Jonathan Kellerman - Time Bomb

“My God, what’s happening, Alex?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Could there be some connection with the sniping?”

“The way things are going, we may never find out.” I recounted how Frisk had kicked Milo off the case.

“Another politician,” I said. “This must be our year for them.”

She said, “Year of the Rat. What should I do about the kids, Alex? In terms of Massengil?”

“The main thing to look out for is their attributing Massengil’s death to something they did- or something they thought. Children- and the younger they are, the truer this is- sometimes equate thinking with doing. They have to be aware of Massengil’s attitude toward them: They may have seen him on TV or heard their parents discussing what a bad person he was. If they wished him harm, or even death, they may get it in their heads that those wishes are what killed him.”

“Step on a crack, break Mama’s back.”

“Exactly. Also, over the next few days the media will probably turn Massengil into some kind of hero. He’s not going to seem like a bad guy anymore. That could be confusing.”

“A hero?” she said. “Even with the hooker?”

“The fact that they haven’t yet gone public with the hooker may mean they intend to keep that part of it under wraps. Frisk trades in secrets. He’d make a deal like that if it was in his best interests.”

She paused, then said, “Okay. So I should make sure to disconnect their thoughts about Massengil from what happened to him.”

“And from the sniping.”

“Should I do it as an assembly or have the teachers handle it class by class?”

“Class by class to accommodate the different developmental levels. I can come over right now, if you’d like.”

“No,” she said. “Thanks anyway. But I’d like to try this myself. In the long run, I’m the one who’ll have to deal with it.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“But,” she said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing you after school.”

“How about seven? Your place?”

“How about.”

I made very strong coffee and squeezed grapefruit for juice- no doubt Mahlon Burden had a gadget that did it faster and cleaner- and, so fortified, turned on the eight o’clock news.

I tuned in midway through a film-clip retrospective of Massengil’s career. Terms like “aggressive campaigner” and “veteran lawmaker” predominated. Sheryl Jackson remained unnamed. Dr. Lance Dobbs was described as a “prominent psychologist, management consultant, and adviser to the assemblyman.” The Lesser Corpse. For all the public knew, he and Massengil had been playing poker.

The police were offering no theories as to the identity of the assassin(s) but were investigating “several leads.” That from the police chief himself. A reporter’s question about the sniping at Hale prompted a quick “At this time we see no connection, but as I said, gentlemen, all aspects of this tragedy are being looked into.” Frisk stood in back of the chief, projecting the faithful-servant solemnity of a Vice Presidential candidate.

Cut to Massengil’s tearful widow, a stout grandmotherly woman with wounded eyes under a bubble of white hair, sitting on a velvet divan being comforted by two of the assemblyman’s four grown sons. The other two were flying in from Colorado and Florida. On the wall behind the divan were framed pictures. The camera closed in on one of them: Massengil throwing a grandchild up in the air. The baby looked terrified and delighted at the same time. Massengil’s smile was ferocious. I turned off the set.

Postponing my next history lesson, I did chores and paperwork for a couple of hours, netted leaves out of the pond, and showered. But by eleven I was at the dining room table, facing Ike’s books. Turning pages, searching for more marginal notes- to what end?

At the very least you’ll have your consciousness raised, pal.

A week ago I would have claimed a sterling consciousness, in no need of raising. I was no stranger to suffering- I’d spent half my life as a receptacle for the misery of others. Walking the terminal wards, dispensing words, nods, empathic looks, strategic silences- the meager kindnesses endowed by my training. Ending too many bleak nights mired in the unanswerable why is life so cruel ruminations that come with that territory. The kind of questions with which you stop torturing yourself only when you realize there are no answers.

But the horror of these books was different, the cruelty so… calculated. Institutionalized and efficient.

Homicide in service of the state.

Psychopathy elevated to patriotic duty.

Children shoved into boxcars under the approving eyes of soldiers not much older than children themselves. Assembly-line tattooing.

The processing of humans as ore.

I’d intended to skim, but found myself reading. Found the time slipping away, until it was noon, then past.

At two-thirty, I began a book on the Eichmann trial. A chapter toward the end presented trial documents proving a deliberate plan to exterminate the Jews. Nazi records chronicling a conference at German Interpol Headquarters in Berlin, convened by one Reinhard Heydrich on January 20, 1942, in accordance with a letter from Hermann Goering charging Heydrich with arranging a final solution. A secret conference attended by learned men: Dr. Meyer. Dr. Leibrandt. Dr. Nenmann. Dr. Freisler…

The plan had been well thought-out, making use of data already collected by the previous mass murder operations of Aktion squads. Detailed statistics on the demographics of eleven million Jews.

The first stage would be mass evacuation under the guise of Arbeitseinsatz - the “ labor effort.” Those evacuees not liquidated by “natural causes” would be “treated suitably.” The whole thing had the arrogant detachment of an academic conference, the participants conducting scholarly, high-minded discussions of optimal killing techniques…

A secret conference, revealed to posterity only because Herr Eichmann, compulsive clerk that he was, had taken copious notes.

A conference held in the Berlin district known as Wannsee.

Wannsee.

Wanna see.

Wanna see? Wanna see too? Two?

My breath grew short and the ache in my jaw reminded me I’d been clenching my teeth.

I returned my gaze to the book. The pages before me were well thumbed, foxed to fuzz at the corners.

In the right margin the words had been penciled, in the neat, measured printing I’d come to know as Ike Novato’s:

“Wannsee II? Possible?”

Several inches below that: “Crevolin again? Maybe.”

Then a phone number with a 931 prefix.

The Fairfax district.

Wannsee II.

Crevolin. It sounded like a hair-replacement tonic. Or something made from petrochemicals.

Some kind of code? Or maybe a name.

I dialed the Fairfax number. A receptionist recited the call letters of one of the TV networks. Surprise slowed my response and before I could answer she repeated the triad of consonants and said, “May I help you?”

“Yes. I’d like to speak with Mr. Crevolin.” Fifty percent chance of getting the gender right.

She said, “One moment.”

Click.

“Terry Crevolin’s office.”

“Mr. Crevolin, please.”

“He’s out of the office.”

“When do you expect him back?”

“Who is this, please?”

Not knowing how to answer that, I said, “A friend. I’ll call back later,” and hung up.

I dialed the Holocaust Center and asked for Judy Baumgartner. She came to the phone sounding cheerful.

“Yes, Alex, what can I do for you?”