Broken Trust (Badge of Honor 13)

“And,” she then went on, “sometimes they attempt suicide.”

“Camilla Rose didn’t seem depressed, Amy,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now that you describe it, I saw the mania. But no sadness.”

“Matt, people mask the disease. They spend their whole lives knowing they’re different. They’re self-conscious about it. So they are very practiced at masking it, hiding it, from others. They also tend to gravitate to one another; there’s a real comfort being among their own kind.”

Which, Matt thought, if he’s also got it, maybe would explain her having Austin around?

“At higher levels,” Amy said, “they become delusional.”

“As in, they believe the green meemies are coming for them?”

“Yeah. And not only believe it but think they see it. They sometimes hallucinate. It’s terrifying for them. Then after the manic episode comes the depressive episode.”

“The mood swing,” Matt said, making it a question.

“Yeah. And that’s pretty much the layman’s version. It’s a treatable disease, but one of the biggest challenges is that the meds reduce the highs and lows to a mild middle ground. I’ve had plenty of patients say they don’t like the ‘dull’ feeling and would rather deal with the lows—meaning, self-medicate—but especially the highs.”

Matt nodded.

“I can see that,” he said, then took a swig of beer. “Cheer

s to self-medicating.”

Amy made a sour face.

“There’s a lot more,” she said, “but I already see your eyes are starting to glaze over.”

Amy then motioned toward him with her coffee mug.

“How about we talk about you now?” she said.

“Amy,” Patricia Payne said, softly.

“And what about me?” Matt said, his tone defensive. “Do you ever take a break from constantly analyzing people?”

“If you have this burning desire to stay a cop,” Amy said, “why don’t you figure out a position where you are not getting shot at?”

“That’s not the way it works, Siggie. And you should know that. You have to work your way up the line, spending time in grade and taking the exam for a higher slot that may—or may not—be open.” He paused, glared at her for a moment, then added, “Take Jason Washington. After the results of the sergeants exam, the lieutenants and captains results were released. Jason was at the top—not just in the top five but number one for captain. But there are no openings. Zero. So he just waits until some captain retires or gets—”

“Don’t say it, wiseass,” Amy interrupted.

“Promoted was what I was going to say,” Matt finished. “White shirts at that level generally don’t take bullets unless it’s from a jealous lover or the lover’s angry husband. Anyway, if nothing opens in two years, the whole process starts anew, beginning with retaking the exam. Rinse and repeat. And wait.”

“You would think they would create an opening for Jason,” Patricia Payne said, thoughtfully. “Such a brilliant man. But—”

“But there’s no money, Mom,” Matt put in. “The city council keeps cutting the department’s budget.”

“But as I was going to say before being so very rudely interrupted by my son . . .”

“Sorry,” Matt said, shrugging.

“. . . I would suggest that it’s also as much about politics as it is about money. At least, that’s what Denny and Jack would always say.”

Matt had a mental image of his godfather, now the heavyset, silver-haired first deputy police commissioner, and his father around the time they would’ve been about his age. He could see them sitting at the wooden table in the kitchen of the South Philly row house, a half-empty bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey between them, drinking from glass jars whose Amish Apple Butter labels had been soaked off years earlier, talking shop.

“Why?” Matt said.

“Jason’s too smart,” Patricia Payne said. “And that scares some people who think he might be after their job.”