Time Bomb Page 9

  All smiles.

  I remembered what Linda had told me about his earthquake “program” and shook my head. “That would be pointless, Dr. Dobbs. I’m well into my treatment; the children are responding well. There’s simply no reason to complicate things.”

  The smile lingered but turned condescending. “Are you sure that isn’t ego talking, Doctor?”

  “Not ego,” I said. “Just good common sense.”

  “A contradiction in terms, if there ever was one, Dr. Delaware. If good sense was common, we’d both be out of business, wouldn’t we? Same goes for good values.”

  “Values,” I said. “Like truth in advertising?”

  He pursed his lips. Before he could get them in gear, I turned to Massengil and said, “Yesterday, at the school, I met one of Dr. Dobbs’s staff, handing out cassette tapes. Misrepresenting herself as a psychologist and claiming a doctorate she didn’t have. Two violations of the state business code, Assemblyman. How’s that for erosion?”

  Massengil looked at Dobbs.

  Dobbs laughed and said, “Picayune, Sam. A technicality. Patty Mendez is a good gal, but green. Not well-versed yet in all the red tape the bureaucrats throw at us. Dr. Delaware here was pretty rough on her. I’ve talked to her, set her straight.”

  Massengil stared at him for an instant, then swung his eyes back to me. “You heard that. Let’s not go making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “How about we get back on track?” said Dobbs gently.

  “Right,” said Massengil. “I want Lance involved. One way or the other. Plain and simple.”

  I looked at Dobbs. Self-satisfied. In control. Suddenly I understood. All the cross-glances, hand signals.

  The bond between them went beyond management seminars.

  What they had was deeper.

  Something with a parent/child flavor to it.

  It explained the odd defensiveness Massengil had shown when I’d asked about Dobbs’s being on his team.

  We’ve all of us benefited, the whole staff.

  All of us. Not just me.

  Patient and therapist? The bedrock of the community baring his psyche to Santa Claus?

  Why not?

  Psychotherapy under the guise of management seminars would be a nifty cover, legitimizing Dobbs’s presence in Massengil’s office and sparing Massengil the trip to the doctor’s office. Spiritual Growth in Service of the Soul... mind-probing disguised as “brainstorming.” The bills could be laundered among the office invoices....

  Massengil’s thin voice snapped me back to the present. Making another speech. More gobbledygook about values...

  I said, “Gentlemen, if that’s all, I’m on my way. And I expect to finish what I started without further interruption.”

  “You’re making a big mistake,” said Massengil. “A damned big one.”

  “No, you are,” I said, loud enough to surprise all three of us. “The latest in a series of mistakes. Like using the school—exploiting those youngsters —to further your own agenda. Obsessing on trivial nonsense when there are so many important issues to deal with. And if you are right about being the target, you did a lot worse than that—you drew a killer to that yard, put those kids in mortal danger.”

  Massengil shot up and came around the desk. “You snotty fag bastard!” Froth had collected in the corners of his mouth. Flecks of it flew as he talked and one of them settled on his tie.

  Dobbs looked pained. “Sam!” he said, struggling to his feet, trying to restrain the older man. But Massengil was strong for his age and fueled by rage. The two of them wrestled awkwardly for a moment. Then Dobbs said “Sam!” sharply, and Massengil stopped struggling.

  He glowered at me from behind Dobbs’s sloping loden shoulder. “Loudmouthed snot.”

  Dobbs turned and gave me a look-what-you’ve-done glare.

  I said, “You have a very impolitic temper, Assemblyman.”

  Massengil said, “Don’t worry, Lance. He’s out. You’re in. Got my word on it. Plain and simple.”

  I said, “Assemblyman, here’s something plain and simple: The slightest attempt to interfere with my treatment and I’m going straight to the press. They don’t have many facts on the shooting itself, and you can bet they’ll be overjoyed to pick up a juicy side angle—political meddling.”

  Massengil surged forward. “Now, you just—” Dobbs held him back but gave me a threatening look himself.

  I walked to the door. “So juicy they’ll drool, Assemblyman. Doctors who aren’t doctors, a ‘crisis intervention’ program that hasn’t begun despite Dr. Dobbs’s inspired little TV speeches. A non-program that your office has already paid for. Sounds like poor fiscal policy at best, multiple fraud at worst. Someone’s going to want to know why—why the connection between you and Dr. Dobbs is so strong that you’re willing to stretch this far. At the very least there’ll be an ethics investigation. You know how those things get when they pick up momentum. So let’s see if those hungry newshounds think it’s picayune.”

  The color drained from Massengil’s face. Dobbs’s face froze. He picked up his watch fob and began rubbing it hard.

  I turned my back on them and left.

