Gary walked back into the office. ‘All done?’
‘Yup,’ said Ren.
‘Number one on our Fifty Most Wanted,’ said Gary, pointing to a photo of a man with long, thin, greased-back hair, balding at the front. He had fuck-you eyes and a nose that looked broken, re-set and broken again. His face was hollowed out. He had two shaven patches of white hair high on each cheekbone and a downturned slit for a mouth. ‘This piece of shit,’ said Gary, ‘is Jonah Jeremiah—’
‘Jim Jams,’ said Ren.
‘Jonah Jeremiah Myler,’ Gary finished, ignoring her.
‘Priiiceless,’ said Ren.
‘Caucasian, DOB 08/12/57,’ said Gary. ‘Myler springs up in a different city every few months, preying on vulnerable teens and setting up short-lived “cults”. He grooms the kids for sex. He has young followers, so he gets them out on the streets. And he waits behind the scenes for the disenchanted youth to show. They may not always use the same name for their sect. Names to date: Crystal Wakenings, Army of the Risen, The Witness Gathering, Divine Seers of the Watchful—’
‘You are making them up,’ said Ren.
‘You couldn’t make them up,’ said Cliff.
‘And The Watchful what?’ said Ren. ‘That’s a lot of seeing and watching. The Watchful Observers. Divine Seers of the Watchful Crowd of Onlookers. Divine Seers of the Watchful Blind …’
Gary ploughed on. ‘Don’t be fooled by Myler’s gaunt face. He’s not as feeble as he looks.
‘Next up is number two, Francis Gartman, African-American, DOB 01/15/83. First degree murder, aggravated robbery, drugs, sexual assault on a minor.’
Gartman looked like someone had paused while inflating his head to allow him to pose for the photo. Every feature looked like it was about to blow.
‘Those eyes are completely vacant,’ said Ren. ‘Soulless.’
‘Gartman is a former boxer,’ said Gary, ‘which translates in his case into giant man, huge strength. He’s had enough blows to the head for his frontal lobe to have left the building.’
Gary stepped back. ‘Not as dramatic in my delivery as Agent Bryce no doubt was, but there’s our top five. Knock yourselves out.’
‘Ren,’ said Colin. ‘Call for you on one. She wanted to speak with a female. She didn’t give a name.’
Ren picked up the phone. ‘This is Special Agent Ren Bryce. How may I help you?’
‘My name is Catherine Sarvas. I’m calling from El Paso, Texas. I saw your Most Wanted List on line this morning …’
Ren slid her notebook across her desk. She picked up a pencil. ‘And do you have something you’d like to tell me, ma’am?’
‘I … yes,’ said Catherine. ‘Yes, I have. I do. I …’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry … I thought I could do this.’
She hung up.
‘Short call,’ said Robbie.
Ren nodded. ‘Weird.’
‘What did she want?’
‘To give me a little flicker of hope on a dreary Monday.’
‘Are you going to call her back?’
‘I’ll give her a little while. El Paso … What’s going on down there?’
Ren spent Monday lunch-times in the offices of Dr Helen Wheeler. The psychiatrist all lunatics should have: intelligent, warm, caring, wore great shoes you could admire while avoiding your issues.
Until Ren was diagnosed bipolar at twenty-six, she had never guessed that there was anything wrong with her. Mental illnesses were for the mentally ill. It seemed like one minute she was the youngest FBI agent to go under deep cover and blow apart an organized crime operation and the next, she was lying in her pajamas on the sofa, eating junk food, crying, not answering her phone, drinking, obsessing about all the regrets she had in her life, wondering what point there was in doing anything again. Ever.
Her older brother, Matt, suggested she get help. But he already knew what was wrong with Ren. So he brought her to his computer one evening and gently opened a checklist on a psychiatry website that covered her symptoms: the despair, the exhaustion, the sofa, the hopelessness. Ren had looked up at Matt and shrugged. ‘That’s just depression, though. Everyone gets like that.’
Matt had scrolled down to the mania checklist: I have lots of energy. I feel amazing. I want everyone else to feel amazing. I want to go out and party. I love everyone. I know everything. I feel creative. I’m working hard. I’m talking too quickly. I’m loud. I’m impatient. I’m exercising. I’m alert. I’m swearing. I’m invincible. I’m hypersexual. I’m overspending. Check, check, check, check, check …
Ren had cried her heart out. ‘This is so depressing. My entire personality can be reduced to a checklist. If I buy lots of shoes, it’s because I’m nuts. If I’m having sex five times a day, it’s because I’m nuts. Me and two million other losers. And it’s not that I thought I was special or unique, but there is something so grim about fitting into this formula. It’s like we’re some fucked-up alien race. I mean, did you read all that shit? It affects every part of my existence. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t be fixed.’
Matt had cried too and explained that it may not be fixable, but it was treatable. He told Ren that she was unique and smart and loving and funny and generous and all women have too many shoes and that she was beautiful and he loved her to bits. And she loved him too. Because Matt had also read that telling Ren all this could come back and bite him. Because there was a high risk that someone bipolar would shoot the messenger; at some point, maybe not the same day or maybe not the same year, they would turn to the person who wanted to help them the most and scream, ‘This is all your fault. If you hadn’t told me all this, I would never have known, and I would have been happy just the way I was.’ And then they would scream, ‘You. Ruined. My. Life.’
Before that year was out, Ren had fired every one of those razor-sharp words at Matt and they had struck his heart. Ren did, indeed, shoot the messenger. And with a true bipolar flourish, had come back six months later, laden with guilt and gifts, to apologize.
Ren had tried different psychiatrists and psychotherapists since then, but when she met Helen Wheeler two years ago, Ren knew she had found her savior. Helen was in her early sixties, with a cultural awareness that spanned decades and created a bridge to all her patients. On Ren’s first visit, Helen had told her, ‘I am a psychiatrist, not a mind reader. What you tell me is what I will know about you. And you can leave your brave face at the door. If you’re having a bad day, my office is the perfect place to have it in.’
Ren checked her watch as she waited to be called in to Helen’s office.
Hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up.
Helen leaned her head out the door of her office. ‘Come on in, Ren,’ she said. ‘How are you today?’
‘I’m … good,’ said Ren, sitting down.
Helen smiled. ‘OK …’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ren. ‘Did you see the news? It’s Most Wanted time … which is fine. It’s just … this year, it’s got Domenica Val Pando on it and I feel I’m being taken back years and …’ She hung her head.
Helen waited.
‘It’s just …’ said Ren, ‘I guess … I was diagnosed at the end of that assignment and some part of me, I know it’s not rational,