Page 1 of Aftermath
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“Who can tellme one of the signs of ASPD?”
We were already forty-nine minutes into the lecture.
I picked up a piece of paper I’d been using for my lecture notes the entire class. I didn’t need it; I had the whole lecture memorized. Actually, I had all forty lectures memorized for the entire twenty weeks at Quantico.
One of the new recruits in the front raised their hand, eager to answer the question, but that wasn’t what I was looking for. That wasn’t the type of trainee I was focused on.
This job had a way of weighing on you, forcing you to think quick in the field. I needed to make sure every last trainee was prepared for that.
“You,” I said, pointing at one of the women, avoiding eye contact.
Her cheeks reddened, flustered at being called out. Good. If she wanted to make it through the academy, she needed to leave those doubts in the past. There were no doubts in the field.
Doubt would land you point blank staring down the barrel of an unsub’s gun. Not many agents walked away from that.
I wouldn’t allow recruits under my watch to fall prey to such a situation.
“Uh, manipulation,” she said softly, reservation in her tone.
“Another,” I demanded, knowing it would be for her own good.
She shook her head, slightly flustered.
“It wasn’t optional,” I added.
“Impulsivity,” she added.
Good; this time, her voice was steadier. Her shoulders relaxed, and she sat up. I saw the way her features shifted when she realized she was correct.
“Another,” I encouraged.
“Lacking empathy and physical aggression,” she spat back, not even a breath between answers.
There it was: the moment I’d been pushing her toward. The single second that changed her course at the academy. I demanded perfection because that’s what future victims needed. They needed competent agents, ones who could think under pressure. I was hard on them because I was them once.
I knew no matter how prepared you thought you were, no matter what your IQ was, things could change in an instant. One mistake or oversight was all it took.
One of the trainee agents raised their hand a few rows back, and I nodded, noting another question would cut into my time for my final few points. I could rework it into the next lesson. I was mentally changing around the next lesson when the trainee spoke.
“Agent Beck,” he started, “this is a lecture in behavioral sciences. We are at the FBI Academy. Should we not have learned this in a Psychology 101 course?”
Snickers broke out throughout the classroom, and I took a breath before answering. I knew his type—he strong armed his way to where he was, likely had lots of connections, found joy in putting down those a bit different from him.
Yeah, I’d dealt with plenty of those. It came with the territory of a higher IQ than most, and I imagined my more ‘out there’ style didn’t help. I learned not to care as much, and a new trainee trying to look smart in front of his fellow agents certainly wouldn’t get under my skin.
I walked over to the podium in the center of the amphitheater-style room. The podium ledge held my cup of coffee, and I picked it up to sip as I gathered my composure.
“And?” I asked, waving him on.
Wasting class time with these antics already subtracted—I glanced at the clock—fifty-seven seconds from my already far too short sixty minutes.
I’d surely have to cut something altogether later on now.
The longer I had to drill this all into their minds, the better off they were.
