Time Bomb

5

I got home by eight, picked up calls, did paperwork and chores, then spent half an hour with a new acquisition: a cross-country skiing machine. A genuine implement of torture that left me a sopping ball of sweat. In the shower I kept thinking about terrified children and evil babysitters. So much for aerobic cleansing.

At nine I watched the news on one of the local stations. The shooting at Nathan Hale was the lead story: file clips of weeping kids followed by the official LAPD statement delivered by Lieutenant Kenneth Frisk. The ATD man was articulate and at ease with the cameras as he sidestepped questions; his designer duds and mustache, prop-room photogenic. New-age cop. Lots of style, very little substance.

Armed with few facts and needing to stretch the broadcast, the newspeople flashed more file clips: a segment on Massengil’s State House fistfight, a year before, with an assemblyman from the northern part of the state named DiMarco. The bout had taken place in the chambers of the legislature, the two of them going at it verbally- some esoteric issue having to do with gerrymandered districts. Massengil had come out of it without a scratch; DiMarco had suffered a bloody lip. The camera showed the loser pressing a crimson handkerchief to his mouth, then cut to footage taken today: DiMarco leaving his Sacramento office. Asked about Massengil’s temper and how he thought it related to the sniping, he passed up a chance for retribution, said it wouldn’t be prudent to comment at this time, got in his state-issued car and drove away. Discretion, or a loser’s reticence.

Next came a retrospective on Gordon Latch- the speedy, compressed history that only a TV photomontage can accomplish, beginning with a twenty-year-old film: Latch, hirsute and bright-eyed, marching with Mario Savio at Berkeley, shouting slogans, getting busted at the People’s Park. Cut to a hippie-style marriage in Golden Gate Park to the former Miranda Brundage. The bride, only child of a movie tycoon, former art history grad student at Berkeley, former Young Republican fashion plate programmed for Deliberate Understatement and the Junior League, had worn tie-dye.

Latch had radicalized her fast. She got arrested with him regularly, dropped out of school, lived in splendid Telegraph Avenue squalor. To the press, the irony was irresistible: In Hollywood circles, Fritz Brundage had long been regarded as a crypto-fascist- a prime mover behind the McCarthy-era blacklist and a passionate union-buster. The media covered his daughter’s wedding as if it were hard news. Latch played to the cameras, enjoying his role as First Radical. Soon after the wedding he took Miranda to Hanoi, recorded messages for the Viet Cong exhorting GIs to desert their posts. The networks were there with open mikes. The Latches returned to the United States topping the Ten Most Hated List, fielding death threats and possible prosecution for sedition.

They went into seclusion at a ranch owned by the old man. Somewhere up north. People wondered why Fritz had given them sanctuary. The government decided not to prosecute. There were rumors of Fritz’s calling in markers. Latch and Miranda stayed out of the public eye for five years, until Fritz died, then emerged, the heirs to a fortune. Freshly barbered and mature. Apologetic for Hanoi, self-proclaimed “democratic humanists,” eager to work within the system.

A move to the West Side of L.A., a couple more years of good works- environmental activism, groceries for the homeless, charity camps for disadvantaged youths- and Latch was ready for the electoral process: a City Council seat vacated by the car-crash death of a well-loved incumbent with a well-hidden drinking problem and an abhorrence for delegating authority. No designated successor, a sudden vacuum filled by Latch. And some generous monetary transfers from the former Brundage estate to the party’s coffers.

The only protests against Latch’s nomination came from veterans’ groups. Latch met with them, ate crow, said he’d grown up, had a vision for the city that transcended partisan politics. He ran against token opposition. Regiments of college students went door-to-door in the district distributing potholders and talking clean air. Latch won, made an acceptance speech that sounded downright middle-of-the-road. Miranda seemed content to host political teas.

She photographed well, I noticed. Kneeling on the beach scraping tar off an oil-slicked pelican.

End of montage. The anchorman offered a two-sentence review of the racial tensions at Hale. More shots of crying kids. Worried parents. A long view of the empty schoolyard.

