Free Time Bomb by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

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-à-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