Time Bomb

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Find out where he lives,” said Ramon, “and kill his fuckin’ house!”

  The teacher said, “Language!”

  The chubby girl didn’t look reassured. I said, “What’s the matter?”

  “Actually,” she said, “we can’t do nothing. We’re kids. If people wanna be mean to us all the time, they can.”

  “Honey, no one wants to be mean to you,” said the teacher.

  The chubby girl looked at her.

  “Everyone likes you, Cecelia,” said the teacher. “Every-one likes all of you.”

  The chubby girl shook her head and began to cry.

  By the time I finished, the rain had abated. I made a stop at Linda Overstreet’s office, but it was locked and no one answered my knock. As I left the building I saw Milo in the yard, near the cordoned storage shed. He was talking to a slim, dark-haired man in a well-cut blue suit. He noticed me and waved me over.

  “Alex, this is Lieutenant Frisk, Anti-Terrorist Division. Lieutenant, Dr. Alex Delaware, the clinical psychologist who’ll be working with the kids.”

  Frisk checked me over and said, “How’s it going, Doctor?” in a tone that let me know he didn’t much care.

  “Fine.”

  “Good to hear it.” He flashed a barrel cuff and consulted his Rolex. He was young and tan, the dark hair permed in a neat cap, and wore a mustache that had taken a long time to trim. The blue suit was expensive, the shirt Turnbull & Asser or a knockoff. The tie that bisected it was heavy silk patterned with dancing blue parallelograms on a background of deep burgundy. His eyes matched the parallelograms; they never stopped moving.

  He turned to Milo and said, “I’ll let you know. After-noon, Doctor.” He walked away.

  “Spiffy dresser,” I said. “Looks like a TV cop.”

  “Young man on the way up,” said Milo. “Masters in public administration from S.C., good connections, D-Three by the age of thirty, promoted to loot three years later.”

  “Is he taking over the case?”

  “You just heard—he’ll let me know.”

  We walked across the schoolyard.

  “So,” he said, “how’d it really go?”

  “Not bad, really. I managed to meet briefly with all the classes. Most of the kids seem to be reacting normally.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning lots of anxiety, some anger. It’s the anger I tried to harness—get them to feel more in control. I told the teachers to contact the parents and prepare them for possible appetite loss, sloop problems, psychosomatic stuff, clinginess, some school phobia. Some of the kids may need individual treatment, but a group approach should work for most of them. The important thing was getting to them quickly—you done good.”

  He said, “What’d you think of Ms. Principal?”

  “Feisty lady.”

  “Texas lady,” he said. “Cop’s kid—daddy was a Ranger, brought his work home. She knows this scene by heart.”

  “She didn’t mention any of that to me.”

  “Why should she? With you she probably talked feelings.”

  I said, “Her main feeling right now is anger. Plenty of it simmering beneath the surface. It’s been building since she got here—she’s been dealing with lots of crap and getting very little support. She tell you about the vandalism?”

  He frowned. “Yeah. First I’d heard of it. The School Board reported it directly to downtown—it never went any further.”

  “Bad P.R.?” I said.

  “Perish the thought.”

  “Sounds like the school’s been embroiled in politics since they brought the kids in. Think the sniping was political?”

  “At this point, who knows?”

  “Latch or Massengil have any theories? About being targets themselves?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Kenny Frisk and the ATD boys did all the interrogation. Hush-hush behind closed doors. Afterwards Kenny comes out and informs the rest of us peons that official policy is tight lips. All press re-leases to emanate from ATD. Informational infractions will be severely dealt with.”

  I searched his face for signs of anger. All I saw was a big, white mask.

  A few steps later he said, “Though with politicos, good luck keeping their lips from flapping.”

  “So far Latch seems to be complying,” I said. “I ran into him in the hall as he was leaving. Tried to get some information from him and received zip.”

  He turned his head and looked at me. “What kind of information?”

  “Some sort of basic description of the sniper. Who he was. Anything tangible. The kids need to form an image of their enemy.” I repeated the rationale I’d given Linda and Gordon Latch. “They’re already asking questions, Milo. It would increase my effectiveness to be able to answer some of them.”

  He said, “Just basics, huh? Who he was.”

  I nodded. “Of course, any details you can tell me would be useful. Short of an ‘informational infraction.’”

  He didn’t smile. “Details. Well, first thing I can tell you is that you’re operating on a false premise.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It wasn’t a he. It was a she.”

  4

  The restaurant was dim and mock-English: collections of tankards and heraldic shields displayed on rough-textured dun walls, dartboards in “Ye Olde Pub Room,” lots of distressed crossbeams, the tallowy, sweet smell of seared meat. A catacomb jumble of small dining rooms. A respectful maitre d’ had seen to it that ours was empty.