The tail end of the story was an interview with a portly, white-bearded psychologist named Dobbs, billed as an expert on childhood stress who’d been enlisted by the School Board to work with the children. That held my attention.

Dobbs had on a three-piece suit that looked as if it had been woven from Shredded Wheat, and toyed with a heavy-looking watch chain as he spoke. His face carried a lot of loose flesh and he pursed his lips a lot, which made him look like a rubber Santa mask gone sour. He used home-grown jargon that made my head reel, talked a lot about crisis intervention and moral values- had plenty to say about how society had lost its moral fiber. I kept waiting for him to hold up a book jacket.

The phone interrupted his spiel.

“Dr. Delaware?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Linda Overstreet. You gave me this number, so I figured it was all right to use it.”

“Sure, Linda. What’s up?”

“Have you by any chance been watching the news?”

“Got it on screen right now.”

“So you saw him- Dobbs.”

“In all his tweedy glory.”

“He’s lying, believe me. No one called him in on anything. I know because I spoke to the Board this afternoon and they hadn’t gotten themselves in gear yet.”

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. What I do know is that Dobbs has got connections with the Board. So he probably assumed they’d give him the okay, just went steamrolling ahead on his own.”

“What kind of connections?”

“A couple of years back, after one of the earthquakes, he presented a very slick proposal to the Board: crisis intervention free of charge, at several schools- including the one where I was in training. What he actually ended up doing was having his assistants administer computerized tests to the kids and hand out brochures. Nothing hands-on. Couple of weeks later, some of the parents started getting phone calls informing them the tests had shown their kids to be suffering from severe emotional problems. Strongly advising them to bring the kids in for individual therapy. Those who resisted got follow-up calls, letters, not-so-subtle pressure. Funny thing is, all of the ones who were followed up lived in high-priced ZIP codes.”

“The poor get poorer and the rich get therapy?”

“Yup. The Board got a few complaints about the hard sell, but overall they were pleased with Dobbs because he hadn’t cost them a dime and they got testimonials from some of the parents of the kids who went for treatment, saying it had been helpful.”

“Are his credentials on the level?”

“Far as I know.”

“Hold on for a second. I’ll check.”

I went into the library, got an American Psychological Association directory, and came back on the line.

“What’s his first name?”

“Lance.”

I thumbed to the D’s, found a bio on Dobbs, Dr. Lance L., and skimmed it. Birthdate in 1943, Ph.D. 1980, in educational counseling from a land-grant college in the Midwest. Internship and postdoctoral training at a drug rehab center in Sacramento. State license in ’82. Director of Cognitive-Spiritual Associates, Inc., since ’83. Two addresses: West L.A. and Whittier.

“Looks bona fide,” I said.

“Maybe, but with assistants doing all the work, what’s the big deal if he himself is qualified? I see him as a self-promoter- the kind who loves to see himself on screen.”

“This is L.A.,” I said. “People demand more than their fifteen minutes of fame.”

She laughed. “So you’re not ticked off?”

“Why should I be?”

“You do the work; he takes the credit. Seems to me I spend half my time dealing with ego stuff, stepping on toes. Guess I’m sensitized to it.”

“My toes feel fine.”

“Okay,” she said. “I just wanted to keep things straight. If Dobbs’s people show up, I’ll handle it.”

“Thanks. And thanks for calling.”

“Sure.”

Silence.

I said, “How’s everything going at school?”

“Good as can be expected.” Her voice broke. “It’s just starting to sink in, how close we all came… what a mess the whole thing is.”

“How’re you doing?”

“Oh, I’ll survive. What I’m really concerned about is the kids. I talked to a few of the teachers and the feedback I got on your sessions was positive.”

“I’m glad.”

“How do they look to you- the kids?”

“Scared. But nothing abnormal. What’s encouraging is that they seem able to express it. You and the teachers have obviously done a good job over the past two years.”

“What are they scared of, specifically?”

