In the Intelligence Unit office hall, Ruzek stared at Bruce, who was resting with his eyes closed nearby, his gaze as if examining some kind of supernatural phenomenon.
“Let me get this straight,” Adam said, counting on his fingers while discussing with Jay beside him.
“You mean to say, Bruce has been in the police force for less than a month, and during this time, he shot and killed a street thug with a gun; participated in the arrest of ‘Octopus’ Diaz and his entire smuggling network; cracked a transnational arms smuggling case; and yesterday, he rescued two girls from the Collins brothers!!!”
“And the counterfeit case.” Jay wiped his service pistol without looking up; deep down, he was starting to admire Bruce, the newcomer.
“Right, and that damn counterfeit case!” Adam’s voice rose involuntarily.
“OMG!
Most cops don’t encounter this many major cases in their entire career.
My dad, he’s almost retired and is still writing parking tickets everywhere.”
Hearing this, Bruce finally opened his eyes and looked at Ruzek, the colleague who had arrived a few days after him, just as he was about to say something.
“Bruce, hand your action report to Ruzek,” Hank’s hoarse voice sounded at the office doorway, his expression gloomier than usual.
“Then come to my office.”
Hearing this, Bruce and Ruzek exchanged a look, shrugged, and walked toward Hank’s office.
When he saw Bruce come in, Hank signaled him to close the door.
On the desk lay a document; it was a mandatory leave notice.
Hank’s deep voice revealed a trace of concern.
“Starting tomorrow, for the next week, you will take this notice to the designated Psychologist, and you can only return to work after getting a diagnostic certificate.”
“A week?” Bruce tried to argue.
“Hank, I’m fine!
Really!”
Hank, with his eyes that had seen through too many lies, stared at the young officer in front of him.
“Listen, kid!
I know you’re capable, talented, and maybe even the most promising rookie I’ve ever seen.
But in the past month, you’ve been involved in four high-risk cases and killed three suspects.
This is not a normal work pace, and it’s certainly not an experience a rookie should have.”
“Doesn’t this just prove that I’m suited for this job?” Bruce gave a wry smile.
“It means you need a psychological evaluation,” Hank’s voice was unquestionable.
“Listen, I’m not questioning your ability.
But talent doesn’t equal stress resistance.
I’ve seen too many good cops break down because they didn’t deal with post-traumatic stress in time, eventually either leaving or ending up worse.”
“And this is department policy,” Hank’s tone softened slightly.
“You must undergo a psychological evaluation after participating in consecutive high-stress cases.”
Bruce picked up the leave notice.
In the column for the designated Psychologist, it read: Ivanka Anderson, Anderson Psychological Counseling Office.
“I specifically looked for this psychological expert,” Hank explained, seeing Bruce relent.
“She is the best and the hardest to book.
She usually only consults for high-ranking superintendents or officers involved in major trauma, and she only accepts one department referral per month.”
“Thank you, Sheriff Hank.” Bruce said sincerely.
“I will go.”
Hank walked around the desk and patted his shoulder.
“This week, don’t think about cases, and don’t hang around the station.
Go watch a ball game, go on a date with a girl, live like a 24-year-old young man should.
Understand?”
“Understood.”
“Also,” Hank stared into Bruce’s eyes, his gaze sharp.
“Before you get the diagnostic report, don’t even think about participating in any operations.
That’s an order.”
Walking out of the office, Bruce saw Katherine’s questioning look and handed the notice over.
Katherine took it immediately, scanned it briefly, and looked up at Bruce.
“You really do need to go; just think of it as relaxing.”
Hearing this, Bruce shrugged noncommittally.
…
The next morning, in downtown Chicago, at the Anderson Psychological Counseling Office, which was located on the 48th floor of a skyscraper on Michigan Avenue. Find the original chapter at novelping.com.
When Bruce stepped out of the elevator, he almost thought he had gone to the wrong place.
The marble floors were polished to a mirror finish, abstract art hung on the walls, and the air was filled with a faint scent of cedar and citrus.
The receptionist was an elegant young woman who smiled as she took his appointment slip.
“Mr.
Stacey, Dr.
Anderson is waiting for you.
Please, follow me.”
When the office door at the end of the corridor opened, Bruce’s first impression was: This doesn’t look like a doctor’s office; it looks more like a private art collection room.
The room was spacious and bright, with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides.
The first thing he saw upon entering was Lake Michigan outside the window.
The fourth wall was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with hardcover books and art pieces.
In the center of the room was not a desk, but a set of comfortable sofas and armchairs surrounding a low glass coffee table.
In the corner was a grand piano, with sheet music spread open on the music stand.
And Ivanka Anderson herself was even more impressive than her surroundings.
(Image in comments section)
She was standing by the window with her back to the door, her figure tall and slender, wearing a perfectly tailored dark blue suit skirt, her long golden hair pinned up in an elegant bun.
Hearing the sound, she turned around, and Bruce saw a face that radiated warmth and mystery.
Around 30 years old, with exquisite and sharp features, ice-blue eyes that seemed to be able to see through people’s hearts, and a faint smile at the corner of her mouth, she was both professional and profound.
“Officer Bruce Stacy,” her voice was low and pleasant, with a slight German accent.
“Please, sit.
Would you like something to drink?
Coffee?
Tea?
Or whiskey?”
Bruce was stunned for a moment: “Are we allowed to drink during work hours?”
Ivanka smiled and walked to the small bar: “Psychotherapy is not ordinary work, and it’s just for you.
