Chapter 5 Chapter Two My mother's maiden name is Sherlock Holmes

My mother's maiden name was "Holmes," and my parents almost had to adopt that instead of the prosaic "Edward" as my middle name. When I look back, I see nothing else in my early life that suggested that I would become a psychological detective or a criminal profiler. I was born in Brooklyn, New York City, not far from Queens.My father, Jack, was a printer for the Brooklyn Eagle.When I was eight, he moved the family to Hempstead, Long Island, out of concern about rising crime, and later served as president of the Long Island Printing Union.I have an older sister, Allen, who is four years older than me, and from an early age she was the star of the family, both academically and athletically.

I didn't excel academically, usually B- or C+.Because I was polite and easygoing, I was always liked by the teachers at Ludlum Primary School, although my grades were mediocre.I am mostly interested in animals and have owned dogs, cats, rabbits, hamsters and snakes at various stages.Since I had said I wanted to be a veterinarian, my mother was very tolerant of it all.Since this effort showed me that I had hope of becoming a veterinarian, she kept encouraging me to work in that direction. The only talent I showed at school was storytelling, which in some ways came into play when I later investigated cases.Detectives and crime scene analysts must turn a collection of disparate and seemingly unrelated clues into a coherent story, so storytelling is an important talent, especially in homicide investigations—because victims The author himself cannot tell his or her story of misfortune.

In any case, I often used my talents to avoid real homework.I still remember one time when I was in ninth grade and didn’t read a novel out of laziness, and the teacher asked everyone to give an oral book report in front of the class.So when it was my turn to take the stage (I still can't believe I had the guts), I made up the title and author, and proceeded to tell a story about a group of campers who spent the night sitting around a campfire. I made up the content of the story while telling it, and at the same time I was thinking to myself: How long can I continue to tell this?I ran out of words when I got to the point where a bear was stalking a camper and was about to pounce.My spirit started to break down and I had no choice but to admit to the teacher that it was all a fabrication.It must have been a pity of conscience that I made this admission, which proves that I have absolutely no criminal personality.I stood on the podium like a real liar.I knew that if I failed this time, I would be embarrassed in front of the whole class, and I already expected what my mother would say about me when she heard about it.

But what surprised and puzzled me was that the teacher and other children were completely attracted by the content of the story!When I admitted that the story was made up, they said, "Finish the story. Tell us what happened next." So I finished the story and finally got an A.I never told my kids about it because I didn't want them to think the crime was worth it.But what I learned from it is that if you can sell your idea to people and get them interested, you can often get them to cooperate.This realization has served me well, because as a law enforcement officer, I often have to promote the value of our work to my superiors or to the local police.I have to admit, however, that it is this same talent which, to some degree, is exploited by crooks and criminals to get away with it.

Incidentally, my fictional camper did escape unscathed in the end, which was a far cry from the one I intended because my real love is animals.In preparation for becoming a veterinarian, I spent three summers attending the Cornell Grange Training Course offered by the Department of Veterinary Medicine at Cornell University on a ranch in upstate New York.For urban children, this is a great opportunity to get close to and get in touch with nature.To get this preferential treatment, I was working 70 to 80 hours a week for $15 an hour while my fellow alumni were home and sunbathing on Jones Beach.

This kind of physical labor does give me the fitness to take part in sports, which is another of my specialties.When I was at Hempstead High School, I was a pitcher on the baseball team and a tackle on the football team.In retrospect, perhaps it was during this period that my interest in personality profiling first really emerged. As soon as I stepped into the pitch zone, I quickly realized that throwing hard and accurate shots was only half the game.I can throw a nice fastball and a decent slider, but there are plenty of high school pitchers who can do it, or be on my level.The key to winning is being able to psychologically overwhelm the opposing batter, and I realized it was mostly about building the confidence to win while trying to make the guy at home plate as uneasy as possible.Years later, when I set out to develop my interrogation skills, this insight came in handy in a similar way brilliantly.