“The youngest ones are concerned about separation from their parents, so you may see some school phobia and increased absenteeism from them. The older ones talked more about pain and suffering- trying to imagine what it felt like to be shot. Some discussion of death. Some anger’s starting to come out, too, which is good. Anger and fear are incompatible in kids- one drives out the other. If they can harness their anger and focus it, it’ll help them feel more in control in the long run.”

“Anger heals, huh?” she said. “Maybe I should try it.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Though I have to be honest: With adults the fear-anger thing isn’t that clear-cut.”

“Figures. Why should life be simple? Anything else I should know?”

“I’ve made a list of about twenty kids who seem extra-fragile. I’ll keep an eye out for others. Any of the high-risk kids who still look shaky within the next few days will need individual attention and I’ll want to meet with their parents.”

“When do you want the parents?”

“How about Friday?”

“I’ll get Carla on it first thing in the morning.”

“Thanks. How’re you doing with the parents- persuading them to send their kids back?”

“So far so good. I’ve been through this before, with the busing, so most of them trust me. But it’s not easy telling them we’ve provided a safe place for learning for their kids. We’ll keep trucking.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. I saw you leaving today with Detective Sturgis. Learn anything new on the sniper?”

Remembering Milo’s warning, I hedged. “The police don’t know much yet. Expect to be finding out more soon.”

“Sounds like the old cop shuffle.”

That reminded me of what Milo had told me about her father. “Guess you’d know about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Detective Sturgis told me you were a cop’s kid.”

“Did he?” she said, suddenly chilly. “Yes, that’s true. Well, have a good evening, and thanks again.”

“See you tomorrow, Linda.”

“Maybe not,” she said. “I’ll be running around all over the place. If you need anything, ask Carla. Good night.”

“Good night.”

I placed the phone in its cradle. The chill lingered. Milo hadn’t said anything about her being touchy about her background. I wondered about it. But not for long. Too many other things on my mind.

Tuesday morning was crystalline- the kind of nose-tweaking, palate-tickling weather L.A. earns after a storm. I checked the morning paper for an update on the shooting, found nothing, and scanned the TV and the all-news radio stations.

Just rehash. I returned calls, finished a couple of child-custody reports, working until just before noon, when I took a break for a pepper beef sandwich and a beer.

Remembering Milo’s prediction, I turned the TV on again, flipped channels. Game shows. Soaps. Vocational training commercials. I was just about to switch it off when a press conference cut into one of the serials.

Lieutenant Frisk. More than ever, his tan, his teeth, and his perm made him resemble a soap opera cop, and the conference seemed like a continuation of the serial, just another scripted scene.

He straightened his tie, smiled, then proceeded to give Holly Lynn Burden her own ration of fame, enunciating her name, repeating it, spelling it, adding her birthdate, the fact that she lived in Ocean Heights, and was believed to have had psychiatric problems.

“All indications,” he said, “are that Miss Burden was working alone, and no evidence of any political affiliation or conspiracy has been found, though we’re still investigating at this time.”

“What do you have,” asked a reporter, “by way of a motive?”

“None, at this time.”

“But you said she had psychiatric problems.”

“That’s true.”

“What kinds of problems did she have?”

“We’re still looking into that,” said Frisk. “Sorry I can’t be any more specific at this time.”

“Lieutenant, was she gunning for the children, or was this an assassination attempt?”

“We’re still collecting data on that as well. That’s all, at this time, folks. Get back to you soon as we have more.”

Segue back to the soap: a cocktail party full of beautiful people, haute-coiffured and haute-cuisined, but riddled with angst.

I knotted my tie and put on my jacket. Time for school.

I arrived at Hale at 12:45- lunch hour but the yard was empty. A grizzled man in shabby clothes was walking up and down the sidewalk in front of the school. He carried a ten-foot cross and wore a sandwich sign proclaiming JESUS IS LORD on the front, NO HEAVEN WITHOUT REDEMPTION on the back. A middle-aged cop stood at the entrance to the gate, watching him. Blue uniform, but not LAPD. I got close enough to read the insignia on his sleeve. School police. I gave him my name, he checked it against a list on a clipboard, asked for ID verification, and unlocked the gate.

