Jonathan Kellerman - Time Bomb

I came back an hour later and sat by the fishpond, unable to make out the koi as anything more than bubbles on the black surface of the water. But hearing them, hearing the song of the waterfall, my mind started to clear.

I stayed there a while longer, then went back up to the house, ready for the present tense. I thought of phoning Linda, tried to convince myself my motives were purely professional, then realized I didn’t have her home number. Neither did Information. I viewed it as an omen, settled in for another night alone.

Nine o’clock. Evening news on the local station; I was becoming a tragedy junkie. I cracked a Grolsch, settled back, and clicked the remote.

The broadcast began with a regurgitation of the usual international mess, followed by a machine-gun spatter of local crime stories: an armored-van robbery at a savings and loan in Van Nuys, one guard killed, the other in critical condition. A Pacoima crack-smoker who’d gone berserk and stabbed his eight-year-old son to death with a butcher knife. A five-year-old girl snatched out of her front yard up in Santa Cruz.

Tough competition; nothing on the Hale sniping.

I sat through ten minutes of the feathery stuff that passes for human interest journalism in L.A. Tonight’s main feature was a millionaire Newport Beach urologist who’d won the lottery and vowed his life-style wouldn’t change. Next came shots of the new Rose Queen opening a shopping mall in Altadena.

Happy talk between the anchors.

Weather and sports.

The doorbell rang. Probably Milo, here to tell me, in person, what he’d called about.

I opened the door, directing my eyes upward toward Milo’s six-foot-three level. But the eyes that stared back were a good nine inches lower. Bloodshot gray-blue eyes behind eyeglasses in clear plastic frames. Bloodshot but so bright and focused, they seemed to pierce the glass, dominating a smallish, triangular face. Pasty complexion rendered sallow by the bug-light over the door. Mouth tightly set. Small, thin nose with narrow nostrils flanking an incongruous bulb-tip. Wispy brown-gray hair blowing in the night wind. A nondescript face above a tan windbreaker zipped to the neck.

My gaze fell to his hands. Pale and long-fingered, wringing each other.

“Dr. Delaware. I presume.” Nasal voice. Not a trace of levity. The hackneyed line rehearsed… No, more contrived than that. Programmed.

I looked over his shoulder. Down in the carport was a silver-gray Honda with blackened windows.

I was suddenly certain he’d been standing out there for a while. My neck hairs prickled and I put one hand on the door and took a step backward.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“My name is Burden,” he said, making it sound like an apology. “My daughter’s… There’s been some… trouble with her. She… I’m sure you know.”

“Yes, I do, Mr. Burden.”

He extended both hands in front of him, knitted together, as if containing something precious or lethal. “What I… I’d like to talk to you, Dr. Delaware, if you could spare the time.”

I stepped back and let him in.

He looked around, still wringing his hands, eyes bouncing around the living room, like a billiard trick shot.

“You have a very nice home,” he said. Then he started to weep.

I let him in and sat him down on the leather sofa. He sobbed tearlessly for a while, making dry, choking noises, hid his face in his hands, then looked up and said, “Doctor…”

Then nothing.

I waited.

His glasses had slid down his nose. He righted them. “I… May I please use your… facilities?”

I pointed him down the hallway to the bathroom, went into the kitchen, made strong coffee, and brought it back, along with cups and a bottle of Irish whisky. I heard the toilet flush. A few minutes later he came back, sat down, folded his hands in his lap and stared at the floor, as if memorizing the pattern on my Bukhara.

I put a cup of coffee into his hands and offered the whisky bottle. He shook his head. I spiked my own drink, took a long, hot swallow, and sat back.

He said, “This is… Thank you for allowing me into your home.” His voice was nasal, oboelike.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Burden.”

He shielded his face with one hand and moved it from side to side, as if trying to shake off a bad dream. The hand holding the cup trembled badly and coffee sloshed over the sides and onto the rug. He uncovered his face, put the cup down, rattling it against the glass top, snatched a napkin, and scrambled to mop up.

I touched his elbow and said, “Don’t worry about it.”

He backed away from the contact but allowed me to take the sodden napkin from his hand.

“I’m sorry… It… I don’t mean to intrude.”

I took the napkin into the kitchen in order to give him more time to compose himself. He got up and paced the room. I could hear his footsteps from the kitchen. Rapid, arrhythmic.

When I returned, his hands were back in his lap, his eyes back on the rug.

A minute passed slowly, then another. I drank coffee. He just sat there. When he made no attempt to speak, I said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Burden?”

He answered before the last word was out of my mouth. “ Analyze her. Learn the truth and tell them they’re wrong.”

“Tell who?”

“ Them . The police, the press, all of them. They’re delusional. Saying she shot at children, was some kind of homicidal monster .”

“Mr. Burden-”

He shook his head violently. “ Listen to me! Believe me! There was no earthly way she would… could do anything like that. No way she would use a gun - she hated my… She was pacifistic. Idealistic. And never children ! She loved children!”

I imagined the final scene in the storage shed. Her lair. Black clothing, a rifle, a cup of urine.

He shook his head, said, “Impossible.”

“Why come to me, Mr. Burden?”

“For analysis,” he said, with just a trace of impatience. “Psycho- analysis . That’s your specialty, isn’t it? Childhood motivation, thought processes of the developing organism. And despite her age, Holly was a child. Psychologically. Believe me, I should know. That would put her within your professional purview, wouldn’t it? Am I correct?”

When I didn’t respond right away, he said, “Please, Doctor. You’re a scholar, an in-depth man- this should be right up your alley. I know I’ve chosen right.”

He began reciting the titles of studies I’d published in scientific journals. Ten-year-old articles. In perfect chronological order. When he was finished, he said, “I do my research, Doctor. I’m thorough. When things count, it’s the only way.”

The sorrow gone from his face, replaced by a haughty smile- an A student expecting praise.

“How’d you find me, Mr. Burden?”

“After I spoke to the police it became clear to me they weren’t after the truth, had preconceived notions. Just plain lazy, concerned with wrapping things up. So I began observing the school, hoping to learn something- anything. Because nothing they told me made sense. I recorded the license plates of anyone going in and out of the school grounds and checked them against my files. Yours cross-checked with several of my lists.”

“Your lists?”

The oboe played a couple of long notes close to laughter. “Don’t be alarmed- it’s nothing ominous. Lists are my business. I should have mentioned that in the beginning. Mailing lists. Direct mail advertising. Applied demography. Data that can be called up with regard to occupation, ZIP code, marital status- any number of variables. You were on the mental health specialist list. Subclass 1B: Ph.D. clinical psychologists. Yet you weren’t the psychologist who’s been talking to the media, claiming he’s been treating the children. It made me curious. I investigated you further. What I learned gave me hope.”