I was 6-foot-2 in high school and used to take advantage of that.As far as strength goes, our team is mediocre in a league full of top players, so it's clear to me that standing out on the field and ensuring the mentality to win depends on how good the pitchers are on the field.As a high school student, I had great self-control, but I decided not to let the opposing hitter know that.I was trying to look reckless and pretty erratic so the hitters wouldn't dig holes in the home plate with their feet so they could hit the ball with more power.I want them to think that if they do that, they're in danger of getting hit by a fastball from this crazy pitcher 60 feet away, or worse.

The football team at Hempstead High was really good, and at 188 pounds I was on the defensive lineman.Also, I realize that we can have a little bit of a mental advantage when it comes to games.I reckon if I grunt or whine and go crazy all over the court, I can still handle the bigger players.It didn't take long for me to have other players on the line follow my example.Later, I often served in the trial of murder cases where insanity was used as a defense.I've long known from my own experience that the mere fact of manic behavior doesn't necessarily mean that a person doesn't know what they are at all.

In 1962, we played Wantow High School in a game for the Thorpe Trophy, awarded to the best high school football team in the Long Island area.The average individual opponent weighed about 40 pounds more than us, so we knew there was a good chance we'd get beaten up in front of a crowd.So before the game, we designed a set of warm-up exercises with only one purpose: to gain a psychological advantage and to deter the opponent.We lined up in two lines, and the first man in each line came forward to intercept—indeed knock down—the first man in the other line.The scene is well timed with grunts, whimpers and screams of pain.We can see from the expressions of the Wanto players that the expected effect has been achieved.They're probably thinking, "If these guys are really stupid enough to kill each other, who knows what they'll do to us."

In fact, this entire episode was carefully crafted.We've practiced wrestling attacks so it looks like we're falling hard, but it doesn't hurt.Going into the actual game, we kept going this crazy, like we had just been released from a mental institution that afternoon, and we were going to be sent back straight after the game.The score was tight all the way, and when the chaos finally subsided, we won the game 14-13 and took home the 1962 Thorpe Cup. My first encounter with "law enforcement", in fact my first "personal" experience of profiling, happened at the age of 18 in a pub called "Gaslight East" in Hempstead The club gets a job as a janitor.I did so well at my job that I later got the same job at the Long Island Surf Club.In both places, my main duties were twofold: prohibiting sexual intercourse with anyone under the legal drinking age, in other words, anyone younger than me; troublemaker.

I stand at the gate, ask anyone of suspicious age to show their ID, and then cross-examine the person for their date of birth to verify that the person is the owner of the ID.It's pretty standard procedure, and everyone expected it and prepared for it.Generally, children who have gone through a lot of trouble to get a fake ID card are rarely careless enough not to remember the date of birth on the ID card.I looked them in the eye while interrogating them, which worked for some people, especially girls, who were generally more socially conscious at this age.However, those who intend to sneak in can still pass most inspections, they just need to concentrate on practicing beforehand. When each group of young people goes to the front row to be interrogated, what I actually do is to carefully examine those who stand about three or four rows behind; when they are ready to be interrogated, pay attention to their reactions, observe their body language, check Whether it appears nervous or indecisive. Dispelling rioters is more of a challenge, and for that I'm relying on my previous