The man with the cross had shuffled halfway down the block. Now he turned and shouted, “Suffer the children!” in a hoarse voice. The school cop looked at him as if at a puddle of vomit, but made no move. The cross-man resumed his march.

I entered the yard. The storage shed was still wrapped with crime-scene tape. Despite the fine weather, a sense of desolation hung over the grounds- gloom coupled with tension, like the pause between thunderclaps. Maybe it was the emptiness, the lack of childish laughter. Or maybe just my imagination. I’d had the same feeling before… at deathbeds.

I pushed that aside and checked in with Linda Over-street’s secretary. Carla was young, tiny, and efficient. She had a punk hairdo and a smile that said life was a big joke.

I went to the first classroom. Yesterday there’d been two dozen students; today I counted nine. The teacher, a pale young woman just out of training, looked defeated. I gave her an encouraging smile, regretted not having the time to do more. As I took her place at the front of the classroom, she excused herself, sat in the back, and read a book.

The pattern of absenteeism repeated itself in every other class- at least half of the children had stayed home. Many of the ones I’d tagged as high-risk were among the missing. Therapist’s dilemma: those who need help the most, run the farthest from it.

I concentrated on the help I could offer, went to work reestablishing rapport, giving the children time to ventilate, then introducing them to their bogeywoman: telling them Holly Burden’s name, the few facts I knew about her. They were skeptical about the notion of a female sniper. Many of the youngest kids kept calling her “him.”

I had them draw her, mold her out of clay, build her out of blocks. Rip her up, smash her, bludgeon her, erase her. Kill her, again and again.

Blood and glass…

Through it all, I kept talking, kept reassuring.

It went on that way until, in one of the fourth grade classes, the mention of Holly Burden’s name made the teacher go pale. A woman in her fifties named Esme Ferguson, she was a tall, square-faced bleached blonde, heavily made-up, conservatively tailored. She left the room and didn’t return. Some time later I spotted her in the hall, caught up with her, and asked if she’d known Holly Burden.

She took a deep breath and said, “Yes, Doctor. She was from here.”

“From Ocean Heights?”

“From Hale. She was a student here. I taught her. I used to teach sixth grade. She was in my sixth grade class. Years ago.”

“What do you remember about her?”

Penciled eyebrows rose. “Nothing, really.”

“Nothing at all?”

She bit her lip. “She was… odd. The entire family’s odd.”

“Odd in what way?”

“I really can’t… This is too hard to talk about, Doctor. Too much happening all at once. Please excuse me. I have to get back to class.”

She turned her back on me. I let her go, returned to my work. To talk of the odd girl. Try to explain madness to children.

Madness, as it turned out, was something these children grasped easily. They loved the word crazy, seemed to revel in it, in graphic discussions of deranged people they’d known. Their view of mental illness was skewed toward blood and guts: wet-brained vagrants carving each other up in alleyways over a bottle of redeye; hebephrenic bag ladies walking in front of buses; drooling molesters; shrieking youths run amok on PCP and crack cocaine. Random bursts of psychotic poetry at the corner mini-market.

I sat back, listened to all of it, tried to cloak myself in the therapist’s objectivity. After a couple of hours, the world they lived in began to overwhelm me.

In the past, when working with children who’d been traumatized, I’d always taken pains to put the traumatic event in context. Isolating disaster as a freak bit of cruelty. But looking into the knowing eyes of these kids, listening to their experiences, I heard myself faltering, had to force a note of confidence into my voice.

My last class of the day was a rowdy bunch of sixth graders whose teacher hadn’t shown up. I let the frazzled substitute out on parole, and was about to begin when the door opened and a young Latina walked in. She had teased, frosted hair, wore a tight, knit scarlet dress, and had matching inch-long nails. Her smile was glossy and happy-face wide. In one hand she carried a huge briefcase; in the other, a red purse.

