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“Essentially, the psychological heir of your mother.”
“I don’t know what she can mean by that.”
“That your psychological makeup is gentle, kind, even intellectual, maybe. Anyway, the antithesis of warrior.”
Matt threw his hands up to indicate he had no idea what Amy was driving at.
“She thinks you have been conditioned all your life by your role models to believe you were destined to be a warrior, ” Stein said.
“What role models?”
“Commissioner Coughlin for one, the cop’s cop,” Stein said. “But primarily, the legend of your biological father, who died heroically in the line of duty. Your uncle, the cop captain, what was his name?”
“Dutch,” Matt said. “Captain Dutch Moffitt.”
“Who similarly died heroically in the line of duty, right?”
“He had just finished telling some kid to put the gun down, he didn’t want to have to kill him, and some goddamn junkie shot him with a. 22, of all goddamn weapons.”
“But heroically, right?”
“I suppose.”
“And he died heroically right at the time when the Marine Corps told you, ‘No, thanks, you don’t measure up to our standards,’ right?”
“They found something wrong with my ear,” Matt said.
“All of these things combining, in the Dr. Amy Payne theory of what’s wrong with Little Brother, to compel you to join the police force to prove your manhood, that you’re a warrior.”
“Jesus!”
“And then you met another man, who became your mentor, Inspector Peter Wohl. Another warrior role model.”
“Okay.”
“Now, being as intelligent as you are, you could not have been unaware, in Amy’s theory, that Role Model One, Commissioner Coughlin, had arranged for a job for you that was not really police work. You weren’t walking around dark streets in a uniform with a gun and a nightstick, in other words. And you subconsciously understood this to mean that Coughlin and Wohl, Role Model Two, didn’t think of you as a fellow warrior, but rather as sort of a wimp who had to be protected.”
“She told you all of this?” Matt asked.
“And then you shot the Northwest serial rapist, trying to prove that you were indeed a warrior and a man.”
“I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I shot that sonofabitch because he was trying to run me over with a van.”
“But still, even after this warrior act, neither Coughlin nor Wohl was convinced that you were a warrior. The proof of this, your subconscious believed, came on the memorable day when the real cops, the real warriors, were about to face down the bad people and they sent you a block away to safety, allegedly to protect a journalist.”
“I must be crazy, I’m starting to think she may be onto something.”
“I’m not finished. She’s given this a lot of thought.”
“Go on.”
“And again you risked your life to prove you were a man, a warrior, when a bad guy appeared in the alley and you faced up to him.”
“He was shooting at us! What was I supposed to do?”
“You’re an intelligent young man. You should have ducked, run away. You were driven by the need to prove your masculinity.”
“My God!”