sporting experience.If they see in your eyes that you're easy to mess with, and you're acting a little bit crazy, sometimes even the richest guys will consider whether or not to pester you.If they think you are a very wrong person who doesn't even care about your own safety, then you are a more dangerous opponent.Some twenty years later, when, say, we were interviewing prisoners for the study of major serial homicides, we found that the personality of the typical assassin was in some important respects more dangerous than that of the typical serial murderer.This is because the assassin is different from the serial murderer, who will only pick a victim he thinks he can deal with, and then spare no effort to evade capture; the serial murderer is obsessed with carrying out his "mission" Die to make it happen. For people to think of you differently—for example, as unreasonable, crazy, unfathomable—there is another layer to consider, which is that you must maintain this personality all the time at work, not just when you are at work. You think that's when people pay attention to you.I visited Gary Trappnell, a notorious gun robber and plane hijacker, at the federal prison in Marion, Illinois.He claims to be able to fool any prison psychiatrist into believing he suffers from any mental illness I'd like to name.The secret to success, he told me, was to act sick whenever and wherever possible, even when you were alone in your cell, so that when the doctor came to visit you didn't have to "think hard" about how to get sick. Get away with it, and that kind of "thinking" will give you away.From this, it seems that long before I benefited from such "expert" advice, I had developed some instincts to think like a criminal. If I can't deter a brawler in a bar, I'll try to use amateur profiling as the next best thing to stop it before it gets too big.I've found that with a little bit of my experience, and careful observation of people's behavior and body language, I can correlate these situations with the kind of action that eventually breaks out into a fight, and thus predict whether someone is going to cause trouble.When this situation arises, or when I'm in doubt, I'm always the first to strike, take the unexpected action, and try to lure the potential perpetrator out of the bar and into the street before he knows what's going on.I always tell people that most sex murderers and serial rapists have become good at dominating, manipulating, and controlling, and that I'm trying to master the exact same skills in another setting.To say the least, I have improved. When I graduated high school, I still wanted to be a veterinarian, but I didn't get enough test scores to get into Cornell.Based on my test scores, I can only go to Montana State University to study a related subject.And so, in September 1963, a boy raised in Brooklyn and Long Island, I set off for the middle of the vast country. Once I arrived in Bozeman, I experienced culture shock like never before. I wrote in an early letter home: "Accept greetings from Montana, where a man is a man and a coward in fear." As Montana seems to have all the stereotypes and clichés of what I think of as the frontier west Thinking that way, I gave the impression of the locals as a standard easterner.I belonged to the local chapter of a fraternity whose members were almost exclusively local boys, so I seemed unnatural.I liked to wear black hats, black clothes, and long sideburns, like West Side Story, and that’s how New Yorkers like me came across at the time. So I took full advantage of that.Whenever I attend social gatherings, the locals will wear western costumes and dance two-step dances. I have been watching Chubby Checker’s dance teaching programs on TV with enthusiasm for the past few years, and I am familiar with every move and style of the waist-twist dance. .Since my sister Allen was four years older than me, she made me her practice dance partner early on, and I quickly became a dance instructor for the entire college community.I felt like a missionary in a backcountry where English had never been heard. My academic performance has