Time Bomb (15 page)

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
.
M
AHLON
M
.
B
URDEN, 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.
”

12

I mulled over Burden’s offer without coming to any conclusion, woke up Friday morning still thinking about it. I put it aside and drove to the school to work with the ones I was sure were the good guys.

I could tell I was making progress: The children seemed bored, and a good part of each session was spent in free play. Most of the afternoon was spent working individu-ally with the high-risk youngsters. A few were still experiencing sleep problems but even they seemed more settled.

Doing remarkably well.

But what would the long-term effects be?

By four I was sitting in an empty classroom thinking about that. Realizing how poorly my training had prepared me for the work I was doing, how few insights standard psychology had to offer about the effects upon children of traumatic violence. Perhaps my experiences could be useful to others—other victims and healers, certain to materialize soon in a world grown increasingly psychopathic. I decided to keep detailed clinical records, was still writing at five when a custodian lugging a mop and bucket stuck his head into the room and asked how long I was planning to be there. I collected my stuff and left, passing Linda’s office. Carla’s work space was dark, but the light was on in the inner office.

I knocked.

“Come in.”

She was at her desk reading, slightly stooped, looking intense.

I said, “Cramming?”

She put her book down, swiveled around, and motioned toward the L-shaped couch. She had on an off-white knit dress, thin gold chain, white stockings with a subtle wave pattern running through them vertically, and medium-heeled white pumps.

“I was wondering if you’d drop by,” she said. “Heard we had visitors yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “A veritable bath in the milk of human kindness.”

“Lord. And it just keeps on coming.”

She turned back toward the desk and took something out of a drawer. White cassette. “Three more boxes of these showed up this morning via registered mail. Carla didn’t know what it was. She signed for the whole shebang.”

“Just tapes, no people?”

“Just tapes. But Dobbs’s office did call to confirm the delivery. Carla was out delivering memos to the classrooms and I took the call.”

“Butt-covering,” I said. “The mail registration is proof for any state auditors that he fulfilled his contract and is entitled to every penny Massengil paid him.”

“That’s what I figured. I asked to speak to him directly and they put him on. The yahoo was all sweetness and light. Wanting to know how the poor little things were doing.
Things.
He probably
sees
them as things. Assuring me he was on twenty-four-hour call in case of emergencies. I’ll sleep so much better knowing that.”

“And no doubt the phone call will be logged as professional consultation and billed for.”

“He made sure to let me know you and he had
conferred,
” she said. “That the two of you were
of one mind with regard to clinical issues
. He approves of your methods, Doctor—doesn’t that make your day?”

“Sounds like he wants to compromise,” I said. “We don’t expose his little scam, let him make a few bucks on the tapes, and he backs off.”

“How does that sit with you?”

I thought about it. “I can live with it if it means he stays out of the picture.”

“So can I,” she said. “What does that make us?”

“Realists.”

“Ugh.” She waved her hand. “I refuse to waste any more time on sleaze. How do the kids look to you?”

“Very good, actually.” I gave her a progress report.

She nodded. “I’ve been hearing the same kind of thing from the parents we’ve spoken to on the phone. Definitely less anxiety. It’s helped me to convince quite a few of them to send their kids back, so you’ve done a real good deed.”

“I’m glad.”

“At first, mind you, they were skeptical. Confused by what the kids were doing—drawing pictures of the sniper, tearing her up, getting mad. There’s always that impulse to protect, try to hush things up. But results talk loudly. I’ve lined up at least a couple of dozen mothers for your Monday meeting.”

“There’s something else you should know about,” I said. “Another visit.” I told her about Mahlon Burden.

“How weird—out of the blue like that.”

“It was, but he’s pretty stressed. He’s convinced Holly’s innocent, wants me to conduct a psychological autopsy, show the world what made her tick. Somehow that’s going to lead to proving her innocence.”

Without hesitation she said, “I think you should do it. It’s a great opportunity.”

“Opportunity for what?”

“Learning. Understanding what went wrong—what
did
make her tick.”

“I can’t be sure I’ll come up with anything significant, Linda.”

“Whatever you come up with, it’ll be more than we’ve got now, right? And the more I’ve been thinking about it—now that the shock’s worn off—the weirder the whole thing is. A
girl,
Alex. What in the world could lead her to do something like that? Who was she shooting at? The media have basically dropped it. The police haven’t told us a thing. If her father’s willing to talk to you, why not take him up on it? Maybe you can learn something about her—some warning sign—that can help prevent something like this happening again.”

I said, “His willingness to have me exhume her psychologically is being influenced by heavy denial, Linda. Once his defenses break down, he’s likely to change his mind. If I start coming up with stuff he doesn’t approve of, he’ll probably end the whole thing.”

“So? In the meantime, you learn what you can.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “What’s the problem?”

“My first allegiance is to the kids. I don’t want to be perceived as being aligned with the bad guys.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. You’ve earned your stripes around here.”

“Milo—Detective Sturgis—has reservations about it.”

“Sure he does. Typical cop-think—bunker mentality.”

Before I could answer, she said, “Well, no matter what anyone thinks, in the end it’s got to be your decision. So do what you feel is best.”

She looked away, put the tape down, and began straightening the papers on her desk.

The chill . . .

I said, “I’m leaning toward telling him yes. I plan to let him know over the weekend.”

“Ah, the weekend,” she said, still straightening. “Can’t believe this week’s actually ending.”

“Got a busy one lined up?”

“Just the usual scut. Chores, TCB time.”

I said, “How about forgetting about business for a while?”

She arched her eyebrows but didn’t look at me.

“Let me be more explicit,” I said. “An early dinner—let’s say in half an hour. Somewhere quiet, with a well-stocked bar. All shoptalk forbidden. Bring a little elegance into our otherwise humdrum lives.”

She looked down at her dress, touched one knee. “I’m not exactly dressed for elegance.”

“Sure you are. Hand me the phone and I’ll make a reservation right now.”

The eyebrows arched higher. She gave a small laugh and turned to me. “A take-charge guy?”

“When something’s worth taking charge of.” It came out sounding like a line. I said, “Hey, babe, what’s your sign?”

She laughed harder and gave me the phone.

It took her a while to organize her things, write memos and reminders. I used the time to go into Carla’s office and call in for messages. Two people who’d started college at sixteen, unable to let go of the compliant-kid role.

Finally, we left the building. She still looked tense, but she slipped her arm through mine.

The custodian was eager to lock up the school grounds and begin his weekend, so she drove the Escort onto the street and parked just outside the gate. We took the Seville and headed west. The restaurant I’d chosen was on a busy stretch of Ocean Avenue across from the bluffs that look down on the birth of Pacific Coast Highway. French but friendly, a clean white decor and canvas-topped front porch with a waist-high brick wall that allowed alfresco dining while segregating the sidewalk throng. We got there by six-fifteen. Several homeless people were competing with the parking valets for turf. I gave away a few dollars and got dirty looks from the valets.