Asylum

Chapter 1-2

David Styles was going to quit. He had, in fact, been on the way to quit when the call came through. He was too young to retire, some thought, namely his wife. He had seen too much death and tragedy and wanted to retire now at fifty five while he still had time to live, really live. Money was not an issue, although again his wife might disagree.

His practice had been successful and enjoyable from the beginning. He had helped many as a family psychologist. He had brought families back together when nothing else could.

Then he learned he’d been deluding himself. His eyes had been opened when he volunteered with the New York Police Department.

He had thought those few clients who could afford his services were the greatest challenges, but there were worse tragedies. Unthinkable tragedies he’d read about throughout school but never sank in until he had seen them firsthand.

In the beginning it had seemed like a good idea. He could help those with the most need and perhaps challenge his talent. He thought he had known what to expect from those cases. But he was wrong. He’d been sheltered with his suburban family cases. The cases went from bad to worse, and the emotional stress had taken its toll before he had hardened to it. More and more these volunteer cases had consumed him until only a few of his paying clients were left. It had been five years; now it was time to quit. He had helped a few, but mostly he had failed.

He was in his car on the way to give the lieutenant his resignation when his cell phone rang.

“Dave? It’s Steve,” the lieutenant said.

“I was just on my way to see you.”

“We need your help.”

“That actually was what I was coming to talk to you about. I wanted to do this in person, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to offer my services anymore,” David said.

“What? Well, uh, we can talk about that, but I really need your help right now. We got a jumper.”

“A jumper? Can’t Cynthia take care of that?”

Cynthia was on the NYPD payroll and was specifically trained for this kind of situation.

“She’s out of town this week. We got no one else; we need you.”

“I don’t know. I’m not trained for talking down jumpers. That takes specialized training. I’d probably screw it up.”

“The jumper is a kid, Dave. A fifteen-year-old boy.” The lieutenant said it quietly.

David winced. He and the lieutenant had become good friends over the years, and Steve certainly knew what buttons to push when he had to. David’s own son, Josh, had only been fifteen when he’d committed suicide. It had been the biggest catalyst for David in volunteering with the NYPD, and it was the biggest reason he was quitting now.

“Give me directions. I’ll go straight there.”