always been less than ideal, and now my grades are slipping because I am so focused on other things.I had already worked as a doorman in a bar in New York, but in this part of Montana, the legal drinking age is 21, which really disappointed me.Unfortunately, I didn't let it get in my way. My first conflict with the law went like this: One of my fraternity buddies and I were out with two trendy girls we met at a home for unwed mothers.They look more mature than their peers.We stopped in front of a pub and I went in to buy a six-pack of beer. "Id, please," the bartender said, and I handed him an elaborately forged compulsory military service card.From my past experience as a janitor, I am well aware of the hidden dangers of forging ID cards. The guy looked at his ID and said, "Well, from Brooklyn? You guys from the east are big assholes, aren't you?" Now there are witnesses.I went back to the parking lot, and we were on the road afterwards, drinking.How would I have known that one of the girls threw an empty beer can in the boot of the car. Suddenly, I heard the siren of a police car.A policeman stopped us. "get off." We had to get out of the car.He started a body search, and even though I knew it was illegal at the time, I would never talk back to him.As he bent over, the pistol and baton were exposed, and a crazy idea flashed through my head: I could grab the baton, hit him on the head, take the pistol and run away.Fortunately, I did not take such a risk, otherwise the consequences would be disastrous.However, knowing that he was about to search me, I quickly took out my ID card from my wallet and stuffed it into my underwear. He took the four of us back to the police station and quarantined, and I was sweating nervously because I was worried that another guy would confess and implicate me. One officer said to me, "Okay, kid, tell us all about it. If the barman doesn't ask for your ID, we'll go back to him. We've had trouble with him before." I replied, "I'm from the East, where we don't snitch. We don't do that kind of thing." I sounded like George Raft, but in fact I thought to myself: Of course he would. Passed my ID and I was presented with a fake document!In the process, the certificate had fallen from the underwear, and it was tightly pressing on my vital parts.I don't know if they're going to subject us to stripping or something.I mean, this place looks like a frontier to me, and God knows what they're up to.So I quickly took stock of the situation and pretended to be unwell.I told them I was sick and needed to go to the bathroom. They allowed me to go to the loo alone, but I'd seen a lot of movies, so when I went in, I looked in the wall mirror in case they were spying on me from the other end.I walked to the other end of the toilet, reached into my underwear, took out my ID card, and then went to the sink and pretended to vomit to avoid being watched.I went into the toilet stall, threw my draft card down the toilet, flushed it, and walked back with more confidence.I ended up being fined $40 and put on probation. My second encounter with the Bozeman police was my sophomore year in college, and it was even worse. I was at a rodeo with two other guys from the East and a guy from Montana.After the finale, we drove off in a 1962 Studebaker with beer in the car, and we got into trouble again.Snowflakes were flying all over the sky that day.It was the lad from Boston who was driving, I was in the front passenger seat, and the local guy sat between us.Somehow, the motorist drove past the stop sign at the intersection.And guess what?A policeman happened to be standing there.This seemed to be the hallmark of my Montana career.People always say that when you need to call the police, they're nowhere to be seen.Despite this, Bozeman in 1965 was not the case. I can't believe that my fraternity idiot dude won't stop!After he drove by, the policeman was in hot pursuit. We threw beer cans out of the car every time we turned to temporarily avoid the sight of the police.We drove on until we came to a residential area and sprinted over a bump in the road to keep cars from