Author's Note: I'm going to pull a Victor Hugo now – just not in French and not nearly as eloquently – somehow appropriate considering Les Misérables is in the theatres currently. Hugo would write entire chapters, rants, about the issues of his day – politics, society, religion. Most of these have ended up as appendices in any current editions of his novels, apparently because they aren't entertaining enough.
A-hem…
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is real and becoming more and more prevalent among returning service men and women in Canada and the United States (and no doubt other countries as well.) This is due in part to how the military has changed its method of training soldiers and in part to the shifting realities of the battlefront.
The basic symptomology of PTSD is best described in the following acronym:
T: -trauma experienced; sufficient enough to cause an individual extreme fear, horror, and/or helplessness for their own personal integrity (physical or mental,) the personal integrity of a close associate, or the personal integrity of someone they are in close proximity to.
R: -re-experiencing the trauma, either as intrusive memories, nightmares or flashbacks, or all three. These intrusions are usual brought on by triggers, reminders, and can affect any one or all of the senses.
A: -avoidance of stimuli that lead to re-experiences. Many people with PTSD withdraw and/or have concurrent substance abuse issues, using drugs or alcohol to numb their response to stimulation. Sometimes this form of self-medication ceases its effectiveness and the sufferer will resort to more extreme measures.
P: -heightened physiological arousal and resultant paranoia. If you can hear it, see it, smell it, taste it, feel it, or touch it, it might be out to get you. PTSD sufferers can be obsessive about controlling their surroundings (eg. always facing the door, constant surveillance of their surroundings, constantly checking locks, intrusive concern for the safety of loved ones.)
The acronym is TRAP. Don't fall into it by not believing in it. If you do, you go untreated; if you go untreated, you risk permanent brain damage and throwing your entire endocrine system out of whack. PTSD is not a sign of weakness.
The explosive rage Tim experiences in the previous chapter of this story is a common result of a piling up of these symptoms and also a by-product of the character's military training. You can't ever go truly numb and the suppressed emotions have to vent sometime and soldiers are trained to react quickly. As Hugo would say, "Et voilà!"
'Survival of the species' is a biological imperative. For the most part, humans do not handle violent death well, whether or not it is outwardly apparent. For most soldiers, the ability to kill is a by-product of training; becoming numb to it is a by-product of PTSD.
(Thanks to Red Molly for the concise acronym and descriptions. Your expertise and passion is appreciated. Victor Hugo would be proud. A nod to Lt. Col. Dave Grossman for supplying the military bent to PTSD, unasked, from his excellent book on the subject of killing and its effects on the human psyche. I don't think he'd mind.)
Stumbling on Innocence – Chapter Seven
Tim decided he was done for the day after his conversation with Wynn Duffy. He trudged to his car, afraid of what might happen if he were provoked again and so gave Mr. big-and-tall lots of space as he passed. Distracted, he blew through a stop sign, pulled over to pull himself together, sat staring out the windshield. Eventually he fished for his notepad and spent a few quiet minutes writing out any pertinent information he could remember from his time with Duffy. He looked at the illegible scrawl when he was done, his hands still shaking slightly, figured what the hell, he could decipher it and that was all that mattered. He'd learned what he'd needed to learn, that Loretta was tied in to the Frankfort heroin chain, that the shooting wasn't planned, that someone was threatening her. His next step was to go back and talk to Loretta again and he just didn't have it in him – not today. Besides, she might want a lawyer present for that discussion. Instead, he headed back to the courthouse and upstairs to report in. He needed a drink.
The reports he'd requested from the investigating officers in Loretta's arrest were stacked on his desk. No one had bothered to read the instructions he'd sent along with that request asking for the files to be handed directly to the Chief Deputy. The name Loretta McCready was on top and obvious, in view for anyone to read. He cursed and stuffed the papers out of sight, slammed the drawer then headed in to see the bartender.
Art had been watching his Deputy since he arrived, got up before Tim sat down, poured and distributed. He'd noticed the same forced stillness in Tim's demeanor that had Duffy eagerly cooperating. Art knew what it meant and how best to deal with it – a shot of bourbon and a calm voice.
