Time Bomb (11 page)

“Doubtful,” I said. “Techniques like that have been used with chronically ill people—positive thinking, guided imagery, trying to get them to focus away from their discomfort. But generally those patients are screened and counseled first—encouraged to express their feelings before they try to clean their heads. That’s what our kids need right now. To unload.”

“So you’re saying this could hurt them—jam them up?”

“If they took it too seriously. It could also cause guilt problems if they started to view their fear and anger as ‘bad.’ To kids,
bad
means they’ve misbehaved.”

“Damn quacks,” she said, glaring at the cassette.

“Was there anything on the tape that would hold a child’s interest?”

“Not that I heard,” she said. “Just some ditsy music in the background and Dobbs droning on like some kind of oily guru. Real low budget.”

“Then there’s probably not much risk. The kids wouldn’t sit through it long enough to be damaged.”

“Hope so.”

“Low budget,” I said. “Just like Massengil’s interior decorating. I can see why that kind of thing would appeal to him—a quick fix, no mucking around with anything psychologically threatening. And outwardly cost-effective—two hundred kids treated at one time. Dobbs could probably rig up some computerized test showing the kids were doing great; then the two of them throw a press conference and end up heroes.”

I put the tape in my pocket. “I’ll take it home and give it a listen.”

She said, “What really burns me is the grief we go through trying to get mental health funds out of the legislature. They’re always demanding outcome studies, proof of efficacy, pages of statistics. Then a creep like Dobbs gets his mouth on the government tit with this kind of nonsense.”

“That’s because the creep has a special in.”

“What?”

“I can’t be certain but I’d be willing to bet he’s Massengil’s therapist.”

She lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows. “Old Blowhard in analysis? C’mon. You just said he wouldn’t go for anything psychologically threatening.”

“He wouldn’t. Dobbs probably couches it in nonthreatening—non
therapeutic
terminology. Muscle-relaxation training, management efficiency. Or even something quasi-religious—one of the seminars had something to do with the soul.”

“Down on the old knees and emote?”

“Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure there’s something going on between them.” I told her what I’d seen of the interchange between Dobbs and Massengil, the cues and covert looks. “When I hinted at exposing the nature of their relationship, Massengil almost lost his cookies.”

“Oh, boy,” she said. “There’s a charming image for you.” She touched a finger to her lips. “Wonder what kink he’s having straightened.”

“Maybe it’s temper control, or relief of some kind of stress-related symptom like hypertension. Dobbs seemed accustomed to calming him down and Massengil obeyed him. As if they’d practiced together.”

“A minor league Eagleton,” she said, shaking her head. “Wouldn’t play too well with the good folks of Ocean Heights, would it?”

“Hence the seminar cover,” I said. “And extra payoffs to Dobbs for being discreet—like referrals after the earthquake. And the tapes. How much you want to bet Massengil’s office paid for them? For a minor investment Massengil’s buying the chance to come out of this whole thing smelling fragrant. He and Dobbs had no way of knowing I’d get there first—after Dobbs had already started talking to the press. The scandal potential is there. At the very least Massengil would look like a damn fool.”

She shook her head. “Same old story. You’d think I’d get used to it. I hope all of this hasn’t soured you too much.”

I realized that talking about it had leeched the anger out of my system. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse. Anyway, I’m here to work. How many kids showed up?”

“A few more than yesterday, but not nearly enough. A lot of the parents couldn’t be reached by phone during working hours. Carla and I will try again tonight.”

I noticed how tired she looked and said, “Nice to see you haven’t been soured.”

She examined a cuticle. “One does what one can.”

I said, “I see the school guard is gone.”

“Must mean we’re safe, huh?”

“You don’t feel safe?”

“Actually, I do. I truly believe Massengil brought things to a head. The worst is over.”

The look on her face didn’t jibe with her words. I said, “What is it, then?”

She opened a drawer, pulled out a manila envelope, and handed it to me.

Inside were three sheets of paper, one blue-ruled and torn from a spiral notebook, the others cheap white stationery, unmarked. The message on one of the white sheets had been typewritten on an old manual; the other was handwritten in very dark penciled block letters. The blue-ruled sheet was covered with bird-scratch red-ballpoint cursive.