going too fast: Boom!Boom!Boom!There was a roadblock ahead; the policeman must have radioed the police ahead.We skirted the barricade and went straight across someone's lawn.I kept yelling, "Stop the damn car! I'm getting out!" and the idiot just wouldn't stop.The car was driving at high speed, and the snow was still overwhelming.Behind us we heard sirens go off. We rushed to an intersection.He slammed on the brakes and made a 360-degree turn. The door burst open and I was thrown out of the car.I clung to the car door, dragging my ass across the snow.Suddenly someone yelled, "Run!" We ran at full speed, each heading in a different direction.I ended up running into an alley, found an empty pick-up truck, and dove right in.I threw away my black hat on my escape and put on a reversible black jacket with a gold reverse, so I wore the jacket inside out, with the gold side out to hide it.However, I was sweating profusely and fogged up the car windows.I thought to myself: Oh, hell, so they can find me.And I'm worried the owners could come back at any moment and they might be carrying guns in this area.I wiped a small patch of fog from the window and looked out, and there was a lot of activity around our abandoned car: police cars, dogs, everything.Then they drove the police car down the alley, and the flashlight shone on the pickup truck, and I was so nervous that I almost peed my pants.But I couldn't believe it, they didn't find me hiding in the car and drove straight past! I sneaked back to school and everyone heard about it.I found out me and two eastern guys got away and the cops got hold of the Montana guy and he's told the truth.He gave us our names, and the police took us away.When they came to get me, I pleaded guilty to get a lighter sentence, I said I wasn't driving, I was scared, I begged the guy who was driving to stop.The Bostonians who drove were thrown into prison cells with only box spring beds without mattresses, bread and boiled water, and the full set of prison uniforms required to wear.Miraculously, however, I still had good luck and was again fined $40 and given probation. But the police notified the school and my parents, who were furious when they heard the news.And my studies were a mess.I had a D average in all subjects, including a failing speech class for never showing up, which was the lowest I'd gotten in years because I'd always considered speaking to be my strongest suit.I didn't try to get out of this predicament.By the end of my second year, it was clear that my adventures in the Westfall had come to an end. If all my memories of this period seemed to be ones of bad luck and self-destructive careers, it seemed to me that it was.I left college and came home, living under the watchful eye of my parents, who were not without disappointment.My mother was especially sad when she learned that I would never be a veterinarian again.As usual, when I couldn't make up my mind what to do, I relied on my sporting talents again and got a job as a lifeguard in the summer of 1965.At the end of the summer, instead of going back to college, I took a job managing the health club at the Holiday Inn Patchogue. Soon after I started working there, I met Sandy, who was the hostess at the hotel's cocktail party.She was young and beautiful, with a young son, and I fell head over heels for her in no time.She was absolutely stunning in that barbequer's trumpet uniform.She seemed to like me as I was in great shape thanks to regular exercise and fitness.I was living at home and she kept calling me.My father said to me, "Who the hell is calling you all the time? And you can always hear a baby crying in the background." Living at home is no time for doing good, but Sandy told me that someone who works in a hotel can rent an unbooked room very cheaply.So one day we both entered a guest room. Early the next morning, the phone rang.She answered the phone and all I heard was: "No! No! I don't want to talk to him!" Half asleep and half awake, I asked, "Who is it?" She said, "It's from the main station. They say my husband is here and he's going upstairs." Now I was wide awake