Time Bomb Read online

  I stopped. She was staring at me, grimly, the brown eyes unwavering.

  “What I want,” I said, “is for them to understand that the bastard’s truly destroyed. That he’s not some supernatural bogeyman that’s going to keep haunting them.”

  “Bastard” made her smile. “Okay. Just as long as it doesn’t end up scaring them more—” She stopped herself. “Sorry. You obviously know a heck of a lot more about this than I do. It’s just that they’ve been through so much for so long, I’ve gotten protective.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Good to see someone caring.”

  She ignored that. This one definitely didn’t like compliments.

  “I don’t know a thing about the bastard,” she said. “No one saw him. We just heard the shots. Then there was a lot of panic—screaming and shoving. We were trying to stuff the kids back into the building, keeping their heads down. We ran as fast and as far away as we could, trying to make sure no one got trampled. No one even knew it was over until that guy Ahlward came out of the shed, waving his gun like a cowboy after the big draw. When I first saw him, it freaked me out—I thought he was the sniper. Then I recognized him—I’d seen him in Latch’s group. And he was smiling, telling us it was all over. We were safe.”

  She shuddered. “Bye-bye, bogeyman.”

  The lone patrolman had tilted his head toward our conversation. He was young, handsome, coal-black, perma-pressed.

  I walked up to him and said, “Officer, what can you tell me about the sniper?”

  “I’m not free to give out any information, sir.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” I said. “I’m a psychologist called in by Detective Sturgis to work with the children.”

  Unimpressed.

  “It would be useful,” I said, “for me to have as many facts as possible. So I can help the kids.”

  “I’m not free to discuss anything, sir.”

  “Where’s Detective Sturgis?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  I returned to Linda Overstreet’s side.

  She’d heard the exchange. “Bureaucracy,” she said. “I’ve come to believe it’s a biological urge.”

  A door farther down the corridor opened, disgorging another group. This one revolved around a man in his early forties, mid-sized and chunky. He had a roundish, freckled face under an early-Beatles mop of gray-streaked dark hair which covered his brow. His clothes were formula junior-faculty: oatmeal-colored tweed sport coat, rumpled khaki pants, black-and-green plaid shirt, red knit tie. He wore round tortoise-shell eyeglasses, the kind the British health service used to give out for free. They rested atop a nose that would have done a French bulldog proud. The rest of his features were too small for his face—pinched, almost effeminate. I thought of old pictures I’d seen of him. Long-haired and bearded. The facial hair had made him look more seasoned, twenty years ago.

  The academic image was enhanced by the people around him—young, bright-eyed, like students vying for the attention of a favorite professor. Each of them was final-exam solemn, but the group managed to radiate a boisterousness that was almost festive.

  The round-faced man noticed us and stopped.

  “Dr. Overstreet. How’s everyone doing?”

  “As good as can be expected, Councilman Latch.”

  He came over to us. The staffers hung back. With the exception of one bulky, blunt-faced, red-haired man about Latch’s age, none was older than twenty-five. A clean-cut bunch, dressed for success.

  Latch said, “Is there anything I can do, Dr. Overstreet? For the kids? Or your staff?”

  “How about calling out the National Guard for some protection?”

  He flashed a brief, campaign-poster smile, then turned serious. “Anything a little less... martial?”

  “Actually,” she said, “we could use some information.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “About the sniper. Who he was, his motivation. Dr. Delaware here will be working with the children. He needs to know as much as possible in order to answer their questions.”

  He seemed to notice me for the first time, held out his hand and gripped mine hard. “Gordon Latch.”

  “Alex Delaware.”

  “Good to meet you, Alex. You’re a psychologist? Psychiatrist?”

  “Psychologist.”

  “From the School Board?”

  Before I could answer, Linda said, “Dr. Delaware’s a private practitioner recommended by the police. He’s a specialist in childhood stress.”

  Latch’s blue eyes focused behind his welfare specs. “Well, all power to you, and thanks for coming down on such short notice, Alex. It’s been a horror—unbelievable. Thank God it turned out the way it did.” He glanced back at his staffers, got nods from some of them. “What’s your game plan—vis-à-vis the kids?”

  I gave him a brief rehash of what I’d told Linda.

  He took a moment to digest it. “Sounds right on target,” he said. “I was involved in your field once upon a time—majored in psych up at Berkeley. Crisis counseling, community mental health, primary and secondary prevention. We had a place in Oakland. Trying to integrate mental patients back into the community. Back in the good old days when humanism wasn’t a dirty word.”

  “So I’ve heard.” As had anyone who read the papers.

