Time Bomb (3 page)

I said, “Sounds like the right approach. Maybe that’s why they’re handling things well right now.”

She waved off the compliment and her eyes moistened. “That’s not to say everything was perfect—not by a long shot. They felt it—the hatred. Had to. A few families pulled their kids out of the busing program immediately, but most stuck it out, and after a while things seemed to be quieting down. I really thought this semester was going well. Hoped it had finally dawned on the good folks of Ocean Heights that a bunch of little kids weren’t going to rape their daughters and rustle their cattle. Or maybe they just got bored—this place is
the
capital of Apathy. Only other issues that get them going are offshore oil drilling within a fifty-mile radius and anything that relates to landscaping. So I made sure our shrubs were well trimmed.” Brief, bitter smile. “I was starting to think we could finally concentrate on
educating
. Then Massengil goes and dredges it all up—he’s always had a special thing for us. Probably ’cause he’s a local. Lives in Sacramento but keeps a house here for legal purposes. Obviously he views us as a personal burr in the butt.”

She punched her palm. Her eyes were flashing. I altered my assessment about her ability to handle authority.

“The creep,” she said. “If I’d known he was planning a dog-and-pony show today, I’d . . .”

She frowned, tapped her pencil on her wrist.

I said, “What?”

She hesitated, then gave another mirthless smile. “I was about to say I’d have met him at the gate with a loaded gun.”

3

She looked down at her pad, realized she’d written nothing, and said, “Enough talk. What’s your plan?”

“The first step will be to establish rapport with the kids. And the teachers. Your introducing me and explaining who I am will help that. Second, I’ll focus on getting them to express their feelings about what happened—talking, playing, drawing.”

“Individually or in groups?”

“Groups. Class by class. It’s more efficient and more therapeutic—opening up will be easier if there’s peer support. I’ll also be looking for the high-risk kids—those who are especially high-strung, have had previous anxiety problems or experienced loss or an unusual amount of stress within the last year. Some of them may need one-on-one attention. The teachers can help by identifying them.”

“No problem,” she said. “I know most of them myself.”

“The other important thing—maybe the toughest—will be to convince parents not to keep their children out of school for extended periods.”

“What’s extended?”

“More than a day or two. The sooner they get back, the easier it will be for them to adjust.”

She sighed. “All right, we’ll get on it. What do you need in the way of equipment?”

“Nothing much. Some toys—blocks, figurines. Paper and pencil, clay, scissors, glue.”

“We’ve got all of that.”

“Will I need a translator?”

“No. Most of the kids—about ninety percent—are Latino but all of them understand English. We’ve worked hard at that. The rest are Asian, including some pretty recent immigrants, but we don’t have anyone on staff who speaks Cambodian or Vietnamese or Laotian or Tagalog or whatever, so they’ve come along pretty fast.”

“Ye olde melting pot.”

“Uh-uh, forbidden phrase,” she said. “The memo god commands us to use
salad bowl
.” She raised a finger and recited: “Every ingredient maintains its integrity, no matter how much you toss it around.”

We left her office and stepped out into the hall. Only one cop remained, patrolling idly.

She said, “Okay. Now what about your fee.”

I said, “We can talk about that later.”

“No. I want things straight from the beginning—for your sake. The School Board has to approve private consultants. That takes time, going through channels. If I put in a voucher without prior approval, they can use that as an excuse not to pay you.”

I said, “We can’t wait for approval. The key is to get to the kids as soon as possible.”

“I realize that, but I just want you to know what you’re dealing with. Also, even if we go through channels, there’re bound to be hassles getting you compensated. The Board will probably claim it has the resources to do the job itself; therefore there’s no justification for bringing in anyone from the outside.”

I nodded. “Same song and dance they pull with the parents of handicapped kids.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I worry about everything. It’s my job,” she said. Most of the softness in her eyes had melted away.

I said, “It’s okay. Really.”

“You realize we’re talking potential freebie?”

“I realize. That’s fine.”

She looked at me. “Why are you doing this?”

“It’s what I went to school to learn how to do.”

There was distrust in her eyes. But she shrugged and said, “Who am I to look a gift horse?”

We walked toward the first classroom. A door at the end of the corridor swung open. A tight cluster of nine or ten people poured out and barreled in our direction.

At the group’s nucleus was a tall white-haired man in his sixties wearing a gray sharkskin suit that could have been purchased for Eisenhower’s victory party. His face was stringy and hawkish above a long, wattled neck—beak nose, white toothbrush mustache, pursed mouth, eyes buried in an angry squint. He kept up a vigorous pace, leading with his head, pumping his elbows like a speed-walker. His minions were whispering at him, but he didn’t seem to be listening. The group ignored us and blew by.

I said, “Looks like the esteemed assemblyman’s run out of words.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled. We continued walking.

I said, “What do you know about the sniper?”

“Just that he’s dead.”

“It’s a start.”

She turned sharply. “A start at what?
”

“Dealing with the kids’ fears. The fact that he’s dead will help.”

“You’re going to get into gory details with them right away?”

“I’m going to be truthful with them. When they’re ready for it.”

She looked doubtful.

I said, “The key is for them to make some kind of sense out of a crazy situation. In order to do that they’ll need as much accurate information as possible. Facts. About the bad guy—presented at their level, as soon as possible. The mind abhors a vacuum. Without facts, they’ll fill their heads with fantasies of him that could be much worse than reality.”

“Just how much reality do you think they need to absorb?”

“Nothing gory. Basics. The sniper’s name, age, what he looks . . . looked like. It’s crucial that they see him as human.
Destructible
. Gone forever. Even with facts, some of the youngest ones will be incapable of understanding the permanence of his death—they’re not mature enough, developmentally. And some of the older ones may regress because of the trauma—temporarily ‘forget’ that dead people don’t come back to life. So they’re all vulnerable to fantasies of the bad guy returning. Of his coming back to get them again. Adult crime victims go through it—after the initial shock’s worn off. It can lead to nightmares, phobias, all kinds of post-traumatic reactions. In children the risk is higher because kids don’t draw a clear line between reality and fantasy. You can’t eliminate the risk of problems, but by dealing with misconceptions right away, you minimize it.”

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?”