and said, "Your husband? What does that mean, your husband? You never told me you were married!" She pointed out that she never told me she was divorced, and then explained that they had separated. No big deal, I thought.That's when I heard the madman rushing down the aisle. He started pounding on the door. "Sandy! I know you're in there, Sandy!" There was a glass shutter in the guest room that opened onto the passage, and he was tugging at the windows, trying to tear them from their frames.Meanwhile, I was looking for a place to jump - we were on the second floor of the hotel - but there were no windows for me to jump into. I asked her, "Is this guy carrying a gun or something?" "He sometimes carries a dagger," she said. "Oh, damn it! This is good! I must get out of here. Open the door." I got into a boxing stance.She opened the door.The gentleman rushed in and came straight at me.But at this moment, he saw the outline of my figure.I must have looked tall and strong, so he changed his mind and stopped. But he's still yelling, "You son of a bitch! Get the hell out of here!" I thought to myself, I've been showing manly masculinity for a day, and it's still early, and I said politely, "Okay, sir. I'm actually getting ready to go." Once again I turned the corner, Fur escaped another embarrassing situation unscathed.Yet I couldn't get around the fact that everything in my life was messed up.Incidentally, I also crashed the front axle of my dad's Saab while he was racing it against my friend Bill Turner's red MGA. One Saturday morning, my mother walked into my room with a letter from the Selective Service saying they wanted to make an appointment with me.I came down to Whitehall Street in Manhattan, along with 300 other people, for a military service medical.They made me do deep knee bends, and you could hear my knees snap when I bent over.Like Joe Namath, I had the cartilage removed from a football injury, although his lawyer must have been better at it.They delayed my decision to hire me or not, but finally informed me that Uncle Sam really needed me.Rather than take my chances in the Army, I immediately signed up for the Air Force, which meant four years of service, but I figured the Air Force would provide a better educational opportunity.Maybe this is what I need to get.I'm pretty sure I've pretty much squandered educational opportunities in New York or Montana. I chose the Air Force for another reason.The year was 1966, and the Vietnam War was escalating.I'm not a political person, and generally I consider myself a supporter of Kennedy's Democrats because my father was an officer in the Long Island Printing Union.But I am not reconciled to working my life for a cause that I only have a vague idea of.I remember an aviation mechanic telling me at the time that only the officers in the Air Force—that is, the pilots—go to the front and the soldiers stay behind to provide support.Since I had no intention of being a pilot, this scenario sounded right to my liking. I was sent to Amarillo, Texas for basic training.There were 50 people in our training class, about half of them were New Yorkers like me, half of them were Southern guys from Louisiana.The instructors always have a hard time with northerners, but most of the time I think that's justified.I like being around Southerners, I find them more lovable and far less obnoxious than my New York buddies. Basic training is stressful for many young people.I have been severely disciplined by coaches in team sports, and I admit that I have been in trouble for the past few years, so I regard the scolding by the training instructor as a joke.I could tell what brains and mental tricks the trainer was playing, and I've always had a great physique, so basic training was no problem for me.I quickly became an expert shooter with an M16 automatic rifle, perhaps because I had developed a knack for aiming as a pitcher in high school.My only experience with a gun before joining the military was as a teenager with an air rifle aimed at streetlights. During basic training, I once again gained a reputation for being a troublemaker.Because