"There's nothing much else we can do today about Loretta," Art said, light tone with heavy news. "I spoke to the judge, the DA's office, her lawyer. We're not going to be able change anything in the arraignment tomorrow but maybe we can come up with something for an appeal." Art took a sip of his drink and studied Tim's face. "You and I can go over what we've got in the morning. Go home, unless there's something you want to talk about before you go?"
Tim licked his lips, downed his drink, stated, "I hit someone today."
"Oh God, tell me it wasn't with a pool car."
"Nope. With a fist."
"Oh, is that all?" Art joined him on the couch with a comic groan while he stretched out his legs. "We all hit someone someday in this job. Am I going to hear about it?"
Tim shook his head, all contained motion.
"You okay, Tim?"
Tim nodded.
"Another?"
Tim nodded again. Art poured.
"I didn't even know I was angry." Another drink, another burst. "How am I supposed to watch out for it if I can't even see it?"
Art chewed his lip. "I think that's a question for that girl of yours."
Tim finished his drink and left, took Art's advice and packed up early, a repeat of yesterday, gear stuffed in a knapsack and an extended version of his route home at a grueling pace. The house was quiet when he arrived and he paced the floors then cleaned his weapons out of habit not necessity and started dinner. He gave in eventually and broke into a new bottle of bourbon before Miljana came home, poured a follow-up to Art's offerings and sank onto the couch.
She walked in a half hour later and he wanted to start yelling, not at her, just in frustration with himself. The air was thick with it. She took off her jacket, eyeing him; he studiously avoided her gaze. She continued undressing until she was wearing very little. It worked to get his attention and she walked over, pushed him down on the couch and crawled on top of him.
He submitted, frowning. "No wonder your clients keep trying to kiss you."
She ignored him, started working on his buttons. "This is better than alcohol for relaxing," she whispered, smelling the bourbon on him.
"This is way better than alcohol. But I can't keep you in a drawer in Art's office."
"That would be weird."
"Uh-huh."
"Bet you can't get all warm and cozy after a drink and talk to your bottle about your shitty day."
"Sure you can. It's just maybe not quite as satisfying. A lot less sarcasm."
She bit him.
"Ow. Same bite, though." She giggled. Tim slid his hands up over the warm skin of her back and into her hair, grabbed fistfuls and started kneading. It felt good.
The next morning Tim was in early again to speak with Art. Distracted texting, he didn't notice the cowboy hat until he was through the Chief's door.
"Shit, Raylan," he exclaimed finally looking up, "I feel like I'm in a bad remake of Groundhog Day. What the hell are you doing in early two days in a row?"
"Good morning, Tim. Nice to see you, too," Raylan replied.
"Are you letting him sleep on your couch?" – this to Art, then to Raylan, "You giving up on that bar finally?"
Raylan shook his head slowly. "I'd miss the sports channels."
"Not to mention the beer on tap in his kitchen," added Art.
Tim gave Raylan a sly look. "Go down nice with eggs for breakfast?"
Raylan returned the jibe. "Why don't you come over Saturday morning and try it. You can tell me how tap compares to your usual – bottled beer with eggs."
"Actually, I'm strictly a bourbon guy before 10am."
Art interrupted, waving his arms, "You two do realize that Internal Affairs probably has this entire office wired."
"They're welcome to join us," Raylan offered kindly.
Tim grinned at the thought. "Might loosen them up a bit." He pointed in the direction of Art's supply, a concerned look for his boss. "You think maybe they got you pouring on camera?" he whispered.
"It's special stealth bourbon – that is," Art replied nodding at his drawer.
"Can you get me some?" Raylan and Tim spoke in unison.
"Sold to Bureau Chiefs only, sorry," Art said smugly. "Now, can we get on with business?" He waved Tim to the empty side of the couch. "Sit. Raylan, bring him up to speed on Preston Stanton."
"Why?" asked Raylan, irritable. Reporting twice in one day seemed a waste of time.
"Because, sweetheart, you dragged him into your case. Now you're stuck with him."
Raylan shot a contrite glance over for Tim's benefit. "Sorry, buddy."
Tim shrugged, "I could've said no. And, what the hell, I'm curious."
"He's curious 'cause he's got a new girlfriend and she's entangled in your case," Art teased. "About yea high," – his hand disappeared down behind his desk – "pigtails, cute as a button."
Raylan looked back over at Tim, said, "A bit young, don't you think? Even for you."