Different hands, the same message:

SPICK LOVER!!! FUCK YOU MONGREL RACEMIXER BICHES!!!

YOUR DAY OF RECKON IS SOON. REPENT OR BURN WITH ALL NIGGER TYPES IN DAMN NIGGER HELL . . .

ILLEAGALS GO BACK TO BEANERLAND. NO MORE STEALING JOBS FROM AMERICAN WORKING PEOPLE. . .WHITE PEOPLES LIBERATION FRONT.

She said, “I used to get this kind of swill regularly, but it had stopped. Guess it brings back memories of how rough things were in the beginning.”

“Have you told the police?”

She nodded. “I called that detective from the terrorist squad—Frisk. He had me read all of it to him over the phone, said he’d send someone over to pick up the letters. But he didn’t sound too hurried—kind of bored, actually. Didn’t care that I’d gotten my fingerprints all over it or that Carla had thrown out the envelopes. I asked him about putting the guard back on duty, just for a while. The guy was no great shakes but better than nothing, right? Frisk said the guard had been supplied by the school district and it was out of his bailiwick, but that it really didn’t seem to be anything to worry about—the perpetrator had acted alone. I asked him what about copycats, and he said that was highly unlikely.”

“Did you tell him about the crossbearer?”

“Old Elijah? That’s how I think of him—crazy prophet, down from the hills. I mentioned it, but Frisk said there was nothing he could do unless the turkey actually broke a law or unless I went to court and got a restraining order. Incidentally, he showed up again this morning—Elijah. Shouting through the fence about hell and perdition. I went out to him and told him he’d done good work here—everyone had heard the word. Then I asked if I could read his Bible with him. He jumped on that, turned to something from Jeremiah, death and destruction of the Holy Temple. You should have seen the two of us, reciting out on the sidewalk. After we finished I told him he should check out Hollywood Boulevard—lots of needy spirits aching for salvation over there. He called me a woman of valor, blessed me, and marched away singing.”

When I stopped laughing. I said, “Crisis intervention. You’ve got the knack, Doctor.”

“Right. All the time I was stroking the moron’s ego, what I really wanted to do was give him a good kick in the pants.”

“Any word from Frisk on when the kids will be allowed back in the yard?”

“They’re allowed as of this morning. When he said there was nothing to worry about security-wise, I asked him about releasing the yard. He said, ‘Oh, yeah, sure, go ahead.’ He’d clearly forgotten about it—no big deal to him that we’ve had to keep two hundred kids cooped up. We are not talking paragon of sensitivity.”

I said, “Did he have anything more to say about the shooting?”

“Not a blessed thing. And I asked.”

“Did you tell him about Ferguson knowing the Burden girl?”

She nodded. “He said to have her phone him—that same bored tone. Doing me a great big favor. Old Esme called in sick, so I phoned her at home and delivered the message. While I had her on the line I asked her what she remembered about the girl. Didn’t turn out to be much: Holly was a loner, not very bright, tended to space out in class, had trouble learning. But she did have one nugget of gossip—the girl had a black boyfriend. Old Esme lowered her voice when she delivered that. As if I cared. As if it really mattered, now. She also said the father’s got a reputation for being a little strange. Works out of his house, some kind of inventor—no one’s really sure how he supports himself. Incidentally, I did paw through our old records and found nothing on her. Apparently all the records that old were brought downtown. I called downtown and they informed me a manual search was being made of her transcripts; anything to do with her was classified information, orders of the police.”

“A boyfriend,” I said.

“You think that’s significant?”

“Not that he was black. But if the relationship was relatively recent, he might be able to tell us something about Holly’s state of mind. Did Ferguson say anything else about him besides that he was black?”

“Just that. Capital B. When I didn’t comment on it, Esme started making flu noises and I hung up.”

“Somehow I sense she’s not your favorite person.”

“I’m sure it’s mutual. She’s a grind, biding her time until pension. I wouldn’t count on getting any insight from her on the Burden girl or anything else.”

I said, “Speaking of insight, has Ahlward or anyone else from Latch’s office called yet?”

“About what?”

