thought of you.”
We reached the steps, where we were sheltered by an overhang. Mile stopped and placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Thanks for coming down, Alex. It’s a goddam mess. I figured no one would do a better job than you. I don’t know what your schedule’s like or if they’ll be able to pay you, but if you can at least get them started on the right foot…” He cleared his throat and rubbed his face again.
I said, “Tell me what happened.”
“Looks like the suspect got onto the school grounds before school opened, either by scaling or walking through- couple of the gates were left unlocked- proceeded into the storage shed, which had a dinky lock on it, and stayed there.”
“No one uses the shed?”
He shook his head. “Empty. Used to be for athletic equipment. They keep all that stuff in the main building now. Suspect was settled in there until a little after noon, when the kids came pouring out for recess. Latch and Massengil and their people showed up by twelve-thirty and that’s when the shooting started. Teachers began shoving the kids back in the building, but it was a real mob scene. Mass hysteria. Everyone falling over everyone else.”
I glanced back at the storage shed. “TV said no one was hurt.”
“Just the suspect. Permanently.”
“SWAT?”
He shook his head. “It was over before SWAT got here. One of Latch’s guys did the job. Fellow named Ahlward. While everyone else was diving for cover, he rushed the shed, kicked the door in and played Rambo.”
“Bodyguard?”
“I’m not sure what he is, yet.”
“But he was armed.”
“Lots of people in politics are.”
We climbed the steps. I took another look back at the shed. One of the mesh windows offered a clear view of the main building.
“It could have been a shooting gallery,” I said. “Near-sighted sniper?”
He grunted and pushed the door open. The interior of the building was oven-warm, ripe with the mingled aromas of chalk dust and wet rubber.
“This way,” he said, turning left and guiding me down a brightly lit hallway hung with children’s artwork in fingerpaint and crayon, and health and safety posters featuring grinning anthropomorphic animals. The linoleum floor was clay-colored and mottled with muddy shoeprints. A couple of cops patrolled. They acknowledged Milo with stiff nods.
I said, “The newscast said Latch and Massengil were going to debate on camera.”
“It wasn’t set up that way. Apparently Massengil had a solo press conference in mind. Planned to make some speech about government tampering with family life, use the school as a backdrop, the whole busing thing.”
“School know of his plans?”
“Nope. No one here had any idea he was coming down. But Latch’s people found out about it and Latch decided to come down himself and confront him. Impromptu debate.”
“Cameras ended up getting a better show,” I said.
The doors off the corridor were painted that same pumpkin-orange. All were shut and as we passed, sounds filtered through the wood: muffled voices, the matter-of-fact sonata of a police radio, what could have been crying.
I said, “Think Latch or Massengil was the real target?”
“Don’t know yet. The assassination angle brought the anti-terrorist boys zipping over from downtown. They’re interviewing both of the staffs right now. As long as the political angle is a possibility, they’re in charge- meaning I collect info and hand it over to them so they can classify it, then refuse to let me look at it on grounds that it’s classified. Perquisites of power, hoo-ha.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Top of that, the
He hummed a few bars of “Send in the Clowns” and lengthened his stride.
“On the other hand,” he said, “if it’s your everyday, run-of-the-mill SoCal psycho killer gunning for innocent babies, none of the muckamucks will give a shit, ’cause the psycho’s dead- no headline value- and yours truly will catch the paperwork. Good old perquisites of power.”
He stopped at a door marked PRINCIPAL, turned the knob, and shoved. We entered a front office- two straight-backed oak chairs and a secretary’s desk, untended. To the right of the desk was a door bearing a brown plastic slide-in sign stamped LINDA OVERSTREET, ED. D. in white. Milo knocked and pushed it open without waiting for a reply.
The desk in the rear office was pushed to the wall, creating an open space that accommodated a sand-colored L-shaped sofa, tile-topped coffee table, and two upholstered chairs. Plants in ceramic pots filled the corners. Next to the desk was a waist-high shelving unit well stocked with books, rag dolls, puzzles, and games. Framed watercolors of irises and lilies hung on the walls.
A woman got up from the sofa and said, “Detective Sturgis. Hello, again.”
For some reason I’d expected someone middle-aged. She was no older than thirty. Tall- five eight or nine- leggy, high-waisted, and slim, but with strong shoulders and full hips that flared below a tight waist. Her face was long, lean, very pretty, with a clear, fair complexion, rosy cheeks, and fine features topped by a thick shag of shoulder-length blond hair. Her mouth was wide, the lips a trifle stingy. Her jawline was crisp and angled sharply, as if aiming for a point, but ending in a squared-off cleft chin that granted her a bit of determination. She wore a charcoal cowl-neck sweater tucked into a knee-length denim skirt. No makeup other than a touch of eye shadow. Her only jewelry was a pair of square black costume earrings.
“As promised,” Milo told her, “Dr. Alex Delaware. Alex, Dr. Overstreet, the boss around here.”
She gave him a fleeting smile and turned to me. Because of her height and her heels, we were almost eye to eye. Hers were round and large, fringed with long, almost-white lashes. The irises were an unremarkable shade of brown but radiated an intensity that caught my attention and held it.
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Delaware.” She had a soft voice mellowed further by some kind of Southern twang. She held out her hand and I took it. Long-fingered and narrow, exerting no pressure. I wondered how someone with hands that submissive, that beauty-contestant voice, would handle a position of authority.
I said hello. She freed her hand and brushed her bangs.
“Thanks for coming down on such short notice,” she said. “What a nightmare.”
She shook her head again.
Milo said, “S’cuse me, doctors,” and moved toward the door.
“See you later,” I told him.
He saluted.
When he was gone, she said, “That man is kind and gentle,” as if ready to argue the point.
I nodded. She said, “At first the kids were scared of him, scared to talk to him- his size. But he really handled them well. Like a good father.”
That made me smile.
Her color deepened. “Anyway, let’s get to work. Tell me everything I can do to help the kids.”
She took a pad and pencil from her desk. I sat on the short section of the L-shaped sofa and she settled perpendicular to me, crossing her legs.
I said, “Are any of them showing signs of overt panic?”
“Such as?”
“Hysteria, breathing troubles, hyperventilation, uncontrollable weeping?”
“No. At first there were tears, but they appeared to have calmed down. At least the last time I looked they seemed settled- amazingly so. We’ve got them back in their classrooms and the teachers have been instructed to let me know if anything comes up. No calls for the last half hour, so I guess no news is good news.”
“What about physical symptoms- vomiting, urinating, loss of bowel control?”
“We had a couple of wet pants in the lower grades. The teachers handled it discreetly.”
I probed for symptoms of shock. She said, “No, the paramedics already went through that. Said they were okay.
