Time Bomb

11

I let him in and sat him down on the leather sofa. He sobbed tearlessly for a while, making dry, choking noises, hid his face in his hands, then looked up and said, “Doctor…”

Then nothing.

I waited.

His glasses had slid down his nose. He righted them. “I… May I please use your… facilities?”

I pointed him down the hallway to the bathroom, went into the kitchen, made strong coffee, and brought it back, along with cups and a bottle of Irish whisky. I heard the toilet flush. A few minutes later he came back, sat down, folded his hands in his lap and stared at the floor, as if memorizing the pattern on my Bukhara.

I put a cup of coffee into his hands and offered the whisky bottle. He shook his head. I spiked my own drink, took a long, hot swallow, and sat back.

He said, “This is… Thank you for allowing me into your home.” His voice was nasal, oboelike.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Burden.”

He shielded his face with one hand and moved it from side to side, as if trying to shake off a bad dream. The hand holding the cup trembled badly and coffee sloshed over the sides and onto the rug. He uncovered his face, put the cup down, rattling it against the glass top, snatched a napkin, and scrambled to mop up.

I touched his elbow and said, “Don’t worry about it.”

He backed away from the contact but allowed me to take the sodden napkin from his hand.

“I’m sorry… It… I don’t mean to intrude.”

I took the napkin into the kitchen in order to give him more time to compose himself. He got up and paced the room. I could hear his footsteps from the kitchen. Rapid, arrhythmic.

When I returned, his hands were back in his lap, his eyes back on the rug.

A minute passed slowly, then another. I drank coffee. He just sat there. When he made no attempt to speak, I said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Burden?”

He answered before the last word was out of my mouth. “Analyze her. Learn the truth and tell them they’re wrong.”

“Tell who?”

“Them. The police, the press, all of them. They’re delusional. Saying she shot at children, was some kind of homicidal monster.”

“Mr. Burden-”

He shook his head violently. “Listen to me! Believe me! There was no earthly way she would… could do anything like that. No way she would use a gun- she hated my… She was pacifistic. Idealistic. And never children! She loved children!”

I imagined the final scene in the storage shed. Her lair. Black clothing, a rifle, a cup of urine.

He shook his head, said, “Impossible.”

“Why come to me, Mr. Burden?”

“For analysis,” he said, with just a trace of impatience. “Psycho-analysis. That’s your specialty, isn’t it? Childhood motivation, thought processes of the developing organism. And despite her age, Holly was a child. Psychologically. Believe me, I should know. That would put her within your professional purview, wouldn’t it? Am I correct?”

When I didn’t respond right away, he said, “Please, Doctor. You’re a scholar, an in-depth man- this should be right up your alley. I know I’ve chosen right.”

He began reciting the titles of studies I’d published in scientific journals. Ten-year-old articles. In perfect chronological order. When he was finished, he said, “I do my research, Doctor. I’m thorough. When things count, it’s the only way.”

The sorrow gone from his face, replaced by a haughty smile- an A student expecting praise.

“How’d you find me, Mr. Burden?”

“After I spoke to the police it became clear to me they weren’t after the truth, had preconceived notions. Just plain lazy, concerned with wrapping things up. So I began observing the school, hoping to learn something- anything. Because nothing they told me made sense. I recorded the license plates of anyone going in and out of the school grounds and checked them against my files. Yours cross-checked with several of my lists.”

“Your lists?”

The oboe played a couple of long notes close to laughter. “Don’t be alarmed- it’s nothing ominous. Lists are my business. I should have mentioned that in the beginning. Mailing lists. Direct mail advertising. Applied demography. Data that can be called up with regard to occupation, ZIP code, marital status- any number of variables. You were on the mental health specialist list. Subclass 1B: Ph.D. clinical psychologists. Yet you weren’t the psychologist who’s been talking to the media, claiming he’s been treating the children. It made me curious. I investigated you further. What I learned gave me hope.”

“My journal articles gave you hope?”

