Part I is here.
I took the required courses. I learned all the hardwiring in regards to psychology, married that to my logic, my observational skills, and my instincts. But when it came time to do the work—to spend my days mired in the minds of cruel people and their heinous crimes—I balked. My sensitivities rejected the task. I spent a week lying in bed, crying for all the victims, before they finally relented. I would be no use to them in that state anyway.
So they married me off to a handler, someone they could trust and who would do the duty of keeping an eye on me. Our life was mundane to the extreme compared to the way I'd grown up, the ever-hanging sense of potential danger that had been the sky of my youth. We ate bagels and watched movies. (Bagels had never been present in my childhood home.) Sometimes, when I was very lucky and had behaved myself, I was allowed to go off on my own somewhere.
I had inherited my father's restlessness, brought on in large part by a quick mind. I hated feeling stuck or staying still. Once I turned my tracker off, just to see what would happen. Well, the result wasn't boring, but I probably wouldn't try it again.
Writing became an outlet. I had been designed to see what others did not, and to articulate those perceptions. Now and then, they would slide something across my desk and ask for my input. Fine. I have a family name to uphold, after all.