I rarely have young officers come here, especially when Officer Bruce is so handsome.”
She poured two glasses of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the crystal glasses.
Bruce took it and sat on the sofa.
Ivanka sat opposite him, legs crossed, her posture relaxed yet full of control.
“So,” she sipped her whiskey, “Sheriff Hank tells me that in the past month you’ve killed three criminals, saved at least five lives, and witnessed various bloody scenes, yet you act like you’ve just finished watching a boring movie.
He thinks this is not normal.”
Bruce held the glass and took a small sip.
“Maybe I’m just…
highly adaptable.”
“Maybe,” Ivanka tilted her head to look at him, “or maybe you are suppressing it.
Tell me, Bruce, did you sleep well last night?”
This question hit the nail on the head.
Bruce indeed hadn’t slept well; every time he closed his eyes, he saw the X-ray of Megan Benson’s abdomen and the scattered drugs and condoms.
“It was okay.”
“You’re lying,” Ivanka said softly, but her tone was not accusatory.
“There are fatigue lines around your eyes, your left index finger is trembling slightly, and you’ve adjusted your sitting position four times in the ten minutes you’ve been sitting here, while scanning the exit three times.
You are in a state of high alert, even in a safe environment.”
Bruce was shocked; this woman’s observation skills were astonishing, almost on par with his system skills.
Although he could also analyze, he couldn’t yet control his body so freely.
“I am a Doctor of Psychology, Bruce,” Ivanka seemed to read his mind, “and also a behavioral analyst.
My job is to observe people and understand them.
And you, you are very conflicted right now.”
“Your body language shows confidence and calmness, but the subtle muscle tension reveals stress.” Ivanka put down her glass and leaned forward, her cleavage fully visible.
“You want to prove that you’re fine, but you also vaguely know that this might not be good.”
Suddenly Ivanka smiled, a smile as refreshing as a spring breeze.
“How about this, Bruce, let’s make a deal.
This week, come here every afternoon at two, and we’ll chat, just conversation.
In exchange, I will issue you a completely healthy diagnostic report on Friday.”
“Why?” Bruce asked, puzzled.
“You don’t even know me.”
“Because I’m interested,” Ivanka smiled, this time the smile reaching her eyes.
“I’ve seen too many cops, veterans, and special forces members.
They are either completely numb or on the verge of a breakdown.
And you…
you are in some kind of middle state, and I want to know why.”
Bruce was silent for a moment, then nodded: “Deal.”
…
For the next three days, Bruce found himself unexpectedly looking forward to the meeting at three o’clock every afternoon.
Ivanka Anderson was a mysterious woman.
She was born in Germany, educated in London and New York, and held dual doctorates in psychology and neuroscience.
Her client list included corporate CEOs, politicians, artists, and now, a Chicago policeman.
Their conversations started with cases but quickly turned to deeper areas.
On the third afternoon, the conversation turned in a more personal direction.
“Is your father also a policeman?” Ivanka asked.
Today she was wearing a simple black sweater and jeans, her hair let down, making her look five years younger.
Bruce hesitated for a moment but chose to be honest.
“In New York, he’s a veteran cop with twenty years of service.”
“And your mother?”
“A nurse, also in New York.” Bruce found himself more open in front of Ivanka than expected; her way of asking questions didn’t make one feel invaded, but rather more like an invitation.
Ivanka was silent for a moment, then said: “My father was a businessman, my mother an artist.
He arranged a political marriage for me with the son of a congressman, ten years my senior.
So, when I was twenty-one, I fled the wedding and came to Chicago, and never went back.”
Bruce looked at her in surprise: “Why tell me this?”
“Because trust is mutual,” Ivanka smiled, “and I think you will understand, choosing your own path, even if it means abandoning everything familiar.”
That evening, Ivanka didn’t end the session but instead proposed: “I’m hungry.
A new Italian restaurant has opened downtown; it’s said to have the best truffle risotto in Chicago.
Are you interested in being my dinner companion?”
Surprisingly, Bruce did not refuse, and the dinner lasted nearly three hours.
They talked about art, travel, and music, avoiding police work and psychological analysis.
Bruce found that Ivanka was not only brilliant but also humorous, had a deep knowledge of red wine, and could speak five languages fluently.
After dinner, Ivanka invited Bruce to her apartment to listen to records; she had a collection of thousands of vinyl records, from classical to jazz to rock.
The apartment was on the top floor of a skyscraper next to Lake Michigan, and the decor was the same as her office, a mix of Nordic minimalism and art collection.
Late at night, when Bruce was preparing to leave, Ivanka grabbed his arm.
“You can stay,” she said softly, her ice-blue eyes looking like melting glaciers in the dim light.
“If you don’t want to, I completely understand.
But if you want to…
you are the first man I’ve invited!”
Bruce looked at her; for the past month, he had lived amidst gunfire and death.
At this moment, standing in front of this beautiful, mysterious, and mature woman, he felt a long-lost desire.
He didn’t speak, but answered with action, leaning down to kiss her.
That night, Bruce forgot about warehouses, corpses, and gunfights.
Ivanka’s body was soft yet strong, her kiss passionate yet inexperienced, her voice soft and real.
They were on the living room carpet, in the bedroom, and finally in the bathroom…
They guided each other, challenged each other, and catered to each other, like a rehearsal for a wonderful dance, two not-so-experienced dancers exploring each other’s boundaries, lasting until two in the morning…