He stood up, walked over to the window, and stood staring out. "They captured my unit—all thirteen of us—and held us prisoner for three days. It would have been longer if our men hadn't happened upon their camp, by some miracle. By the time we were rescued, eight of our men were dead. Four more died in the hospital. I'm the only one who made it home alive—and I flew home on a plane that carried the body of my closest friend."
"I'm so sorry, Danny."
"Why them and not me? Why did I survive, and they didn't?"
Doc sighed, and said slowly, "I can't answer that question, Danny. I wish I could, but I can't." He paused. "What aren't you telling me, Danny? What else happened during those three days?"
He whirled. "Isn't that enough, Doc? I tell you I was held prisoner for three days and you think I'm holding out on you?"
Doc locked eyes with him. "What else happened, Danny?"
"Dammit, Doc, you're too good at your job, you know that?" He stalked over to a chair—one where Doc couldn't see his face—and sank into it.
He stared at his shoes for a while, then said very quietly, "They…had captured thirteen little kids, and they tied us hand and foot, then forced us to watch as they…tortured the kids. All of us tried to fight out of our bonds to protect those kids, but they started killing—first one kid, then a Marine. Three the first day, three the second, two the third. The last kid and the last Marine were killed not twenty minutes before our guys stormed the camp to rescue us—and the five other kids who hadn't been killed yet."
Doc shifted his chair so he was facing Danny head-on. "I know you hate this question…but how do those memories make you feel?"
Danny bolted out of his chair, started to pace. "Dammit, Doc, how the hell do you think I feel? I feel angry, I feel guilty that I didn't fight harder, that I didn't do something to save those kids! I feel so damn guilty that I came home while those kids and those Marines didn't—and then I feel even more guilty because my not coming home would have destroyed Linda—not to mention the rest of my family!"
"Because you saw those kids get tortured and killed…is why you went rogue in the case of the rapist whose head you flushed down the toilet." At Danny's shocked look, Doc shrugged. "What? I do my research, Danny."
"Yeah. Actually, it was smack in the middle of that case that my dad asked me if I'd ever seen someone, said there was, quote 'No shame talking about what went on in Iraq,' unquote. I told him I'd get around to it."
"And that was, what…over three years ago?" He nodded, and Doc said, "Well, I'm glad you're here now talking about it, Danny. Better late than never." He rose, walked over to the coffeepot, and poured himself a cup. "Want a cup?" Danny shook his head and Doc continued, "Linda said you haven't been the same since that tour; what else happened?"
"Damn, Doc, why the hell do you think there's more?! Being forced to watch while they tortured and killed little kids was worse than the…stuff…they did to us."
"Psychological torture often is, Danny. I can tell you're holding out on me...what did they do to you and your fellow Marines?"
"The usual interrogation techniques: sleep deprivation, food and water deprivation, not letting us relieve ourselves—and beating us when we couldn't hold it anymore. I still don't remember what information they wanted from us."
"You didn't deserve it, Danny."
"Are you sure about that, Doc, because I sure as hell did nothing to save those kids! I did absolutely f-g nothing!"
"Was there any rhyme or reason to which Marine they killed?"
"No."
"So, there's nothing you could have done, Danny. In fact, if you had tried to do anything, it wouldn't have saved the kids or any of your fellow Marines, it wouldn't have gotten you home any faster—it probably would have ended up with you dead."
Danny halted in his tracks and collapsed onto a chair. "Maybe I wanted to die, Doc! If I couldn't save those kids, what business do I have being alive?"
He had switched from past to present tense, and Alex Dawson felt every therapeutic bone in his body go on full alert. He stood up, dragged his chair over so close that Danny would have no choice but to make full eye contact, and leaned forward to lock eyes with the older man. "Danny, are you telling me that you want to die? I am not talking about nine years ago in Fallujah, Iraq; I am talking about now, at this moment, here in this room."
The detective shook his head. "No," he whispered. "Not gonna do that to Linda. Not like John Russell did."
He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, and Alex Dawson sighed.
After about five minutes, he shifted in his chair, cleared his throat. Danny didn't move—didn't seem to realize he wasn't alone.
"Danny," he said gently.
There was no response.
He waited a few more minutes.
"Danny!"
Still, the detective didn't move, and Alex sighed. There was one sure-fire way to get the man to snap out of whatever world he was trapped in. "Detective Reagan!"
Danny bolted upright.
Judging by his tone, Doc had been trying to get his attention for a while.
He blinked. His face was wet and he swiped at his eyes. Dammit. This was why he'd stuffed the memories and the anger and the shame deep down after returning Stateside.
"S…sorry, Doc. I…I'm fine. Just give me a minute."
"I don't think you are fine, Danny; I think you're in more emotional pain than you've allowed yourself to feel for nine years."
"O, go to hell, Doc."
