Support Services

Disclaimer: "Diagnosis Murder" and the characters in it are owned by CBS and Viacom and are merely being borrowed for recreational and non-profit purposes. I promise to return them mostly unharmed.

Rating: G

Summary: Steve needs some help coming to terms with a difficult experience.

Author's Note: I was in the middle of writing a much longer story when this miniature terrier of a plot bunny sunk its teeth into my ankle and dragged me kicking and screaming away from my original story, refusing to let me return until I'd written this. So, in the interest of keeping my muse happy I've complied. This is just a short little thing, not exactly a snippet but not worthy of the title 'story' either. The second and final part will be posted at the beginning of next week.

Author's Acknowledgement: Thank you to Nonny for her invaluable support services!

Chapter 1

Ben Adams stretched luxuriously, working the kinks out of his back with an appreciative sigh. He took a fortifying swig of black coffee before pulling a folder towards him, reacquainting himself rapidly with the contents which he'd previously scrutinized at length. A quick glance at his watch showed him he had a few more minutes, and he leaned back in his chair, propping an ankle on his knee as he perused the pages.

Over the years, he'd become adept at prising a three-dimensional picture out of the cold facts contained in such reports, yet the man whose career was encapsulated on the paper in front of him remained an enigma. Commendations liberally besprinkled the pages, yet so did reprimands. Respect for authority and insubordination dwelt side by side. Some incidents indicated a reckless disregard for his own safety, yet there were also examples of obvious caution and common sense. His solve rate was exemplary, and he was a seasoned officer, yet his rank of lieutenant suggested enemies garnered along the way or perhaps a lack of ambition.

Ben added a few scribbled comments to his earlier notes, then turned back to the front of the file, contemplating the picture stapled to the inside cover. It was an official photograph, far from candid, yet it still revealed something of the personality of its subject. It was a handsome face, but not blandly so; there was character in its forceful planes and it conveyed an overall impression of strength and responsibility. This would not be a man who revealed his innermost secrets easily, especially to a stranger.

Another look at his watch informed Ben that he should expect his client at any minute. He stood up and walked towards the door, reaching it as a firm knock resounded from the other side. It appeared the man was punctual and not given to avoidance. Ben opened the door, keeping his smile welcoming but not overly effusive.

"Lieutenant, please come in and take a seat."

There was a choice of seating available, a sofa, two comfortable armchairs and two more plain chairs, and Ben watched with interest to see which the officer would select. Some day, he thought whimsically, he'd publish an article profiling the psychological interpretation of each preference.

Without appreciable hesitation, Sloan made himself comfortable in an armchair, tending to confirm Ben's initial impression of confidence and independence. The photograph did not adequately convey the physical presence of the man, his height and athletic build complementing the general air of solidity and competency Ben had already noted.

Ben seated himself in the other armchair, knowing his own choice was made in the hope of maintaining a relatively informal atmosphere. It was clear that the other man had no intention of breaking the ice, although he met the psychologist's eyes steadily, so Ben eased them into conversation with a promising opening.

"How's your partner doing?" he asked, the topic relevant but unthreatening.

"Her condition has been upgraded to fair." Relief was evident even in the sparse words and, after a brief hesitation, the answer was expanded. "My...her doctor says she's going to be fine."

"That's good to hear."

For a minute there was silence, and Ben allowed it to stretch, hoping the other man would fill the void. He sensed no hostility, a reaction he was all too familiar with from officers receiving mandatory counseling, but neither did there seem to be a compulsion to discuss his experience, the other end of the emotional spectrum. Instead, there was an odd stillness that Ben's instincts told him was not the tranquility of inner peace nor the calm before an imminent explosion, but was instead the coiled composure of a self-contained man who kept his emotions tightly in check.

Ben had found that police officers were some of the hardest members of the population to counsel and were more hesitant than the average citizen to get help for emotional problems. Their job required extreme restraint under highly stressful circumstances, and they were trained to cope with traumatic situations by remaining detached from their feelings. Moreover, many officers believed that seeking help from a psychologist was a sign of weakness. Because of their roles, they mistrusted many things, and especially mistrusted mental health professionals.

Ben fell back on reciting the purpose of the counseling program, realising that he would have to probe carefully, feeling for a weak spot in the officer's tightly constructed defenses. "You have been through an extremely stressful situation and the department now mandates this counseling session to assist you through this time. I don't need to hear about what happened. I know you've gone through that with the investigators, but it's important that you have the opportunity to talk about what you're feeling and thinking."

Sloan stared back at him with an unreadable expression. "I'm not a rookie. I've been through the program before. This isn't the first time I've shot someone."

"It's the first time you've shot a kid." It was harsh, deliberately so, but he couldn't allow the man to hide behind a shroud of normalcy.

For the first time, he saw a flicker of response in the officer's eyes, though it was gone before he could identify it - anger, grief?

"That kid was fifteen years old, hopped up on PCP, armed with an automatic weapon and had just shot my partner." Sloan spoke with steady tones, but there was an edge of defensiveness and pure tiredness behind the words as if he had spoken them more than once to convince himself as well as others.