  “Different times,” he said, sighing. “Gentler and kinder. What happened today just underscores how far we’ve drifted. Damn, what a tragedy!”

  Linda said, “What can you tell us about the sniper, Councilman Latch?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. We don’t know much ourselves. The police have been awfully close-mouthed, as is their wont.”

  She said, “Mr. Ahlward would know something. If he feels up to it, perhaps he could educate us.”

  Latch looked over his shoulder again. “Bud? C’mere, please.”

  The red-haired man raised pinkish eyebrows and stepped forward. He wore a brown suit, white shirt, solid brown knit tie, had the kind of overdeveloped upper body that makes custom tailoring a necessity. This suit was off the rack and hung on him like a tarp. His hands dangled loosely at his sides, big, pale, fuzzed with copper. His hair was tightly curled and he wore it close to his head. He had a fleshy, jutting jaw and lazy amber eyes that remained fixed on his boss.

  “Councilman?” Up close he smelled of cigarette smoke.

  “Bud, these good people want to know about the sniper. What can you tell them?”

  “Nothing yet,” said Ahlward. He had a soft, boyish voice. “Sorry. Cops’ orders.” He zipped a finger across his mouth.

  Latch said, “Nothing at all, Bud?”

  “ATD was real clear on that, Councilman.”

  Latch turned back to us. “Anti-Terrorist Division. You might recall them from a couple of years ago. The lovely fellows who were spending taxpayers’ money on surveilling innocent taxpayers? We’ve since gotten them to clean up their act, so I suppose we’ll have to let them do their thing, for the moment. And they were adamant about keeping things under wraps until they’re sure they’ve got the big picture. Bud’s on his way downtown right now to give a formal statement. If we’re all lucky, things’ll clear up soon after that.” To Ahlward: “Bud, soon as you get the green light vis-à-vis informational flow, make sure these good folks get anything they want. Immediately. Understood?”

  “You bet,” said Ahlward.

  Latch nodded. Ahlward returned to the group.

  “Thank God for Bud,” said Latch, loud enough for the group to hear. Someone patted Ahlward on the back. The redheaded man appeared unmoved. Standing with the others but not one of them. A distant look had settled on his face—Zen placid, as if he’d projected himself to another place, another time. Not a hint that he’d spent his lunch hour shooting someone to death.

  “Okay, my friends,” said Latch, taking a step backward. “It’s been a long day that shows no sign of ending. Dr. Overstreet, if you need anything, bypass the red tape and come straight to me
. I mean it. Let’s get things on an even keel, once and for all. Dr. Delaware, sounds like the kids are in good hands, but you, too, feel free to get in touch if there’s anything I can do.”

  He reached into his jacket, removed some business cards from a leather holder, and gave them to us. A two-handed grasp of Linda’s hand, then mine, and he was gone.

  Linda crumpled the card. Her face had tightened.

  I said, “What’s the matter?”

  “Suddenly he’s Mr. Helpful,” she said, “but last spring, when the kids were being put through hell, I tried to get his help. Ocean Heights is part of his district, even though I’m sure he didn’t get too many votes here. I thought because of his reputation, all the civil rights stuff he used to be into, he’d come down, talk to the kids, show them someone with power was on their side. If for no other reason than to use it for public relations. I must have called his office half a dozen times. Not even a return call.”

  “He came down today. To square off against Massengil.”

  “Some kind of ulterior motive, no doubt. They’re all the same.” She blushed. “Listen to me. You must think I’m a foursquare ball buster.”

  “You might very well be,” I said, “but I’d have to study you under more optimal circumstances in order to be able to come to a conclusion vis-à-vis that issue.”

  She opened her mouth, then broke into laughter. The cop down the hall pretended not to hear.

  The classroom was large and bright and filled with an unaccustomed silence. Only the rain broke the quiet, sloshing against the windows in an insistent car-wash rhythm. Twenty pairs of eyes stared back at me.

  I said, “I’m the kind of doctor who doesn’t give shots. I don’t look in kids’ eyes or ears, either.” Pause. “What I do is talk with kids and play with them. You guys like to play, don’t you?”

  A few blinks.

  “What kinds of games do you like to play?”

  Silence.

  “How about ball? Any of you like to play ball?”

  Nods.

  “Handball?”

  An Asian boy with a soup-bowl haircut said, “Base-ball.”

  “Baseball,” I said. “What position do you play?”

  “Pitch. Soccer and football and basketball too.”

  “Jumpin’ rope” said a girl.

  “Pizza Party,” said the Asian boy.