of my shortness of breath after lifting weights and my cropped head, people called me "Russian Bear".Someone in the other squad got a similar nickname, and someone came up with the brilliant idea that a boxing match between the two of us would do a lot to boost morale at the base. This boxing match can be regarded as a major event at the base.We are evenly matched, and neither of us is willing to show weakness and make concessions.As a result, the two sides played hard, and the bridge of my nose was broken for the third time (the first two were playing football in high school). Whether it was good or bad, I ended up finishing third overall in the class of 50 people.After passing basic training, I took a series of tests and was told that I was fully eligible to attend radio intercept school.But the school was full, and I didn't really want to wait until the next semester started, so they made me work as a clerical typist, even though I couldn't type at all.About a hundred miles away, at Cannon Air Force Base outside Clovis, New Mexico, there was a vacancy in the personnel department. That's how I ended up getting assigned there, spending the day laboriously typing out DD214, Veteran's file, with two fingers.While I was working for that idiot sergeant, I thought, I must get out of this place. Here again I have a lucky star.Next door to the personnel department is the secret service department.Hear me out, most people would think that was referring to special forces like the Green Berets.But this is the special service department, to be more specific, it is the sports special service department.With my background, working there is the best way to achieve the necessary time to serve the country. I started snooping around, eavesdropping at the door, and I heard someone inside say, "This project is dying. We just can't find anyone." I thought to myself: Now is my chance!I walked up and down, knocked at the door at last, and said, "Hello! My name is John Douglas. Allow me to introduce myself." As I introduced them, I watched their reactions and "profiled" the kind of person they needed.I knew it was going to work because they kept looking at each other like, "This is a miracle! He's exactly what we're looking for!" And so they transferred me from HR, and from that day on, I would never have to wear a uniform again.They made me a soldier in charge of all sports for extra pay, and I was eligible to take self-examination courses.The education program is funded by the government to cover 75% of tuition fees, and students attend classes in the evenings and weekends.I do.Classes are held 20 miles away at Eastern New Mexico University in Portales.In order to reverse the unfavorable situation of a D average grade during college, I must get an A in all courses before I can continue to take self-study exam courses.But for the first time in my life, I felt like I had a purpose in life. I have represented the Air Force Base in competitive sports such as tennis, soccer, and badminton.Because of my outstanding performance, they decided to let me manage the golf course and golf pro shop on the base, even though I had never played golf in my life.That's what I looked like when I ran golf tournaments in my Arnold Palmer suit. One day the base commander walked in and wanted to know what compression factor ball should be used for that game.I don't know what he said, and it turned out that I was found to be an imposter again, just like the book report almost 10 years ago. "How on earth did you get in here to manage?" He asked the truth.Afterwards I was transferred from the golf course to the Ladies Gemstone Department.That sounded exciting enough that I later found out that this department was for stonework.I was also assigned to manage the ladies' pottery and the officers' club swimming pool.I can't help but wonder: Those officials are risking their lives flying over Vietnam, and I'm here to move chairs and hand towels for their frivolous wives, teach their children how to swim, and they pay me extra for it, What the hell is going on to get me into a college degree? Another of my duties