her friendship, and with it—whether she liked it or not—came a buttinsky maternal instinct that Gwen couldn’t even explain to herself.
Gwen was fifteen years older than Maggie, and ever since the two met, back when Maggie was a forensic intern at Quantico and Gwen a consulting psychologist, Gwen had felt a protectiveness toward Maggie that she had never experienced before. She had always believed she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. But for some reason she became the proverbial mama bear, ready to claw the eyes out of anyone who threatened to hurt Maggie.
Now Gwen shoved her menu aside, ready to play psychologist, friend and mother. She hadn’t learned how to separate those roles. So what if she never did. Maggie could use someone to look after her, whether she believed it or not.
“What brought you to the city? Something at headquarters?”
Maggie worked out of Quantico in the Behavioral Science Unit and rarely made it to FBI headquarters at Ninth and Pennsylvania Avenue.
Maggie nodded. “Just got back from visiting Ganza. But I was out at Arlington before that. Today was Agent Delaney’s funeral.”
“Oh, Maggie. I didn’t realize.” Gwen watched her friend, who was doing an excellent job of avoiding Gwen’s eyes, sipping her Scotch, rearranging the cloth napkin on her lap. “Are you okay?”
“Sure.”
It came too quickly and too easily, which for Maggie meant “No, of course not.” Gwen waited out the silence, hoping for more. Maggie opened her menu. Okay, so this was going to take some pulling and prodding. Not a problem. Gwen had a Ph.D. in pulling and prodding, though officially her certificate called it a Ph.D. in psychology. Same difference.
“On the phone, you sounded like you needed to talk.”
“Actually, I’m working a case and could use your professional insight.”
Gwen checked Maggie’s eyes. That’s not what she meant earlier on the phone or she would have said so. Okay, so if her friend wanted to talk shop and put off the real stuff, Gwen could be patient. “What’s the case?”
“The standoff at the cabin. Cunningham wants a criminal profile of these guys, so that we might connect them to whatever organization they belong to. Because six young men certainly didn’t do this on their own.”
“Right. Yes, of course. I read something about that in the Washington Times.”
“And the criminal psychology of adolescent male minds is your new specialty,” Maggie said with a smile that Gwen recognized as pride. “Why would six teenage boys put down their guns, take cyanide capsules and then lie down and wait to die?”
“Without knowing any of the details, my first reaction is that it wasn’t their idea. They simply did what they were told or instructed to do by someone they feared.”
“Feared?” Maggie looked suddenly interested, leaning in, elbows on the table, her chin on her hands. “Why do you automatically say feared? Why not because they believed so strongly in their cause? Isn’t that the reasoning behind most of these groups?”
A waiter delivered Gwen’s glass of chardonnay and she thanked him. She wrapped her hands around the glass and set the wine swirling. “At that age they don’t necessarily know what they believe. Their opinions, their ideas are still easily molded and manipulated. But boys usually have a natural tendency to fight back. There’s actually a physiological reason for that.”
Gwen sipped her wine. She didn’t want to sound like she was lecturing Maggie on something she already knew, but her friend seemed eager to hear more, so she continued, “It’s not just their higher levels of testosterone, but boys have lower levels of the neurotransmitter serotonin. And serotonin inhibits aggression and impulsivity. That could explain why more males—especially adolescent males—than females carry through with suicide, become alcoholics or shoot up school yards as a way to solve their problems.”
“Also why their first instinct when trapped in a cabin with an arsenal of guns would be to think they could impulsively shoot their way out.” Maggie sat back and shrugged. “Which brings me back to the same question, why lie down and die?”
“Which brings me to my same answer.” Gwen smiled. “Fear. Someone may have had them convinced they had no alternative.” Gwen watched as Maggie cradled the Scotch. “But you already knew most of that, didn’t you? Come on, now, I’m not telling you anything new here. Why did you really call me for dinner? What do you really need to talk about?”
The silence continued longer than Gwen normally allowed.
“To be honest—” Maggie grabbed the menu again and avoided