Your Secrets are Safe with the FBI

"Well we know where we're goin', but we don't know where we've been. And we know what what we're knowin', but we can't say what we've seen." - Road to Nowhere, Talking Heads

As I sat at the red light at the corner of Frustration and Fatigue, and vigorously sucked my chocolate milkshake that wasn't really chocolaty but did have the saving grace of whipped cream and a maraschino cherry, I tapped my foot on the gas pedal to The Talking Heads singing "Road to Nowhere" and thought about adrenaline. My caseload right now is not as physical as I would like. I don't have many neurological patients on my schedule right now, with whom I can use my body as a Total Gym, or integrate yoga and PNF (proprioceptive neuromuscular facilitation) into their plan of care. Nor do I have as many manual or lumbar manipulation patients as on previous caseloads. Maybe it's all this lovely patience I've been developing lately, but I suddenly found myself needing to drive really fast, buy a drum kit, sign up for skydiving. Feel the wind on my face as I pick up speed, feel the divine exhaustion after the adrenaline has had it's way with me and all that is left is an empty husk and an evil little satisfied smile.

I hit the Atlanta highway, felt the hum, turned up David Byrne. I thought about my "FBI days". Oh, just a little. I sometimes miss working with the police detectives, the gang unit, the gun unit, homicide. I miss the occasional fun of going to the shooting range and improving my skill, ride-alongs with my cop buddies, wearing a bullet-proof vest, chatting away and sharing my data about crime patterns. I don't miss watching the evening news, seeing people I care about burst out of a SWAT van, hearing "man down" and patterns of siren calls and knowing what it all means.

Going to Quantico, Virginia to the FBI Training Academy for conferences of the Homicide Research Working Group was a fun highlight. Quantico was different than what I expected. And yes, I walked around the campus, and yes, I felt just like Clarice Starling when I did it. It was a fascinating place, but much more work-a-day and government issue than you might imagine. There were no locks on the dormitory doors, for one thing, which was mighty disconcerting after a day of graphic presentations on serial killers and psychological investigation. I slept very little at Quantico.

On a tour given by our host, one of the psychologists there, we were all surprised to find out that indeed, no inmates were kept in the basement. Nary a cell, however there was a very interesting firearms investigation lab, and 1950's-style offices where Agent Mulder might hang out. There were names of investigations, countries, projects on the doors. They were largely dusty, deserted and unlocked. "Your secrets are safe with the FBI", our host called out as we trundled down the hall, laughing. I fell behind the group, per usual, opened a few doors and peered in, just to be bad-ass. Of course, that was all years ago, years and years and forever ago. And if I've said anything here I shouldn't have, just add it to my file, won't you, boys? Just add it to my file.