"You know you are, Danny, and the only way to heal is to face it head-on." He paused. "I'd like to give you an analogy to consider. Have you ever been shot?"
"Come on, Doc, of course I have!"
"Let's say you get shot in the arm. What would happen if you just ignore the wound—maybe you slap a Band-Aid on it, but you don't let a surgeon take the bullet out?"
He shrugged. "It'll get infected."
"And if you continue to ignore it?"
"The infection will spread and I could lose my arm or die from blood poisoning."
"Correct. Your memories from Fallujah are like a bullet in your arm. You've ignored the bullet, you've slapped a Band-Aid on it, and you've gone about your life. Your arm hurts all the time—it's gotten a little more painful each day, every day, for the past nine years. But you've just put some more Band-Aids on it, rubbed it, told yourself it'll stop hurting if you ignore it. This case has torn off the Band-Aid, and you can see that the wound's infected. If you don't admit that your arm's infected and let me operate to remove the bullet…it won't heal, just as it hasn't healed over the last nine years…and, like you said, you could lose your arm or die from septicemia. What are you gonna do about the bullet, Danny?"
"Well, damn, Doc, when you put it that way…" He sighed, scrubbed his face with his hands. "But admitting it's infected…"
He trailed off, and Doc finished for him: "Means acknowledging the pain, facing the pain, not continuing to ignore it. Tell me, Danny, why would it be so terrible to face the memories and the pain from Fallujah?"
"Because it's pain, dammit!"
"But ignoring it won't get the bullet out of your arm, Danny. You took the first step by asking for help, and the second step by coming here after what happened last night. You've removed the bandage and admitted the wound's infected. But the bullet still needs to be dug out—which means facing these memories, slowly, one piece at a time, over the next few months. Any time the memories get too overwhelming, we can take a break. Are you ready to face this?"
He took a shaky breath. "I…I can't…" He hated how pathetic he sounded, but he couldn't help it. He'd gotten through the debriefings and the psych evals by beating around the bush, telling the experts what they wanted to hear; and while Doc was right that that approach wouldn't help now, he still wished that it would all just disappear.
"I know," Doc said softly. "It'll hurt like hell, and I can't give you any anesthesia. But tell me you'll let me dig out the bullet. You don't deserve to live in pain, Danny."
He took a sharp breath at Doc's words. "I..."
He nodded once.
"Good job, Danny. You did good today." He rose and walked over to his desk.
Danny fumbled in his pocket, pulled his phone out, and pressed speed-dial 1.
"Hey, Danny."
He thought he'd gotten himself under control, but her voice brought a lump to his throat. If he hadn't made it home, he would have lost all this. He still could, if he didn't face these memories, these damned…feelings. "L…Linda?"
"I'm on my way, Danny. What's wrong?"
"I told…Doc…everything…" he sniffed.
"O, Danny… Hang in there, babe. I'll be there in ten minutes. I love you, Danny Reagan."
"L…love you more…"
"Love you most."
He hung up, and jumped when a firm hand came to rest on his shoulder. Doc didn't say anything; he just stood there for several minutes, and then slipped out the door.
When she got there, Dr. Dawson was out in his waiting room, and he rose when she walked in. "He asked me to give him a minute; I've only been out here for"—he glanced at his watch—"three minutes."
"Thank you, Dr. Dawson." She hesitated. "In almost 18 years of marriage, I have never seen Danny this upset, except for when his mother died and when Joe was killed. And the last time I've even seen him close to tears was when he told me about his buddy, Bobby LaRue, who was killed by a sniper. Instead, he gets angry—but so rarely at me and the kids, that's why I chewed him out for snapping at Jack, 'cause he never does that! I can tell when it's been a bad day, and I know he loses his temper all the time at work; but he stuffs it all inside when he walks through our door."
Dr. Dawson sighed. "Danny uses anger as a defense mechanism—it's easier to be angry at criminals and half-throttle them, than to admit that every case, every victim he can't save, breaks his heart a bit more. He feels things very deeply, as I'm sure you know; but he buries the pain. This is something he's buried for nine years. Now that's he's finally acknowledging the pain, he can find real healing."
He nodded to the door and Linda walked over to it. Her hand was on the knob when she turned. "How is he, Doc, really?"
"He's struggling with survivor's guilt—the feeling that he didn't deserve to come home, guilt that he made it home, while the other men in his unit didn't. There are things that happened over there that he blames himself for—things he'll never talk about outside of this building. Don't push him to talk, but listen when he does, try to read between the lines of what he says. Be there for him, because...without you and your boys, he wouldn't be sitting in my office right now."
"Are you saying...?"
"I'm saying you were his reason to come home alive. He's home, he's alive, and he's safe—focus on those positives, Linda."
She nodded to him, then opened the door, walked in, and closed it firmly behind her.