Yancey - The Highly Effective Detective Crosses the Line

TO SANDY

Contents

WEDNESDAY

8:41 a.m.

I dumped the contents of the little plastic cup of creamer into my coffee, followed it up with two packets of sugar, swirled the concoction with my spoon, and said, Dependent personality disorder.

Hows that? Felicia asked. Her lips drew together as she blew on the surface of her coffee. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail; her makeup was flawless. She was wearing a sleeveless white blouse and a khaki skirt that accentuated her hips and terminated about an inch above her equally flawless knees.

Characterized by a lack of energy, passivity, the inability to make decisions, clinginess, fear of abandonment, and an overall reluctance to take responsibility.

She thought about it. When Felicia cogitated, a little line appeared between her eyebrows.

Doesnt work for me, she said. What about avoidant personality disorder?

Whats that? I asked, though I could have made a pretty good guess.

Feelings of personal inadequacy, socially inhibited and withdrawn, extreme sensitivity to rejection, a strong desire for intimacy but stymied by an equally strong desire for noncritical acceptance.

Or maybe this: schizoid personality disorder. Social withdrawal, the belief that things totally unrelated have some special personal significance, eccentric thoughts, speech, and/or beliefs, magical thinking.

That sounds pretty close.

The problem is, I dont fit neatly into any of them.

How many are there?

Ten.

Youd think youd fit with that many.

Maybe Im sort of an amalgamation, I mused, looking at the two wadded-up sugar packets and the empty plastic creamer.

A disordered mutt?

A dollop of dependent, a dash of avoidant, a pinch of schizo.

Or maybe youre not any of them and youre playing armchair psychologist on yourself.

Heres the distressing thing: People with personality disorders dont respond well to treatment, because theyre personality disorders.

Let me ask you something, Ruzak. Why ?

Um. Know thyself?

You know what happens to med students. They get every disease they study.

Well, Im pretty sure Im not antisocial or borderline.

Right. Those are the really interesting, sexy ones.

Sexy?

As in edgy. Dangerous.

Why is dangerous sexy?

Why are vampires?

I thought about it. I dont get the cute little line when I think; I get the deep wrinkles in the forehead.

Our food came: three eggs over medium, bacon, hash browns, and toast for me; a western omelette and a fruit cup for her. The waitress topped off my coffee, throwing the proportions all to hell. A half cup of creamer, one sugar packet, stir. The metal spoon clinked against the sides of the porcelain cup.

Teddy, she said. Dump the freshman psych books. Youre not qualified to diagnose yourself. If you really want an answer, go see a professional.

What if I get hold of a bad one and they misdiagnose me? I could spend years in treatment for something I dont have.

Get a second opinion.

I could just learn to live with it, like somebody with a club foot.

With what?

The fact that I am what I am.

The Popeye solution.

Maybe malaise is the price you pay for being human.

Or at least the one you pay for being Ruzak.

The early breakfast crowd at Petes had thinned out to a few elderly lingerers and some college kids with their books spread out on the Formica tabletops, white iPod cords dangling from their ears. Looking over Felicias shoulder, I could see the traffic easing along Locust Street, past the old post office, toward the bank building, whose halls I used to haunt as the night-shift security guard before I got the bright idea to become a private detective. It was one of those warm early-summer days when allergies have eased off and the humidity hovered below 80 percent and girls bare arms still dimpled in the shade. I had picked up the psychology books the week before on a whim, marked down to a tenth of their original price at the Friends of the Library semiannual sale. Those, and a couple of old VHS tapes, a Clint Eastwood and a Humphrey Bogart (both guys who wouldnt give a flying you know what about personality disorders), which were promptly eaten by my equally ancient player. I should have sprung for the Bourne Identity DVD and the Da Vinci Code paperback for fifty cents.

What about that Dr. Fredericks? she asked.

What about her?

See, this sort of thing gives the impression you dont really want to get better. You want an excuse, something to hang your existential hat on, and that way you dont actually have to do something about it.

How so?

You said it yourself. Theres not much you can do about a personality disorder. Therapy isnt liposuction.

Are you saying I need liposuction?

I dont think they do that above the neck.

One thing Im definitely not is narcissistic, so theyre not really necessary, these jibes about my fat head.

Oh, Teddy, lighten up. Youre to earnestness what black holes are to gravity.

Therere times when I think thats what this detective business is all about. Trying to solve the mystery of me.

Maybe youre just looking for a mystery greater than you.

I thought about that. Then I said, Huh?

Maybe youre incomplete.

I think thats the definition of psychological disorders.

And youre searching for situations where youll meet the greater mystery.

Youre talking about love, arent you? She smiled. I said, You always think that. You think if I fell in love, all my problems would be solved.

It tends to solve the really big ones.

She pulled out her compact to check her lipstick.

I never knew you were such a romantic, I said.

Theres a physiological component. The release of dopamine in your fat head.

Love as psychological liposuction? Ill have to think about that.

She laughed. Im sure you will.

She snapped her compact closed and said, Hes here.

How do you know?

I saw him in my mirror.

He was wearing the same dark blue uniform I used to wear, with the gold star sewn into the shoulder of the jacket and the walkie-talkie hanging from his wide belt. As he made his way to our table, I said to Felicia, How do you know so much about psychology anyway?

I was studying to be a nurse before I got pregnant and this terrific opportunity opened up in the service sector, she reminded me.

Farrell stuck out his hand and I took it.

Teddy, he said. Hows it been? He dropped into the chair next to mine and I made the introductions. Our waitress came over, greeted Farrell by name, and took his order: two slices of wheat toast and a cup of coffee.

So you pulled my old shift, I said.

He nodded. Farrell was pushing fifty, but he looked olderlack of sleep, inadequate exposure to sunlight, plus he smoked. He needed a haircut; his nails were bitten down to the quick; his glasses were dirty.

Rotating off next week, he said. He sounded hoarse, as if his throat had been sandpapered. He looked at Felicia and said, Its hell.

It drove Ruzak to the brink of madness, she said.

Farrell gave me a sideways glance and said, Thought you kind of liked it.

I got used to it.

But you quit.

There was a part of me that never got used to it.

I was surprised you did. Didnt think you had that much ambition.

It may have had more to do with desperation. There was this uncomfortable sort of hard knot of dissatisfaction in my chest and a nagging feeling in my gut, as if life itself was going on in another room, this theme parklike anxiety that I was going to miss something while I was waiting in line for the flume ride.