Time Bomb Read online

  “One of the kids told me it sounded like war,” I said.

  “How would he know?”

  “She. From Cambodia.”

  “Oh. Tell you one thing, old Holly was no pro-warrior. The rifle was a Remington Seven-hundred Classic. Bolt action, scoped. Nine pounds, stripped—one of the heavier ones they make, lots of kick. Not a girl’s gun. You just don’t pick up something like that, go boom, and hope to hit your target.”

  “Even with the scope?”

  “Sighting and aiming wouldn’t have been the problem, Alex. Holding on to the damned thing would be. According to the license she weighed under a hundred and twenty. And she hadn’t gained anything since applying for it. I saw the body—skinny, no muscle on her. Unless she had plenty of practice, she might as well have brought a cannon to shoot mice. Women succeed in the shooting game, they get up nice and close, use a comfortable little handgun. Not that a handgun would have been of much use in a sniping situation.”

  “The license also said corrective lenses. Was she wearing her glasses?”

  “Yup. Took a bullet in one of them, glass went right into the eye socket. Like shrapnel.”

  “How many shots did she get off before Ahlward stormed the shed?”

  “Looks like three out of six rounds—though to listen to the teachers and kids, she had a machine gun; it was a regular blitz. But panic’ll do that, magnify things. And some of what they heard was probably Ahlward shooting her —he put eight right in her.”

  “There’s your pro,” I said, remembering the redheaded man’s calm. “Ex-cop?”

  “Nope. Frisk said some kind of ex-military commando.”

  “Hard-ass type for a guy like Latch to employ.”

  “Not if Latch is a pragmatist. It’s like that old bumper sticker that used to be on half the lockers at the academy: ‘Mugged? Call a hippie.’ Latch may spout the love-and-compassion line, but when it comes to saving his ass he ain’t gonna hire Cesar Chavez.”

  “How’d Ahlward get into the shed?”

  “Same back door Burden used. She left it unlocked—I told you she was no pro. He ran around the back, waltzed right in, and pow.”

  I thought again of the face on the driver’s license. Superimposed a mesh of blood and glass over the dull face.

  “What is it?” said Milo.

  “Nothing.”

  “My, my, my. You feel bad for her, don’t you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really?” He clucked his tongue. “Jesus, Alex, you turning mushy on me? I thought by now I’d raised your consciousness.”

  I said, “The whole thing’s pathetic, Milo. A girl, holed up with a rifle she couldn’t handle—God knows what’s going through her head.”

  “So?”

  “So I guess it just would have been nicer for the bad guy to be badder.”

  He put his fork down and stared at me. “Oh, she could have been plenty bad. No thanks to her she wasn’t real bad. Just imagine a couple of lucky shots—couple of those cute little kids catching rifle slugs in—”

  “Okay,” I said, “I get the point.”

  “Good,” he said, crumpling his napkin. “Get it and keep it. Situation like this, got to keep the old priorities straight. Now, how about some dessert?”

  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 news people 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 o
f 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 birth date, 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 c
onspiracy 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.”