  “That’s a board game,” explained the teacher. A stylish black woman in her forties, she’d relinquished her desk to me with eagerness, pulled a chair into a corner, and sat, hands folded, like a punished student. “We have that here in class. We have lots of board games, don’t we, class?”

  “I like to be mushrooms,” said the Asian boy.

  “Peppers,” said another boy, small-boned, with long, wavy hair. “Hot peppers. Muy caliente!”

  Giggles.

  I said, “Okay. What other board games do you like to play?”

  “Checkers.”

  “Chutes and Ladders!”

  “Checkers!”

  “I already said that!”

  “Chinese checkers!”

  “You Chinese”

  “No way. I’m Vietnamese!”

  “Memory!”

  “I like to play too,” I said. “Sometimes for fun and sometimes to help kids when they’re scared or worried.”

  Return of silence. The teacher fidgeted.

  “Something very scary happened today,” I said. “Right here in school.”

  “Someone got killed,” said a dimpled girl with coffee-colored skin.

  “Anna, we don’t know that,” said the teacher.

  “Yes,” insisted the girl. “There was shooting. That means killing.”

  I said, “You’ve heard shooting before.”

  She nodded with vehemence.“Uh- huh. On my street. The gangbangers drive by and shoot into the houses. That means killing. My papa said so. One time we had a bullet hole in our garage. Like this.” She measured a space between thumb and forefinger.

  “My street too,” said a crew-cut boy with an elfin face and bat ears. “A dude got killed. Dead. Boom boom boom. Inna face.”

  The teacher looked ill.

  A few of the boys began to pantomime shooting using their fingers for guns and half-rising out of their seats.

  “Sounds scary,” I said.

  A boy laughed and shot at a girl. She said, “Stop it! You’re stupid!”

  The boy swore at her in Spanish.

  “Ramon!”said the teacher. “Now you just settle down. Let’s all of us settle down, class.” Her glance at me said Where’d you get your degree?

  I said, “It’s fun to play shooting, because it makes us feel strong. In charge—the boss over our lives. But when it really happens, when someone’s really shooting at us, it isn’t too funny, is it?”

  Headshakes. The boys who’d laughed hardest suddenly looked the most frightened.

  I said, “What do you guys understand about what happened today?”

  “Some dude was shootin’ at us,” said the Asian boy.

  “Tranh,” said the teacher. “We don’t know that.”

  “Yeah, he was shootin’ at us, Miz Williams!”

  “Yes, Tranh. He was shooting,” she said. “But we don’t know who he was shooting at. He could have been shooting into the air.” A look to me for confirmation.

  “He was shooting atus,” insisted Tranh.

  I said, “Do any of you know what happened to him?”

  “He got shot?” said the girl named Anna.

  “That’s right. He got shot and he’s dead. So he can’t hurt you. Can’t do anything to you.”

  Silence as they appraised that.

  The boy named Ramon said, “What about his friends, man?”

  “What friends?”

  “Like if he’s a homeboy and the other homeboys are gonna come back and shoot us again?”

  “No reason to think he’s a homeboy,” I said.

  “But what if he’s a stoner, man?” said Ramon. “Or a cholo.”

  “Who is he?” asked another girl, chubby, with black Shirley Temple ringlets and a quiver in her voice.

  Twenty faces, waiting.

  I said, “I don’t know yet. No one does. But he’s gone. Forever. You’re safe from him.”

  “We should kill him again!” said Ramon.

  “Yeah!Kill him! Shoot him with a twenty-two!”

  “With a Uzi!”

  “Push his face inna pizza so he don’t breathe no more!”

  “Push his face inca-ca!”

  The teacher started to say something. I stilled her with a glance. “How else could you hurt him?”

  “Kill him!”

  “Cut him up and feed him to Pancho—that’s my dog!”

  “Shoot him, boom, inna balls!”

  “Ay, los cojones!”

  Laughter.

  “Boom!”

  “Cut him up and grind him up and feed him to my dog!”

  “You don’t got no dog, Martha!”

  “Do so! Got a real mean pit bull and he’ll eat you!”

  I said, “Shoot him, stab him, push his face down. Sounds like you guys are really mad.”

  “Yeah, man,” said Ramon. “What you think, man? He try to kill us, we gonna kill him back!”

  “We can’t kill him,” said the chubby girl.

  “Why’s that?” I said.

  “Because he’s big. We’re just kids. We got no guns.”

  “That’s dumb,” said Tranh. “We can’t kill him ’cause he’s already dead!”

  “Kill him again!”shouted someone.