“Vis-à-vis informational flow,” I said in a puffed-up voice. “We good folks were supposed to get anything we wanted as soon as the police gave the old green light, right?”

“Promises, promises.”

“Not that it matters, at this point. In fact it’s better he’s stayed away. The kids don’t need any more political involvement.”

“Neither do the adults,” she said.

The noon bell rang outside in the hallway, loud enough to vibrate the office walls. I got up. “Time to heal young minds.”

She walked me to the door. “In terms of reaching the parents, I don’t know if Friday gives us enough time. How about Monday?”

“Monday would be fine,” I said.

“Okay. We’ll keep calling. I want you to know I really appreciate all you’re doing.”

She looked beaten.

I felt like putting my arms around her. Instead I smiled and said, “Onward.
Non illegitimati carborundum.”

“Ah, on top of everything else, the man’s a Latin scholar. Sorry, Prof. I took Spanish.”

I said, “Inscription on ancient Roman tomb: Don’t let the bastards wear you down.”

She threw back her head and laughed. I kept the sound in my head as I went to class.

9

The children greeted me with eagerness, talking freely. I had the younger ones build replicas of the storage shed with blocks, manipulate figurines representing Holly Bur-den, Ahlward, the teachers, themselves. Acting out the shooting, over and over, until boredom set in and visible anxiety diminished. The older students wanted to know what had caused Holly Burden to go bad, caused her to hate them. I assured them she hadn’t targeted them, had been deranged, out of control. Regretted having little with which to back that up.

A sixth-grader said, “What made her crazy?”

“No one knows.”

“I thought that was your job, knowing what makes people crazy.”

I said, “
Trying
to know. There’s still a lot we don’t understand about craziness.”

“I got an aunt who’s crazy,” said a girl.

“She got it from you,” said the boy next to her.

And they were off. . . .

I walked out of the last classroom sapped but feeling a sense of accomplishment, wanted to share that feeling with Linda and brighten up her day. But her office was locked and I left the school.

As I got in the Seville I noticed a car turn a corner and approach. Slowly. Silver-gray Honda. Dirty. Black windows.

It pulled up alongside me, stopped.

I power-locked the Seville. The Honda remained in place, engine idling, then suddenly drove off.

I snapped my head around and made out four digits and three letters of a license number. Held the information in my head until I could retrieve pen and paper from my briefcase and write it down. Then I sat there trying to figure it out.

Some kind of intimidation?

Or just a curious local, checking out the carpetbaggers?

I thought of the racist filth Linda had shown me and wondered if there could be a connection.

I looked over at the school grounds, graying in the autumn twilight. A handful of students remained in the yard, waiting to be picked up, playing under the watchful eyes of a teacher’s aide. The school buses were gone, transporting kids from suburbia back to the mean streets—but which streets were meaner?

I watched the children frolic. Enjoying their newly paroled schoolyard.

Hide and seek.

Kickball. Hopscotch.

Losing themselves in the game of the moment.

So trusting it hurt.

I looked up and down the street before pulling out. Drove home too fast and kept checking my rearview mirror.

The first thing I did when I got in the house was pick up the phone and dial West L.A. Robbery-Homicide.

This time, the new D-Three was in.

“Hey, Alex. Got your message, tried to call. Kind of crazy right now—”

“Strange things are happening, Milo. Let’s talk.”

“Sure. Later,” he said, in a voice that let me know he wasn’t alone. “Let me handle a few things and I’ll get back to you on that.”

He rang the bell shortly before seven and, operating on reflex, went straight into the kitchen. I stayed on the leather sofa, watching the roundup of the news.

Nothing new on the shooting: just close-ups of Holly Burden’s yearbook picture, a School Board official reporting that a “detailed and extensive manual search of sev-eral years of school records” had confirmed her attendance and graduation from Nathan Hale Elementary School but revealed no new insights. Then more psychiatric speculation, including one theory that she’d returned to Hale to take revenge for some imagined slight. When asked to fill in the details, the psychiatrist demurred, saying he was speaking theoretically—in terms of “classical psychodynamic wisdom.” Dobbs came on again, in a segment that looked prerecorded. Caressing his watch fob, still talking about his treatment program at Hale, blasting “society.” I wondered how long he’d keep up the charade.