  Beth Bramble was outside the office, smoking a long, pink, silver-tipped cigarette.

  “Everything go okay?” she said, smiling. Squeezing the laugh back in.

  “Peachy keen.” My jaws ached from tension and my voice was hoarse.

  She stopped smiling, looked back at the office door.

  “Don’t worry. He’s all right,” I said. “Still beloved.”

  8

  Good show of cool, but as I walked to the Seville the anger hit me. I found a pay phone near the yogurt place and put in a call to Milo. He was out and I left a message to phone. I went inside, bought a cup of coffee, drank it, and took a refill while standing at the counter. Lots of ambient conversation about pulse rates. Mine was racing.

  I got out of there and drove to the school, traveling slowly, trying to settle down, arriving a little before eleven, still keyed up and not ready to face the kids.

  I parked, did a little deep breathing, and got out of the car. Both the school cop and the cross bearer were gone. As I walked toward the gate a car came tooling slowly down the street. Silver-gray compact. Honda Accord in need of a wash, the body dimpled and scarred, the finish not much shinier than primer. But a single display of Kalifornia-kustom flair caught my eye: gleaming blackened windows that wrapped around the car like electrician’s tape, making the lackluster paintwork appear even more tarnished. Windows that would have seemed more in place on a stretch limo.

  The little gray car stopped to let me cross, lingered, and continued cruising for a block before turning left. I walked onto the school grounds.

  Linda was in her office, behind a pile of paperwork. When she saw me she swiveled, stood, and smiled. She was wearing a blue oxford button-down shirt and khaki skirt, brown boots with sensible low heels. The bit of leg that showed was smooth and white. Her hair was swept back and fastened at the temples with tortoise-shell barrettes, revealing small, close-set ears adorned with tiny gold studs.

  “Hi. You’re early,” she said, pushing aside some papers.

  “Got thrown off my schedule.”

  Deep breathing or not, there was still ire in my voice.

  She said, “What is it?”

  I told her about the confrontation with Massengil and Dobbs, leaving out the part about Milo’s sexuality.

  “The bastards,” she said and sat back down. “Trying to profit from tragedy.”

  I took a chair opposite her.

  “That’s what you get for being a nice guy,” she said.

  “I wasn’t such a nice guy half an hour ago. When Massengil started leaning on me, things got hot. Hope I didn’t make things worse for you.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She sounded weary.

  “How much damage can he do?”

  “Nothing in the immediate, other than make more noise—whi
ch is unlikely after the shooting.” She thought for a moment. “I guess he could try to screw the school budget when it comes up next year in Sacramento. But it would be hard for him to target Hale specifically. So don’t worry about it. Just keep doing your thing.”

  “He’s a strange one,” I said. “Really rough around the edges, not at all well-spoken.”

  “What’d you expect? A statesman?”

  “Some sophistication—polish. He’s been at it for twenty-eight years. On top of the crudeness, he’s got a nasty temper. Surprising he’s lasted this long.”

  “He probably knows who to punch out and who to kiss up to—that’s the whole game, isn’t it? And over twenty-eight years he’s fixed plenty of potholes. Besides, being rough around the edges probably works well here—the whole cowboy thing.”

  “He’s got to have something going,” I said. “Hasn’t had any opposition for the last two elections. I know, ’cause I’m a constituent. I keep leaving the space blank.”

  “I’m a constituent too. I write in Alfred E. Newman.”

  I smiled.

  She said, “Might we be neighbors, sir?”

  “I live up in Beverly Glen.”

  “Beverly Glen and where?”

  “North of Sunset, up toward Mulholland.”

  “Mmm, real pretty up there,” she said. “Way out of my league. All I’ve got is a little hutch near Westwood and Pico.” Mischievous smile. “Guess neither of us loyal constituents has much chance of getting our potholes fixed.”

  “Better learn to mix your own asphalt,” I said. “Or cozy up to Dr. Dobbs.”

  “Speaking of which,” she said and took something off her desk and handed it to me.

  It was a cassette tape, white plastic with black lettering that had smeared. The title was KEEPING A CLEAR MIND,AGES 5-10.Copyright 1985, Lance Dobbs, Ph.D. Cognitive-Spiritual Associates, Inc.

  “This is what Little Miss Phony Doc was handing out before you aced her,” she said. “I confiscated all of them, took one home, and listened to it last night. Far as I can tell, what it comes down to is brainwashing. Literally. Dobbs goes on about how bad thoughts make children sad and angry. Then he tells them to imagine their mommies taking their brains out and scrubbing them hard with soap and water until they’re all clean, all the bad thoughts are gone, and what’s left are good, clean, sparkly thoughts. Sounds hokey to me. Is there any way something like that could be beneficial?”

  “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.”