"And you've been cleared by both the Weapons Review Board and the Grand Jury," Ben agreed easily. "That must be a great relief, but how do you feel about it?"

For a moment there was no reply, and Ben thought the officer would choose not to answer the question, but, after shifting slightly in his chair, Sloan responded. "It was a tragedy," he stated quietly. "It should never have happened, but I had no choice; my partner's life was on the line."

"And yours," Ben pointed out, surprised by the omission.

"And mine," the officer agreed, after a slight hesitation.

He was saying the right words, but their measured delivery lacked conviction, and Ben couldn't help but feel that the man was parroting the phrases necessary to finish the interview as quickly as possible. His eyes were distant and shadowed and told a different story.

Ben decided to change tacks and, with a disarming smile, injected a note of challenge into his next comment. "Lieutenant Sloan, I get the distinct impression you don't want to be here."

There was an answering spark of humour in the other man's expression. "Well, I suppose that's something else I have no choice about," he deadpanned.

Ben was glad to see evidence that his sense of humour was still intact. "Does that bother you?" he asked, sensing this was a man who did not like to relinquish control.

"Knowing that you have to sign off on this interview before I can return to normal duties is not exactly conducive to an open exchange of confidences," Sloan pointed out frankly. "I don't like the idea that I have to jump through some psychological hoops to get my gun back."

"You say you're not a rookie, you've seen and experienced more than your fair share of violence. Studies suggest that between 20 and 30 percent of all police officers suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder at some point in their careers. Considering those statistics, don't you think there's some merit to a program such as this?"

Sloan was too seasoned a veteran to fall into the obvious trap and skirted round it deftly. "I think it is vital that the department provide psych services - to anyone that needs them."

"But you'd exempt yourself from that category?" Ben prodded.

"No, I think there could very well come a time when I need professional help, but now's not it." Steve met his gaze evenly.

"Well, this is SOP for a lethal-force situation, so don't take it personally. And please remember: everything said in this room is confidential," Ben assured him.

"But the results are evident to all," Sloan countered. "If I don't pass muster, I'll still be a member of the rubber-gun squad."

Ben was familiar with the police slang for police officers who aren't allowed to carry weapons and also knew the stigma that carried.

"Are you concerned about your reputation in the department?"

That question surprised a snort of derision from his client. "Not at all. I've been the pariah of the department before and probably will be again before I'm finished."

It was an assertion that Ben would not have believed from many people, but it explained certain discrepancies he'd noticed on the Lieutenant's record. This was clearly a man not easily influenced by others' opinions. He operated on his own beliefs of right and wrong, independent of such petty considerations as departmental politics, rank and promotion. Ben's respect for this individual grew. The world of policing ensured exposure to the sleaziest and most violent elements of society, which inevitably created cynicism as part of the job, but this officer had not only retained some of his idealism, a testament to his strength of character, but was also willing to isolate himself from the camaraderie of his colleagues in the process.

"So what is your chief concern?" Ben prompted.

"I just want to get back to work," Steve stated simply.

The psychologist nodded. "It's important to you - returning to the job."

"Yes." This time the answer was unequivocal.

"Why?" Ben asked with genuine curiosity. "You've been forced to take a life. You've almost been killed yourself, suffered terrible injuries and not just once. What is it that makes the job so important to you, it's worth that cost?"

This time there was a trace of suspicion in the gaze, and the officer's eyes narrowed as if the man suspected it was a trick question.

"It's my job," he answered, as if it was self-evident.

"People don't risk their lives everyday for a job," Ben remarked skeptically, trying to goad the other man into a fuller answer.

"Okay, so it's more of a vocation. It's what I do." There was a finality to the answer, but Ben decided to push a little further.

"Some officers tell me that it's more than a job, it's who they are. Would you say that describes your feelings?"

"It's a big part of who I am," Sloan admitted. "But it doesn't define me. I've walked away from it before and I could do it again, if necessary, without losing myself."

It was an intriguing statement, and Ben found himself liking the big, forthright cop.

"Do you have any qualms about carrying and maybe firing your gun again?" He was required to ask this question since it was the crux to continued employment. Many an officer froze when placed in a similar situation requiring the drawing of a weapon, endangering themselves and their partner.

Steve didn't reply immediately, appearing at least to be giving the question the consideration it deserved, but his response, when it came, was definite. "No. A gun is a means to an end. I still need to protect my partner and innocent bystanders. That hasn't changed."

Every question Ben asked was receiving a satisfactory answer, but he couldn't shake the suspicion that the officer was suffering from Post Shooting Trauma. He was the type who bottled up his feelings and so had no outlet for his emotions, making him a prime candidate for the disorder. It is the internalisation of stress which results in post-traumatic stress disorder.

"Have you suffered from nightmares since the incident?" he inquired.

Again, Ben caught a glimmer of reaction in the blue eyes opposite, and there was an appreciable delay before, with palpable reluctance, Sloan made the stark confession with characteristic honesty, "Yes."

Ben left an inviting pause in the hopes that his client would continue exploring that topic, and eventually Sloan added, a touch defensively, "It goes with the territory. It's nothing unusual."

