Page 38 of Deja New
“Everything leads back to the chart,” she said solemnly, then grinned. “But enough on that for now—”
He nodded. “I’ve been punished enough.”
“Hilarious. So you and the family went to visit Dennis Drake yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t give you shit.”
“Not even the smallest trace of shit.”
“So your next step...?” Marci’s delicately arched eyebrows were more for form’s sake; she’d worked homicide longer than he had. She knew perfectly well what the next steps were. And weren’t.
“The next steps. Right.” Ah. Well. The Drake file’s Closedstatus was problematic. The CC Division had their own budget, equipment, and staff, and as a detective with another bureau, he wasn’t entitled to any of it. His captain, who wanted her detectives happily challenged because such people brought results, had given him some room to run. But nothing had changed in the month he’d had the file; the missing witnesses were still missing, Dennis Drake was as recalcitrant yesterday as he’d been ten years ago, Kline was still gone (“You grinning shiteaters can go fuck yourselves sideways.”) and thrilled to be gone, and Leah Nazir hadn’t been able to come up with a magic fix. He wasn’t surprised by any of it; he’d expected all of it.
“You’re my steadiest, least excitable guy,” his captain was saying. “Not just in my division; you’ve got some of the lowest affection of anyone I’ve met who isn’t a sociopath.”
“Thanks.” That was the appropriate response, right? Even if it wasn’t necessarily a compliment?
“You’re also methodical and you don’t rattle. But that doesn’t mean you’re invulnerable. It doesn’t mean you can’t burn out, or snap.”
“Because it’s always the quiet ones?”
“Because I’ve seen you almost every day for years and I’ve never even heard you raise your voice.”
Yep. Sounded right. Sounded like the feedback he’d been receiving since he was nine. He’d been tested for the spectrum, and had no idea if the negative results were a relief to his parents or bad news.
“What I’m saying is, there’s laid-back, and there’s comatose.” Long, delicate pause. “Are the meds for your depression working out?”
There it is.
“Dysthymia.”
“What’s the difference?”
Normally he’d find this line of questioning irritating or, at best, pointless. But Captain Lassard never lobbed “So how’re you feeling?” questions for the sake of small talk.
“Dysthymia is much like depression, the same general symptoms present for treatment, but they’re not as severe and they last longer.”
“Depression Lite.”
“Close enough.” Not as severe = the good news. Lasting longer = the catch. A lot of sufferers—himself included—would go years without seeking professional help, because they assumed being low, being sad, was just part of their character, and could not be fixed.
Jason thought the ancient Greeks had it right: The literal translation ofdysthymiawas “a bad state of mind.”
“I’m on Paroxetine now. Sixteen weeks in.” Citalopram had been a disaster. He didn’t mind the decreased sex drive so much—he wasn’t seeing anyone and the Angela Drake fantasies were exactly that: fantasies. Not being able to get it up or, when he got it up, not being able to finish wasn’ttoobad: It wasn’t as though his penis’s dance card was full. Nor was the insomnia the problem; he had always been able to function on four hours a night. But the shakes, the sweats, the having to take a piss every hour, and the explosive diarrhea had been deal breakers. “Copy that, dispatch, I’m en route as soon as I find a public bathroom and destroy their toilet.”
Pass.
But the Paroxetine seemed to be working, and the sideeffects were nothing he hadn’t dealt with when he wasn’t medicated. The problem with any SSRI*was that it usually took more than a month, sometimes two months, for any change to be noticeable. You could diet down (or up) a couple of sizes before the meds kicked in, that was how long it took. You could get through half of a football season. You could put your house on the market, sell it, find a new home, pack, move. You could walk halfway across the country.*
“So the Paroxetine plus therapy equals life isn’t terrible all the time,” he finished, hoping Marci was going to get to it soon.
“Oh, yeah?” she asked. “You saw a professional?”
“Sure.”You know I did.“Like you did.” Insighter screening was standard for anyone in the academy; all recruits were required to take two sessions, on the second day and at graduation. Depending on your department, you could also be required to see one whenever you were up for a promotion, if you’d had to fire your weapon, and (most puzzling) for off-the-job injuries. “All my past lives had some form of it or another.”
“Didn’t you head up to ICC with what’s-her-face? The head kahuna of Insighters?”