  Milo looked up from his T-bone, put down his knife, and took something out of his coat pocket that he slid across the table.

  A piece of white paper, folded double. In the center was a photocopy of a driver’s license.

  The photo was dark and blurred. A young female face, oval, unsmiling. A little weak-chinned. Thin neck. White blouse. Dark straight hair, cropped short. Straight-edge bangs hovering above arched eyebrows.

  I searched the features for something—some harbinger of violence. The eyes looked a little dull. Sullen. Heavy-lidded, shallow as rain puddles. But that could have been the poor quality of the copy or weariness at waiting in line at the DMV. Other than that, nothing. Average. A face you’d never notice.

  I read the ID data.

  HOLLY LYNN BURDEN

  1723 JUBILO DR

  OCEAN HEIGHTS CA 90070

  SEX: F HAIR: BRN EYES: BLUE

  HT: 5-05 WT: 117 DOB: 12-12-68

  RSTR: CORR LENS

  “Local girl,” I said.

  “Very local. That address is five blocks from the school.”

  “Jubilo Drive. Spanish for ‘joy.’ And I think Esperanza means ‘hope.’”

  “A-plus, Sherlock. You caught the pattern. The street next to Jubilo’s Belleza Court. ‘Beauty.’ Some optimistic urban planner.”

  “Hispanophile urban planner,” I said. “Guess the locals don’t share the spirit.”

  “Hey,” he said, “street names are one thing; letting them marry your sister’s another.”

  I examined the picture again, reread the information. “What do you know about her?”

  “Just what you see in front of you. Frisk says ATD will be checking out known associates—going through their subversive files to see if her name comes up. When he left us he was on his way to her house.”

  “Nineteen years old,” I said and gave him the paper. He folded it back up and put it away.

  “Now forget you saw it, Alex. I’m not even supposed to have a copy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Official ATD document.”

  “How’d you get it?”

  He shrugged and began sawing his steak. “After the print boys finished, Frisk designated one of the offices as a ‘data collection center.’ Had all the evidence hoarded in there, I just happened to saunter in when he just happened to take a leak. There just happened to be this Xerox ma-chine that kept whispering, ‘Turn me on, big boy.’ You know how I’ve always been a sucker for the soft touch
.”

  “Why all the obsession with secrecy, Milo? Once Frisk gave you her name, you could have gotten the license yourself. Hell, I could get it myself.”

  “That’s the way ATD works—comes from spending too much of their time hanging around Washington. The Department sends them there—and to FBI heaven at Quantico. Seminars. Hobnobbing with the cloak-and-dagger freaks. Makes ’em insufferable. But them’s the rules—no sense bucking without any payoff. Besides, it shouldn’t take long for things to ease up. Only a matter of time before the whole case goes public.”

  “How long?”

  “Unless something interesting turns up about the late Ms. Burden in somebody’s files, Frisk plans on releasing her name to the press around noon tomorrow. Soon as that happens, you can tell your kids the bogeyman looks like their friendly neighborhood babysitter.”

  “How’s he going to stall the press in the meantime?”

  “The old fashioned way: lie. ‘Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, no definitive ID pending autopsy.’ Which is almost true—she did take a couple of bullets in the face. But you could still tell it was the same face as the one on the license.”

  I imagined the young, bland countenance swollen, perforated, bleeding; shook that picture out of my head and said, “Around noon should work out, anyway. I’m meeting with the kids at one.”

  “Great. But if, for some reason, Frisk hasn’t gone public, neither do you, okay? I’ve got enough troubles without leaks getting traced back to me this early in the game.”

  “What kind of troubles?”

  “The usual.” His expression said: Change the subject.

  We ate for a while. My mind kept drifting back to the license photo. “A girl sniper,” I said. “Hard to believe.”

  “Women’s lib, Alex,” he said with his mouth full. “They’re trying to catch up to us in the asshole division.”

  “Then they’ve got a long ways to go,” I said. “I remember County Jail—visiting Jamey Cadmus in the violent psych ward. One thing that impressed me was that they had twenty rooms for males, only two set aside for females, and those two were rarely used for females. What percentage of violent crime is committed by women?”

  “Less than ten,” he said. “But the stats get interesting when you look at the age pattern—violent offenders under eighteen. The rate for males is still much higher than it is for females, but the overall rate for males is dropping, while for females it’s going up. The gap is closing. And even without the numbers, I’d know there’s something happening, Alex. On the streets. I can sense it—rules of conduct breaking down. Maybe Manson’s girls broke the ice, I don’t know—Squeaky and the other one taking potshots at Ford, those assholettes in the SLA. Now the gangbangers have started using fems as trigger-men... trigger persons. They figure the courts will go easier on psychopaths in dresses, and they’re right. So far. Meanwhile, more and more Bonnies wanting to be Clydes.”