"That's true," Ben agreed amiably. "Dreams are often a reaction to stress. Would you characterise the contents of the dreams as typical, or do they center round the incident itself?"

Sloan shrugged. "By the time I'm awake, the details are gone; it's just fuzzy."

For the first time, Ben suspected that the officer wasn't being entirely candid, and he debated internally on whether to call him on what he suspected was an evasion. He felt the two of them had established a good rapport, but also guessed that Sloan would not reveal anything too personal. He was a private individual not given to intimate confessions and, if pushed too far, he would withdraw, deflecting further attempts at probing. The psychologist decided to try one more question.

"Could you at least say if these were just nightmares or actual flashbacks?"

Sloan's facial expression tightened almost imperceptibly. His body language had been minimal throughout the session so this was the equivalent of an outburst, yet his focus appeared to be inward, as if he were replaying a scene only he could see. His head dipped slightly, and the hollows in his face seemed oddly accentuated as if caught in the lengthening shadows cast by the dying sun on a winter's evening. Yet, when he looked up, his face was shuttered, all emotion leached out of his eyes, but his mouth twisted in a grim smile.

"I think I had a flashback to my last date, and that was definitely a nightmare."

In Ben's opinion, humour was a valid survival tool and an excellent defense mechanism, but this was an obvious avoidance technique from a man who was good at keeping things bottled up and hiding his pain.

"Lieutenant, did you know that for each officer killed in the line of duty, three others commit suicide, dozens develop heart disease and peptic ulcers, and three out of every four are divorced? These casualties of our own emotions are staggering."

Sloan looked appropriately solemn at this recitation of the frailties of policemen, but then Ben again glimpsed a touch of irreverence in the Lieutenant's eyes.

"I'm not married," he pointed out mildly. "And my friends tell me the lining of my stomach must be indestructible for me to eat what I do without repercussions."

"No suicidal impulses either?" Ben kept the question light.

"God, no. I could never do that to my...No, none at all," he insisted steadfastly.

Ben believed him. He knew that appearances could be deceptive, but there was something solid and dependable about the officer that instilled confidence, and he couldn't imagine Sloan sinking to the depths of self-destruction.

Although he still had some reservations, Ben made his decision. "I don't think you are a danger to yourself or to others, so I'll sign off on your return to work."

If he hadn't been attentive, he would have missed the odd change that flashed over the officer's face, his eyes suddenly veiled, a muscle twitching in his jaw. It vanished quickly, leaving a perfunctory smile behind in its place, and Ben wondered if he'd imagined the response. He bent his head to make a notation in the file, trying to analyse what he'd seen. This was what Sloan had claimed he wanted, wasn't it? Had he missed something important?

Ben had no time to deliberate on Sloan's reaction. The Lieutenant stood up smoothly with a nod of gratitude. "I appreciate that. Thanks, Doc."

"Wait a minute."

Sloan paused guardedly.

"I may not think you're a danger to anyone, but you've been through a traumatic experience and need help working through the stress that creates. I would hate to see you become a statistic of any kind. If you experience feelings of depression or alienation, please feel free to come back and see me again. However, I recognise the fact that I'm a stranger and you may not feel able to talk to me, so I have a recommendation. I can't force you to take it, but I would strongly encourage you to do so. The department has a program of peer counseling. The officers in the program have all been involved in a shooting at one time or another. They get together and discuss problems, including dreams. These are people who know what you're going through, and I think you'd find it therapeutic to talk about these things."

Sloan nodded. "I'll think about it."

Ben didn't need to be psychic to hear the unspoken corollary of, 'when hell freezes over', and recognised the unlikelihood of the officer acting on his advice.

"Lieutenant," he urged quietly. "Everybody needs a support group."

The officer turned back with an unexpected, but singularly sweet, smile. "Oh, I have a support group. It may be a bit unorthodox but, believe me, it's there."

The click of the door closing behind him punctuated the session with a firm period, and Ben was left in a room that suddenly seemed larger without the policeman's commanding presence.

Thoughtfully, Ben retreated behind his desk, trying to sort through his impressions of his latest client. He drummed his pencil against the folder, breaking his own cardinal rule and second-guessing himself. Had he misjudged the man?

The false bravado that characterised so many of these interviews had been entirely lacking. Sloan's stoic self-control was almost painful to watch and yet oddly reassuring. Ben truly believed the man was no imminent threat to himself, and certainly not to others, but what was the cumulative effect of stress on so restrained an individual? Too many officers used denial and avoidance, locking the nightmare images they dealt with on a daily basis in a tiny mental room and only taking them out when enough whisky had soaked their brains to allow them to handle it. He didn't want to see Sloan slide down that dismal path.

Slapping the desk in a rare moment of frustration, he stood up and strode to the window. It was a beautiful Friday, ablaze with radiant sunshine but with a cool breeze from the ocean keeping the temperature pleasant. He watched the palm trees swaying lightly in the wind as he pondered the Lieutenant's future. It was a dismal consolation, but at least he would know if anything happened to Sloan. With a heavy sigh, he attempted to dismiss the officer from his mind and ready himself for his next client, conscious of a final hope that the man's support system was as effective as he claimed.