“Hi, kids,” she announced. “I’m Dr. Mendez! How are you all doing today?”

The children looked at her, then at me. Her gaze followed theirs.

“Hi,” she said to me. “I’m Dr. Mendez. I’m a clinical psychologist. And you must be Mr…?”

I held out my hand. “Dr. Delaware. I’m a clinical psychologist too.”

Her smile went stale.

“Um…” she said, still staring at my hand. The purse dropped from her hand.

The kids started laughing. She bent- awkwardly be-cause of the tight dress- and retrieved it. They laughed harder.

I said, “Hold on a minute, guys,” and asked her to come out into the hall. I closed the door. She put her hands on her hips and said, “Okay, what’s going on?”

“Good question, Dr. Mendez.”

“I’m here to do therapy with them- for the sniping.”

“So am I. I’ve been doing it since yesterday.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, flustered.

“The police called me in.”

“To investigate?”

“To help.”

“This makes no sense at all,” she said.

I said, “Do you work with Dr. Dobbs?”

She pulled out an engraved business card and handed it to me. PATRICIA MENDEZ, M.A. COGNITIVE-SPIRITUAL ASSOCIATES, INC. Two addresses: on Olympic Boulevard in West L.A., and in Whittier. Four phone numbers. Tiny print at the bottom identified her as a Psychological Assistant to Lance L. Dobbs, Ph.D., and gave his license number.

I handed it back to her and said, “Have you checked with the principal? She should be able to clear things up.”

“She wasn’t in. But I’m here on authority of the School Board- they’re really in charge, you know, not the police.”

I said nothing.

Her briefcase was making her shoulder sag. She lowered it to the floor.

I said, “I think you should check in with the principal, anyway.”

“Well”- She folded her arms across her breast- “I only know what I was told.”

“Sorry you wasted time coming down here.”

She frowned, thought. “Look, I’m just here to do my job. Couldn’t you go to another class?”

“These kids have been through plenty. They need the comfort of routine. Predictability.”

“I can provide that,” she said.

“By walking in right in the middle of my session? Fitting them to your agenda?”

She tensed but smiled. “You seem to be coming from a hostile place. Possessiveness.”

“And you seem to be coming from a deceptive place, Ms. Mendez. Billing yourself as a doctor with just a master’s degree. Pretending to be a psychologist when you’re an assistant.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “Tha… that’s just a technicality. Next year I’ll be a Ph.D.”

“Then next year you’ll be telling the truth.”

“If you’re implying there’s something-”

“How many classrooms have you been to, so far?”

“Seven.”

“Didn’t anyone mention I’d been there?”

“They didn’t… I-”

“You didn’t really take the time to talk to them, did you? Just blew in, did your canned bit, and blew out.” I looked down at the briefcase. “What’s in there? Bro-chures?”

“You’re a very hostile man,” she said.

A wave of laughter rose from inside the classroom. Then a thump- overturned furniture.

I said, “Look, it’s been fun but I have to go. Until you check in with the principal and clear this up, please stay away from the kids. For their sake.”

“You can’t order me-”

“And please think twice about misrepresenting yourself. The Board of Medical Examiners wouldn’t be pleased.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Just sound advice.”

She tried to look tough and failed miserably. “It’s my job,” she said, almost pleading. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Check in with the principal.”

“You keep saying that,” she said.

“It keeps being a good idea,” I said, turning the doorknob. The sound on the other side grew louder.

“Just a minute,” she said. “Are you bilingual?”

“No.”

“Then how in the world are you going to help them?”

“Their English is fine.”

“That’s not what I’ve been told.”

“Then you’ve been misled. In more ways than one.”

The sky was dimming as I left the yard. I saw Linda Overstreet just outside the gate, talking to the man with the cross. Trying to explain something to him. He stared at the sidewalk, then raised his head abruptly and seemed to swoon.

