Time Bomb

forthcoming. Speaking anonymously, they described the Burdens, pere et fille, as “unfriendly, secretive”; “not involved in the community, they stuck to themselves.” Mahlon Burden was characterized as “some kind of inventor- some people think he’s eccentric”; Holly was termed “a weird girl who hung around the house all day, usually inside- she never got any sun, was white as a ghost.” “No one really knew what she did with herself- she was a dropout, didn’t go to school or do any kind of work.” “There were rumors she was sick. Maybe it was mental.”

The reporter used that maybe as a bridge to the next focus of the article: guesswork about the state of Holly Burden’s psyche proffered by the usual pack of experts willing to pontificate without benefit of data. Prominent among the guessers was “Dr. Lance L. Dobbs, clinical psychologist and Director of Cognitive- Spiritual Associates of West Los Angeles, an authority on the psychological impact of childhood stress, hired by the School Board to treat the young victims at the school.”

Dobbs termed the dead girl a “probable antisocial schizoidal personality or sociopath- it’s the kind of aberrant character that’s made, not born,” and went on to lambaste society for “not meeting the spiritual growth needs of its young people.” He described his treatment plan as a “comprehensive and systematic program of crisis intervention, including the use of bilingual therapists. We’ve already begun working with the victims and have made excellent progress. However, based on prior experience, we do predict severe reactions on the part of some youngsters. They will have to be treated more intensively.”

Never-never land.

The article ended with a profile of the hero of the day.

Darryl “Bud” Ahlward, forty-two, listed as Councilman Gordon Latch’s “chief administrative assistant.” More than just a bodyguard, unless that was Latch’s way of getting high-priced muscle on the city payroll. And muscle did seem to be what Ahlward was all about: former Marine drill instructor, commando, body-builder, martial arts expert. All of which fit the tight-lipped, macho posture I’d seen yesterday.

What didn’t fit was that kind of crypto-soldier working for someone of Latch’s political pedigree. Apparently, Latch had been asked about it before, explained it by citing a “mutual rapport between Bud and myself, especially vis-a-vis environmental issues.”

I put the paper aside.

A pebble-toss of whos, whats, hows.

No whys.

I called my service for messages. Routine stuff except for a request to phone Assemblyman Samuel Massengil’s office, accompanied by two numbers- one local, one with a 916 area code. Sacramento. Curious, I phoned the L.A. number, got a recorded message expressing Assemblyman Massengil’s eagerness to be of service to his constituents, followed by a list of other offices and numbers where many “municipal and county services” could be obtained, thus avoiding contact with Assemblyman Massengil.

Finally, a beep. I left my name and number and went to bed with a head full of questions.

7

At eight-thirty the next morning I got a call from a woman with a laugh in her voice. She introduced herself as Beth Bramble, executive assistant to Assemblyman Samuel Massengil. “Thank you for returning our call, Doctor.”

“Executive assistant,” I said. “Bud Ahlward’s counterpart?”

Pause. “Not quite, Dr. Delaware.”

“You don’t have a black belt?”

Another pause, briefer. “I’ve never known a psychiatrist with a sense of humor.”

“I’m a psychologist.”

“Ah. Maybe that explains it.”

“What can I do for you, Ms. Bramble?”

“Assemblyman Massengil would like to meet with you.”

“For what purpose?”

“I really don’t know, Doctor. He’s flying back up to Sacramento this afternoon for a vote, and would be pleased if you could join him this morning for coffee.”

“I assume this is about the Hale School.”

“That’s safe to assume,” she said. “What’s a good time for you?”

“I’m not sure there is one. My work with the children is confidential.”

“The Assemblyman is well aware of that.”

“The last thing I want is to get involved in politics, Ms. Bramble.”

“I assure you, Doctor, no one has any intention of corrupting you.”

“But you have no idea what this is about.”

“No, I’m sorry, I really don’t- just delivering the message. Would nine-thirty be too early?”

The invitation intrigued me, but it smelled bad; my instinct was to stay away. Given Massengil’s temper, it was a tricky situation. Reject him and he just might vent more of his spleen on the school. Then there was the matter of my curiosity…

I said, “Nine-thirty’s okay. Where?”

“Our district office is on San Vicente. In Brentwood.”

She gave me the address and thanked me for my cooperation. After she hung up, I realized the laugh had left her voice early in the conversation and never returned.

***

A blue plastic sign stamped with the state seal was visible just above the address numerals, half-obscured by the leaves of a scrawny hibiscus. The building was anything but imposing, nothing remotely governmental about it. Two stories of white stucco moderne, trimmed with sand-colored brick and sandwiched between a larger, glass- fronted medical structure and a mini-mall whose main attraction was a frozen yogurt parlor. Svelte people in sweats streamed in and out of the parlor, concerned more with body tone than better government.

Fronting the building was a tow-away zone. I turned the comer, hooked into an alley, and parked in a visitor’s slot. Pushing open an iron gate, I stepped into more fresh air- the basic garden office setup: half a dozen suites on each floor, each with its own entrance, arranged in a right angle around a jungle of banana plants, clump bamboo, and asparagus fern.

The district office occupied two suites on the ground floor of the building, its neighbors an insurance broker, a graphic artist, a travel agent, and a publisher of technical manuals. The door to the first suite instructed me to please use the door to the second. Before I had a chance to comply, it swung open and a woman stepped out into the garden area.

She was in her mid- to late thirties, with blue-black hair drawn back and tied in a tight bun, a full face, icy gray-green eyes, a fleshy mouth, and ten pounds of extra weight in all the right places. She wore a tailored black suit that flaunted the weight, a white silk blouse, and black string tie fastened by a huge smoky topaz. The suit skirt ended at her knees. Her spiked heels were long and sharp enough to render grave bodily harm.

“Dr. Delaware? I’m Beth Bramble.” Her smile was as bright and durable as a camera flash. “Won’t you come in. The Assemblyman’s free.”

I resisted the urge to ask if the Assemblyman was also easy and followed her inside. She swayed when she walked- more flaunting- and led me into a reception area. Soft, spineless music flowed from an unseen speaker. The furnishings were vintage highway motel- wood-grain and Mylar, ostentatiously frugal. The walls were lime-sherbet grasscloth hung with a few blurry nautical prints and Rockwell reproductions. But most of the vertical space was covered by photos, scores of them, framed in black: Massengil entertaining foreign dignitaries, presenting trophies, holding aloft official proclamations crowded with calligraphy, gripping chromium-plated groundbreaking shovels, doing the banquet circuit surrounded by alcohol-glazed, tuxedoed, rubber-chicken eaters. And mixing with the people: wheelchair-trapped oldsters, sooty-faced firefighters, children in Halloween