  He cut a large piece of T-bone free and stuffed it in his mouth. “Hell,” he said, still chewing, “nastiest thing I’ve seen this year was some stenographer over in Mar Vista doing in her boyfriend with a Chinese cleaver. Jilted-lover stir-fry. Call the Frugal Gourmet.”

  I looked at the sirloin on my fork and put it down.

  “Bon appétit,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Of course,” he said, “the distaff does have a long way to go. We’ve got thousands of years of experience behind us. Tankfuls of testosterone. But they’re working on it—the whole goddam culture’s changing. Female wrestlers, girls pumping iron, shooting steroids, talking dirty. Hell, you ever see women flipping off truckers on the freeway till recently? They’re feeling their oats, pal.”

  I made another go at my steak.

  “Prime, huh?” he said, taking another mouthful.

  “Prime.”

  “Private stock. Management knows me.” He patted his gut. “Which is to love me. Big tips and it’s cholesterol heaven.”

  He dipped a piece of meat in steak sauce. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I have a thing against the fairer sex. Just telling it the way I see it.”

  “I know that.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes people assume, you know?”

  “I swore off assumptions for Lent.”

  He gulped another gargantuan piece of steak. The meat was bloody-rare and some juice dribbled down his chin. He dabbed at it. “Did I ever tell you I once had a girlfriend?”

  “Never.”

  “Yup. High school days.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “No? What the hell does it take to surprise you?”

  “How about an honest politician?”

  His laugh was harsh. “Yeah, find one, put him in the cage next to the condor.”

  I said, “Why bother?”

  He laughed some more.

  “Any indication the Burden girl was aiming at Latch or Massengil?”

  “Ye olde participatory democracy?”

  “I’m serious, Milo. Being able to tell the kids they weren’t the targets would make my job easier.”

  “Then, by all means, go ahead and tell ’em.”

  “No,” I said. “If I say it, I want it to be true.”

  “Sorry, then,” he said. “Nothing solid to give you. She didn’t leave any political message at the scene, far as I know. No fringies have called yet expressing solidarity, and Frisk said he didn’t recognize her name offhand from his subversive lists, though like I said, they’ll be running her through the software. Maybe he’ll turn up something at her house—some diary, or wacko manifesto. Mean-while, all we’ve got is one dead girl and lots of question marks.”

  He thought for a moment. “If she was trying for one of them, my guess would be Massengil. Looks like no one except Latch’s insiders knew their boy was going to be there.”

  “The press knew.”

  He shook his head. “Uh-uh. Only about Massengil. That much I confirmed from talking to the reporters. The invite came from Massengil’s staff this morning. It was supposed to be a one-man show. Latch didn’t announce he was coming. The idea was to surprise the enemy.”

  “How’d Latch find out Massengil was going to be there?”

  “Once the press knew, it wouldn’t be too hard for anyone to find out, would it?”

  I said, “Anyone?”

  “Anyone in the grapevine. Frisk does his job correctly, that’s the first thing he’ll check about her. Maybe she once worked for Massengil—or Latch. Or knew someone who did. No one on either staff recognized her name, but she could have been low-level—stuffing envelopes, whatever. Some meek little gofer they treated like shit, never took the time to notice. She swallows it for a while, then quits. No one notices she’s gone. Meanwhile, she’s smoldering, making plans for vengeance. Fits the mass-killer profile. Then again, maybe the political thing was coincidental—Latch and Massengil had nothing to do with it. Maybe all she wanted to do was kill kids, and bigger game intruded.”

  “Local girl makes bad,” I said. “Wonder if she attended Hale.”

  “Revenge for a bad report card?”

  “Got anything that makes more sense?”

  “As a matter of fact I don’t,” he said. “So far this is your quintessential senseless crime—as opposed to all the real sensible ones we get.”

  “Were the reporters there when the shooting started?”

  He shook his head. “No. The press conference wasn’t called until one. Massengil showed up half an hour before, walking around the yard, ‘observing.’ Latch dropped in on him a few minutes later.”

  I said, “If Latch’s intention was to upstage Massengil, why not arrive when the media were in place? Make a dramatic entry.”

  “We wondered about that too. According to Frisk, Latch’s explanation was that his object wasn’t to confront Massengil but to defuse him. He was giving Massengil a chance to call the whole thing off before the cameras showed up.”

  “Saint Gordon.”

  “Ye
ah, and I’m Mother Teresa. My guess is his real intention was to spook Massengil, work him up good. Massengil’s got a reputation for having a short fuse—got into a punch-out with another politico couple of years ago, likes to yell back at hecklers, go head to head. Latch probably figured in half an hour he could get the guy apoplectic by the time the media showed. Really make a jerk out of him. Then the shooting started and took the edge off their little drama.”