my loyalty…It's to Alex…Alex…" The man staring back at him from the window bore graying and uncombed curls one week beyond needing a haircut. The face beneath the curls was grey and drawn and showed signs of too little sleep and food in recent days. "Ok," Bobby thought. "I'll talk to Alex…If she wants…thinks…I should come back…"
He entered a branch of his bank. His suspension resulted in a slight cash flow problem and created a need for a redistribution of his funds. Bobby knew that even with the psychiatrist's recommendation and the apparent support of some of the Department he still faced the Chief of Detective's considerable wrath. Once past that, there would be the Department's considerable bureaucracy to deal with. He hated to move more of his money, but had to. The bank was making transitions as easy as possible, but Bobby still needed to sign several documents in person. As he sat signing papers in an assistant manager's office, his back to the main lobby, his cop radar went off. He was somewhat surprised that it was still working and unsure what set it off. It may have been the subtle, sudden fear in the assistant manager or the action he saw at the periphery of his vision. Bobby stood and turned quickly and saw people dropping to the main lobby's floor.
"A robbery," he said softly. "Do you have a way to get people out the back? Has the alarm been pulled?" As he spoke, he pulled out his cell phone and punched Alex's number.
His eyes wide, the assistant manager nodded and moved towards the office's back door.
"Get everyone you can out," Bobby said with quiet authority. He reached for his gun and badge, but his thoughts stopped his hands. "Not there."
"Aren't you coming?" the young manager asked.
Bobby stared out at the lobby. People lay on the floor, which was dotted with discarded cell phones. Under one of the kiosks a woman clutched a small boy who struggled unsuccessfully not to cry.
"No," Bobby said softly and waved the young man through the back door. "Eames," he whispered into his cell phone. "I'm at a bank branch being robbed. It's probably just been called in. At least two armed perps. Lots of potential hostages. They're making people drop their cell phones. The perps are moving towards me. I'm going to leave my cell phone on and drop it and hope…"
"Bobby." Alex's desperate voice came from the phone.
Bobby heard yells and shout from the lobby. "Alex…I'm sorry…Thank you…"
He dropped the phone and kicked it to a corner. He took a deep breath and stepped through the door to the lobby.
END CHAPTER ONE