She backed away. He moved toward her, went nose to nose with her, wagging his finger. She attempted to talk back; he talked over her, gestured more wildly. She finally gave up, turned her back on him and walked away. He opened a toothless black hole of a mouth and began shouting- something raw and incoherent.

She made it to the gate before noticing me, gave a what-can-I-do shrug, stopped and waited until I caught up with her. She was wearing a black linen dress, simply cut, suitable for mourning. But the contrast with her blond hair and fair skin lent a touch of unintended glamour.

“Getting religion?” I said.

She grimaced. “Crazy old jerk. He showed up early this morning, screaming about the whore of Babylon, suffer the children, all this other garbage. I tried to explain to him that the kids didn’t need any more disruption, but it’s like talking to cement- he has this tape in his head, keeps on playing it.”

“What about the school cop?”

“See him anywhere?” she said, pointing to the un-guarded gate. “Gone at three, won’t stay a minute later. And not much good when he is here, standing around with his clipboard. Claiming he’s not authorized to deal with Old Screamo as long as all he does is mouth off- right to free speech and all that. He’s giving me a civics lesson.”

The cross-bearer howled louder.

“What is it, the phase of the moon?” she said. “Brings them crawling out of the woodwork? Speaking of crawlies, you’ve already made an enemy.”

“Ms. Red Dress?”

She nodded. “She came bursting into my office on the verge of tears, claiming you’d humiliated her.” She gave her arm a dramatic wave. “What really happened?”

I told her.

She said, “You really need this, don’t you? Try to help us out and get embroiled in all this political garbage.”

“I can take it in small doses,” I said. “The question is, how do you stand it?”

She sighed. “Sometimes I wonder. Anyway, don’t worry about her. I told her not to come back until I see the proper forms- gave her a stack to fill out. If there’s a call from the Board, I’ll deal with it the way they deal with nuisances- ignoring them, putting them on hold, memo blizzard. By the time they take a meeting and decide what to do, you’ll probably be finished and out of here and the kids will be all right. How’re they doing?”

“The ones that showed up are doing fine,” I said.

Her face fell. “Yes, fifty-eight percent absent and my ears are still burning. I’d like to think I was persuasive, but let’s face it, how can I in good conscience tell them everything will be okay?” She shook her head. I thought I saw her lip tremble but she covered it with a grimace.

“Wouldn’t it be something if they finally won because of something like this?” she said. “Some stupid crazy? Anyway, don’t let me keep you.”

“On your way out or in?”

“Out. I’m right over there.” She pointed across the street to a white Ford Escort.

I walked her to it. She unlocked the car and put her briefcase inside.

I said, “I’d think the principal would get a private parking slot.”

“The principal usually does. But the entire grounds are still closed off, orders of the police. No parking, no foot traffic. We’ve had to keep the kids inside for lunch and recess- not that they’re exactly begging to go back out.”

“It’s important they do go back out,” I said, “to desensitize their fears of the yard. How long did the police say they needed it closed?”

“They didn’t. No one’s been here at all today, collecting evidence or anything, so I can’t see the point- I mean, what could there be left to find out? Guess I’d better check it out. Meanwhile, you have a nice evening.”

I opened the car door.

“A gentleman,” she said, getting in. “How nice.”

I searched her face for sarcasm, saw only weariness. The black dress had ridden up. Very long, white legs…

“Take care,” I said, closing the door. “See you tomorrow.”

“Listen,” she said, “I’m heading out for some dinner- nothing fancy, but I wouldn’t mind some company.”

She blushed, looked away, jammed the key into the ignition and turned it. The Escort’s engine came to life with a poorly tuned sputter, belched, and finally caught. When it had settled to an idle, I said, “I wouldn’t mind some company either.”

She blushed deeper. “Uh, just one thing- you’re not married or anything, are you?”

“No,” I said. “Neither married nor anything.”

“That probably sounds weird to you, my asking.”

Before I could answer, she said, “It’s just that I like to keep things straight, give a wide berth to trouble.”

“Okay,” I said.

Her laugh was brittle. “Not that it’s worked too well so far.”