“Your articles were good- scientifically sound. Relatively hard methodology for a very soft science. That showed me you’re a thorough thinker- not some civil servant just coasting. But what really heartened me were the data I obtained from the lay press- newspaper articles. The Casa de Los Niños case. The Cadmus scandal. You’re obviously a man who seeks the truth singlemindedly, doesn’t run from challenges. I’m a good judge of character. I know you’re the man for me.”

More A-student hubris. And something else: a hunter’s smile.

Where had the grief gone? A spooky little man.

I said, “Speaking of the truth, how about showing some identification. Just to be thorough.”

“Certainly. It always pays to be thorough.” He produced a cheap wallet and from it plucked a driver’s license, Social Security card, and several credit cards. The photo on the license had a furtive, sullen look that reminded me of a dead girl. I glanced at the credit cards, all gold, all in the name of Mahlon M. Burden. Returned to the license photo and stared at it some more.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “but for the most part, she resembled her mother.”

I gave him back his ID.

“She had her mother’s innate goodness, as well,” he said. “Compassion for all living things. This whole thing is a travesty- you’ve got to help me.”

“Mr. Burden, what is it exactly you think I can do for you?”

“Conduct a psycho-biography. The life and times of Holly Lynn Burden.” Mention of her name made his gaze waver for an instant; then it hardened with intent. “Apply the same tools of scholarship you apply to your research and become the resident expert on my little girl- on what made her tick. Delve as deep as you like. Be unsparing with your questions. Do whatever it takes to get to the root of this mess. Learn the truth, Dr. Delaware.”

I took my time answering. His eyes never left me.

“Sounds like you’re talking about two separate things, Mr. Burden. Reconstructing your daughter’s life- what’s known as a psychological autopsy. And vindicating her. One may not lead to the other.”

I waited for the explosion. What I got was more of the hunter’s smile.

“Oh, it will, Dr. Delaware. It will. A father knows.”

A father knows. A mother knows. How many times had I heard that before.

“There’s something you should know,” I said. “You’re obviously not happy with the way the police are handling things, but it was the police who called me in.”

“Unless you’d lie to make them happy, that doesn’t bother me.”

“Something else. I can’t promise you confidentiality. On the contrary. My first allegiance is to the children at Hale. My main goal is helping them cope with what happened, and I can’t let anything distract me from that. If I found out something negative about Holly and disclosing it would serve a therapeutic purpose, I’d disclose. Unpleasant things could become public knowledge.”

“I’m not frightened of the truth, Dr. Delaware. Solid data never scare me.”

Boasting. I thought of him surveilling me, from behind blackened windows. Using his “files” to invade my privacy. Using tears to gain entry into my lovely home.

Assuming the patient role so that I’d play therapist?

No matter what his motivation, I’d been manipulated. I took another sip of spiked coffee and experienced a wave of lightheadedness. Alcohol or the strangeness of the moment?

I put the cup down, sat back, crossed my legs, and studied him. Tried to regain objectivity, pull out of the sorrow-sympathy circuit that he’d instigated on my doorstep.

“I absolutely accept your contingencies,” he said. “Will you help me?”

He leaned forward on the sofa. Dry-eyed.

One part of me- the invaded householder- wanted him out of there. But I found myself considering his proposition. Because what he was offering me was exactly what I’d been telling everyone I wanted. A chance to understand the bogey-woman. The opportunity to mine some bit of information that might speed up the healing of the kids at Hale.

Delve as deep as you like. Be unsparing with your questions.

Given the recency of his tragedy, his inability at this point to confront what had really happened in the storage shed- that pledge meant little. He might start out by answering my questions and end up seeing me as the enemy. But somewhere in between, I might very well learn something.

At what price?

I said, “Give me some time to think about it.”

That didn’t please him; he tugged at the zipper-pull of his windbreaker, opened and closed the jacket, and kept staring at me, as if waiting for me to change my mind.

Finally he said, “That’s all I can ask, Doctor.”