"You're both just jealous that I get the smartest and best-looking ones."
Raylan snorted. "Just what's that supposed to mean?"
"Preston Stanton, Raylan. Go," Art ordered.
Preston Stanton," Raylan obliged, "is a satellite supplier of weed to the Dixie Mafia – talented, like Coover Bennett was supposedly, at knowing good when he smokes it, smells it, rubs it between his toes or whatever. Duffy says Preston also has a good business head and he was invited up to Frankfort that fateful day on Duffy's recommendation to do a job interview, more responsibility, more money, get himself 'in.'"
"Guess he didn't get the job," Tim commented.
"No, apparently shooting your interviewers is bad form these days," said Raylan.
"Why would he shoot them then?"
"That's the million-dollar question."
"What's the DA's angle?"
"Territorial dispute."
"You're not buying it."
"Not after talking to Duffy, I'm not. He says Preston is reliable, not ambitious, a level head. No experience with the heroin trade but Duffy saw lots of potential in the man. I went to talk to Preston – he's the kind of guy you'd trust to fix your car."
"So, not the type to take on the Dixie Mafia unless he has some personal shit with them, or some pretty heavy backers," mused Tim.
"And you said yourself he has no affiliations."
"You trust Duffy on this?" Art interrupted.
"Yeah, I do. He was eager to talk – a bit like Billy. I think he wants to see Preston innocent to save face. And Duffy, well, he's a slime ball but he's a smart slime ball."
"I'll look harder into Preston," Tim offered. "But, I don't see it. Gunning down three middle men – it just doesn't get you anywhere."
Art was watching the exchange, sat forward and said, "Unless you're the DA, then you get a slam-dunk murder trial with a good witness and some good press for a change."
Raylan nodded, summed it up, "So, maybe Preston does have heavy backers, but maybe, too, he's just a patsy – wrong place, wrong time."
"We're nowhere on this, are we?" Tim moped.
Art sat back again, considered their options. "Well, maybe we should let the DA have this one."
Raylan examined his hat carefully, flicked off a piece of lint. "No, something ain't right, Art. I know I always say that but... The boys in Frankfort were tight-lipped and tense. And there was a man there that no one bothered to introduce me to. Didn't look much like the hired help."
"You recognize him?" asked Art.
"I would if I saw him again."
The three Marshals pondered the thin string of clues.
"What about the witness?" Art prodded.
"Well, either she's lying or she saw it wrong or she saw it right and I'm reading Preston wrong."
Tim asked, "Anything on her?"
"Squeaky clean."
Raylan passed over a folder. Tim opened it and read the single page of notes – an accountant in her mid-thirties, moved to Lexington a year ago from New Jersey, a photo, and that was everything.
"Why did she move?" Tim queried.
Raylan shrugged.
"Odd move, New Jersey to Lexington. Business?"
Raylan shrugged again.
"Can I dig?"
"Knock yourself out."
Tim stared at the picture of the witness and Raylan continued to study his hat for a few minutes.
"Well," Raylan stood finally, said, "I'm going to drop in on Billy's arraignment – she's due up at 10:30 – then I'm going back to Frankfort, have another go hopefully without the mysterious guest hampering the party."
Tim and Art exchanged a panicked look. "Why don't I go to the arraignment?" Tim offered.
"Sure, if you don't mind. Want to see your girlfriend again?"
"Yeah, that's right."
Tim slid onto a bench at the back of the gallery in time to listen to the reading of the charges against Loretta. She looked tired and small and there was nothing to be learned from it for him. He was there mostly to ensure that Raylan was not. With a half hour to kill before Billy's first appearance, Tim walked the block to buy a coffee and something to eat, came back and sat on the bench outside the courtroom next to the case worker and Mary. They both smiled for him and he handed pigtails one of his cookies. Billy was released on her own recognizance, as Raylan predicted, with a promise to return for her trial date.
Tim stood outside the detention center later. Pigtails had wormed her way back onto her perch and had a choke-hold on her Marshal. The case worker watched amused, asked him his thoughts on Billy's charges.
He loosened the arms, and replied, "She'll probably get time served."
He and Raylan had already decided to put in a good word for her, play down her part in the events from that night, and Tim offered, like it wasn't his plan all along, to drive Billy and her daughter home.
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