When the Bough Breaks Read Online Free PDF Page A

strange, motherly man.
    “I’ll be fine.”
    “Okay, Doctor. You take care now.”
    I was eager to see him go. But when the sound of his car engine was no longer audible I felt disoriented. Not depressed, like before, but agitated, restless, without peace. I tried watching “As the World Turns” but couldn’t concentrate. Now the inane dialogue annoyed me. I picked up a book but the words wouldn’t come into focus. I took a swallow of orange juice and it left a bad taste in my mouth and a stabbing pain in my throat.
    I went out on the patio and looked up at the sky until luminescent discs danced in front of my eyes. My skin itched. Bird songs irritated me. I couldn’t sit still.
    It went on that way the entire afternoon. Miserable.
    At four-thirty he called.
    “Dr. Delaware? This is Milo Sturgis. Detective Sturgis.”
    “What can I do for you, Detective?”
    “How are you feeling?”
    “Much better, thank you.”
    “That’s good.”
    There was silence.
    “Uh, Doctor, I’m kind of on shaky ground here …”
    “What’s on your mind?”
    “You know, I was in the Medical Corps in Viet Nam. We used to see a lot of something called acute stress reaction. I was wondering if …”
    “You think that’s what I’ve got?”
    “Well …”
    “What was the prescribed treatment in Viet Nam?”
    “We got them back into action as quickly as possible. The more they avoided combat the worse they got.”
    “Do you think that’s what I should do? Jump back into the swing of things?”
    “I can’t say, Doctor. I’m no psychologist.”
    “You’ll diagnose but you won’t treat.”
    “Okay, Doctor. Just wanted to see if—”
    “No. Wait. I’m sorry. I appreciate your calling.” I was confused, wondering what ulterior motive he could possibly have.
    “Yeah, sure. No problem.”
    “Thanks, really. You’d make a hell of a shrink, Detective.”
    He laughed.
    “That’s sometimes part of the job, sir.”
    After he hung up I felt better than I’d felt in days. The next morning I called him at the West L.A. Division headquarters and offered to buy him a drink.
    We met at Angela’s, across from the West L.A. station on SantaMonica Boulevard. It was a coffee shop with a smoky cocktail lounge in the back populated by several groupings of large, solemn men. I noticed that few of them acknowledged Milo, which seemed unusual. I had always thought cops did a lot of backslapping and good-natured cussing after hours. These men took their drinking seriously. And quietly.
    He had great potential as a therapist. He sipped Chivas, sat back, and let me talk. No more interrogation now. He listened and I spilled my guts.
    By the end of the evening, though, he was talking too.
    Over the next couple of weeks Milo and I found out that we had a lot in common. We were about the same age—he was ten months older—and had been born into working-class families in medium-sized towns. His father had been a steelworker, mine an electrical assembler. He too had been a good student, graduating with honors from Purdue and with an M.A. in literature from Indiana U., Bloomington. He’d planned to be a teacher when he was drafted. Two years in Viet Nam had somehow turned him into a policeman.
    Not that he considered his job at odds with his intellectual pursuits. Homicide detectives, he informed me, were the intellectuals of any police department. Investigating murder requires little physical activity and lots of brainwork. Veteran homicide men sometimes violate regulations and don’t carry a weapon. Just lots of pens and pencils. Milo packed his .38 but confessed that he really didn’t need it.
    “It’s very white collar, Alex, with lots of paperwork, decision-making, attention to detail.”
    He liked being a cop, enjoyed catching bad guys. Sometimes he thought he might like to try something else, but exactly what that something else was, wasn’t clear.
    We had other interests in common. We’d both done some martial arts training. Milo