He stood. Out came the cheap wallet. He handed me a white business card.

NEW FRONTIERS TECHNOLOGY, LTD.

MAHLON M. BURDEN, PRES.

A phone number with a Pacific Palisades exchange had been penciled beneath his name.

He said, “That’s a private line- very few people have it. Call me, twenty-four hours a day. Chances are I’ll be out of the office most of tomorrow- downtown, at Parker Center. Trying to get the police to release the… her body. But I’ll be picking up messages.”

His chin quivered and his face started to sag. Trying not to look at him, I saw him out the door.

I was still thinking about him when Milo called.

“Got a fix on your Honda,” he said. “New Frontiers Tech is Burden’s father’s company.”

“I know.” I told him about the visit.

“He dropped in on you, just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Traced you by running your plates?”

“That’s what he said.”

“You get any sense he was dangerous?”

“Not really. Just odd.”

“Odd in what way?”

“Calculating. Manipulative. But maybe I’m being too hard on him. The guy’s been through hell. Lord knows I’m not seeing him at his best.”

“Sounds to me like he piqued your professional curiosity.”

“Somewhat.”

“Somewhat. That mean you’re gonna take him up on his proposition?”

“I’m thinking about it. Any problem if I do?”

“Doesn’t bother me, personally, Alex, but are you sure you want to get in any deeper?”

“If I can learn something that would help the kids, I do. I made it clear to him that my first allegiance was to them. No confidentiality. He accepted it.”

“He accepts it for now. But look at the guy’s state of mind. Heavy denial: he’s still claiming she’s innocent. What happens when reality hits him? What happens after you go in and do your thing and come out concluding his little girl was a wacko with blood on the brain? How do you think he’ll accept that?”

“I raised that possibility with him.”

“And?”

“He said he was willing to take his chances.”

“Right. He also tell you it was his rifle she took to that shed? Apparently the guy’s a gun collector and she lifted one of his collectibles. What do you think that does to his ability to think straight about this?”

She hated my…

“When did you learn this?”

“Extremely recently.” Pause. “Sources at the ballistics lab.”

He cursed. I couldn’t tell how much of his resentment came from having to get facts on the investigation secondhand, how much from the possibility I might work with Mahlon Burden.

“So,” I said, “you’re saying I should turn him down?”

“Me telling you what to do? Perish the thought. I just want you to think carefully about it.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Milo.”

“While you had him there, did you ask him about the boyfriend?”

“I didn’t ask him about anything. Didn’t want to engage him until I was sure which way I was going to take it.”

“Sounds like you’re already engaged, pal. Only question is, when’s the wedding?”

“What’s bugging you, Milo?”

“Nothing. Oh, hell, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the idea of you working for the other side.”

“Not for. With.”

“Same difference.”

“What puts him on the other side, anyway?”

“Good guys and bad guys. Know of a more meaningful distinction?”

“He didn’t pull the trigger, Milo. All he did was sire her.”

“She was nutso. Where did it come from?”

“What, guilt by procreation?”

A long, uncomfortable silence.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said. “Where’s my milk of human compassion for him- he’s a victim too. It’s just that I called you in to help the kids. Trying to do something positive in the middle of all this crap. I guess I don’t want to see you used- to whitewash what she did.”

“That would be impossible. What she did is indelible, Milo.”

“Yeah. Okay, sorry. Don’t mean to ride you. It’s just been a terrific day. Just got back from another crime scene. Toddler murder.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Pure shit. Two-year-old victim. Mom’s boyfriend gets loaded on ice and dust and God knows what else, uses the baby for punching practice. Neighbors heard the kid wailing all day, called Protective Services two weeks ago. Social workers came down last week, evaluated, wrote it up as ‘high risk,’ recommended removal from the home. But they hadn’t gotten around to processing it yet.”

“Jesus.”

“Processing,” he said. “Don’t you just love that? Like sausage. Shit into the grinder, out the other end, tagged and wrapped. Can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings. What new load of garbage will need to be processed.”