seemed to take me back to my days as a janitor.The swimming pool is next to the officers' club, which is often filled with young pilots coming to Tactical Air Command for training.On more than one occasion, I stepped forward to pull drunk-crazed, tangled pilots away, sometimes pulling them away from me. Nearly two years into my Air Force service, I was working on my undergraduate degree when I learned of a local agency that helped disabled children.They needed help with their entertainment, so I volunteered.Once a week, I lead about fifteen children, accompanied by several non-military personnel, either rollerblading, or playing miniature golf or bowling, or doing some kind of skill that allows the children to develop their own independent skills exercise. Most children are challenged with severe disabilities, such as blindness, congenital dementia or severe loss of motor control.It's a demanding job, for example, where you're pulling a child around and around the field while trying to keep them out of harm's way.Still, I absolutely love the job.In fact, I have rarely experienced such joy in my life. When I parked the car in front of the school every week, the children would run out to meet me, surround the car, and hug them as soon as I got out of the car.At the end of each activity, they watched me leave with reluctance, and I also felt bad for having to leave.I got so much satisfaction out of it, a sense of camaraderie and companionship that I couldn't get anywhere else at this stage of my life, so I started going there at night to tell stories to the kids. The healthy, so-called normal kids I worked with on the base were used to being the center of attention, getting everything they craved from their parents.相比之下，我的那些“特殊”孩子则反差鲜明，他们非常感激别人对他们做出的一切，而且尽管身患残疾，却总是待人友善和渴望冒险。 我并没有意识到自己跟孩子们相处时的大部分举动都被别人看在了眼里。我对此竞从未有所察觉，这一点足以说明我的观察力如何！总之，我的“表现”受到了东新墨西哥大学心理系的评估，后来他们主动为我提供了一份攻读特殊教育专业的四学年奖学金。 虽然一直向往的是攻读工业心理学，我倒也非常喜欢孩子们，心想也许这是一个很好的选择。事实上，我可以留在空军，并以此为职业成为一名军官。我向由文职人员主管的基地人事部门递交了提供奖学金的有关文件。他们经过一番斟酌，认定空军并不需要拥有特殊教育学位的人员。我觉得这种决定很奇怪，因为基地有那么多的家属小孩。但那就是他们的决定。我放弃了以特殊教育作为职业的想法，但仍旧继续着我如此热爱的志愿服务者工作。 1969年圣诞节，我打算回家探亲。我必须驱车几百英里返回阿马里洛去搭乘飞往纽约的班机，可是我的大众牌甲壳虫车经不住这种长途跋涉。于是我在基地最要好的朋友罗伯特·拉丰把他的卡曼基亚车换给我作长途旅行。我不愿错过特勤部门的圣诞晚会，而跟他换车是我赶到阿马里洛准时搭乘班机的惟一办法。 我在拉瓜迪亚机场走下飞机时，父母已来接我了。他们面色凝重，好像患了战斗疲劳症，我不清楚个中原委。毕竟我的人生已有改观，总算能让他们没有理由对我感到失望了。 原来他们接到通知，说是有位身份不详的大众车驾驶人员在基地附近出车祸身亡，有关失事车辆的描述与我的车子正相吻合。在看见我走下飞机以前，他们一直不知道我是死是活。 原来罗伯特·拉丰像许多其他人一样在圣诞晚会上喝得酩酊大醉，不省人事。当时在场的人告诉我，有几名军官和军士把他架出去送进我的车子里，将车钥匙插入点火装置。当他清醒过来后，便试图驶离基地。当时天下着雪，地面已上冻；他一头撞上了一辆客货两用车，车上坐有一位母亲和她的孩子们。谢天谢地，他们都安然无恙，可坐在我那辆不堪一击的车子里的罗伯特·拉丰却猛地撞上方向盘，冲出了挡风玻璃，不幸丧身。 这件事一直困扰着我。我们交往甚密。我总在想，要是他没有借给我他那辆好车，悲剧兴许就不会发生。返回基地后，我必须去认领他的遗物，把他的所有私人物品打包装箱，寄给了他的家人。我好几次回到出事地点去看我那辆破烂车，经常梦见罗伯特和那场车祸。那天我还同他一道去为他远在佛罗里达州彭萨科拉的父母亲购买圣诞礼物，而就在礼物寄到家的当天，基地的军官也赶到他家，告诉了他父母这一噩耗。 我不只是悲伤难过，而且义愤填膺。我就像日后成为调查人员时那样，不断向人打听，最后把我认为应对此事负责的目标缩小到两个人。我找到了他们的办公室，一把揪住他们，把他们顶在墙上，然后挨着个狠狠揍了一通。其他人不得不上来将我们拉开。我非常愤怒，才不在乎是不是会因此上军事法庭呢。在我眼里，就是他们杀害了我最要好的朋友。 上军事法庭将是很棘手的事情，因为法庭将不得不先审理我对这两人的正式指控。再说，当时美国对越南的军事介入正处于收尾阶段，军方会让服役期还剩几个月的士兵提早退役。因此为了大事化小，人事部门便让我提前几个月退伍了。 在空军服役期间，我完成了大学本科学业，并开始攻读工业心理学的硕士学位。如今我的生活来源是美国《大兵法案》所保障的生活费，住的是克洛维斯的一套无窗地下室公寓，每周租金7美元，终日要与体长3英寸的水蝽军团作战，每当我走进房间打开电灯时，它们就会排出进攻队形。由于不再能使用基地的良好设施，我参加了一个设施陈旧的廉价健身俱乐部，其氛围和内部装修与我那套地下室公寓相差无几。 1970年秋天，我在俱乐部结识了一个名叫法兰克·海恩斯的家伙，后来才晓得他是联邦调查局的特工。他在克洛维斯单独主管一个办事处。我们在健身俱乐部相处得很好。后来他告诉我，他是从已退休的基地司令官那里听说我的情况的，于是开始设法激起我对加盟联邦调查局的兴趣。坦率地说，我压根就没想过要去从事执法工作。我打算一拿到工业心理学学位就以此谋职。供职于一家大公司，处理诸如人事安排、雇员援助和压力管理一类的事务看上去会提供给我一个稳定而可测的未来。到眼下为止，我与联邦调查局只打过一次直接交道。那是在蒙大拿的时候，有一回我托运回家的皮箱被盗了，当地一名特工约见了我，认为我有可能精心策划了这起失窃事件，以骗取保险金。不过那件事最后不了了之。如果说联邦调查局办理的就是这类案子，那么在我看来，这种差使并没有什么大不了的。 法兰克却执意认为我会成为一名出色的特工，不断地鼓励我加盟。他屡次邀请我上他家进餐，把我介绍给他的太太和儿子，还向我显示他的枪支和工资单存根，这两样东西我都望尘莫及。我得承认，与我那寒酸的生活相比，法兰克简直过着国王般的生活。于是我决定试一试。 法兰克一直住在新墨西哥州，多年之后，我们又会相遇，那时我为一桩杀人案的审判出庭作证，而这案子就是他经办的。凶手以残忍的手段杀害了一位妇女，又将尸体焚烧，以逃避侦破。不过话说回来，对这种办案工作我在1970年的秋天是根本料想不到的。 法兰克将我的申请表送交阿尔伯克基的外勤工作站。他们对我进行了专为非律师人士设计的标准法律考试。尽管我体格健壮，肌肉发达，按照联邦调查局的标准，以我6英尺2英寸的身高，220磅的体重已经超标25磅。调查局里惟一一位体重超标的人便是那位传奇般的局长埃德加·胡佛本人。我在两个星期里除了诺克斯牌减肥凝胶品和煮得很老的鸡蛋，别的什么都不吃，好歹把体重降了下来。同时我还连续剃了三次头才被认为可以拍摄身份证用照。 最后到了11月份，我接到了试用期任命书，起薪为10，869美元。我总算搬出了那套令人沮丧的无窗地下室公寓。倘若我当时就知道，我在调查局的大半职业生涯将在另一间无窗地下室里度过，而追踪的是更加令人沮丧的案子，真不知我那时会作何感想。