“I’m not frightened of the truth, Dr. Delaware. Solid data never scare me.”
Boasting. I thought of him surveilling me, from behind blackened windows. Using his “files” to invade my privacy. Using tears to gain entry into my lovely home.
Assuming the patient role so that I’d play therapist?
No matter what his motivation, I’d been manipulated. I took another sip of spiked coffee and experienced a wave of lightheadedness. Alcohol or the strangeness of the moment?
I put the cup down, sat back, crossed my legs, and studied him. Tried to regain objectivity, pull out of the sorrow-sympathy circuit that he’d instigated on my doorstep.
“I absolutely accept your contingencies,” he said. “Will you help me?”
He leaned forward on the sofa. Dry-eyed.
One part of me- the invaded householder- wanted him out of there. But I found myself considering his proposition. Because what he was offering me was exactly what I’d been telling everyone I wanted. A chance to understand the bogey-woman. The opportunity to mine some bit of information that might speed up the healing of the kids at Hale.
Delve as deep as you like. Be unsparing with your questions.
Given the recency of his tragedy, his inability at this point to confront what had really happened in the storage shed- that pledge meant little. He might start out by answering my questions and end up seeing me as the enemy. But somewhere in between, I might very well learn something.
At what price?
I said, “Give me some time to think about it.”
That didn’t please him; he tugged at the zipper-pull of his windbreaker, opened and closed the jacket, and kept staring at me, as if waiting for me to change my mind.
Finally he said, “That’s all I can ask, Doctor.”
He stood. Out came the cheap wallet. He handed me a white business card.
NEW FRONTIERS TECHNOLOGY, LTD.
MAHLON M. BURDEN, PRES.
A phone number with a Pacific Palisades exchange had been penciled beneath his name.
He said, “That’s a private line- very few people have it. Call me, twenty-four hours a day. Chances are I’ll be out of the office most of tomorrow- downtown, at Parker Center. Trying to get the police to release the… her body. But I’ll be picking up messages.”
His chin quivered and his face started to sag. Trying not to look at him, I saw him out the door.
I was still thinking about him when Milo called.
“Got a fix on your Honda,” he said. “New Frontiers Tech is Burden’s father’s company.”
“I know.” I told him about the visit.
“He dropped in on you, just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Traced you by running your plates?”
“That’s what he said.”
“You get any sense he was dangerous?”
“Not really. Just odd.”
“Odd in what way?”
“Calculating. Manipulative. But maybe I’m being too hard on him. The guy’s been through hell. Lord knows I’m not seeing him at his best.”
“Sounds to me like he piqued your professional curiosity.”
“Somewhat.”
“Somewhat. That mean you’re gonna take him up on his proposition?”
“I’m thinking about it. Any problem if I do?”
“Doesn’t bother me, personally, Alex, but are you sure you want to get in any deeper?”
“If I can learn something that would help the kids, I do. I made it clear to him that my first allegiance was to them. No confidentiality. He accepted it.”
“He accepts it for now. But look at the guy’s state of mind. Heavy deniaclass="underline" he’s still claiming she’s innocent. What happens when reality hits him? What happens after you go in and do your thing and come out concluding his little girl was a wacko with blood on the brain? How do you think he’ll accept that?”
“I raised that possibility with him.”
“And?”
“He said he was willing to take his chances.”
“Right. He also tell you it was his rifle she took to that shed? Apparently the guy’s a gun collector and she lifted one of his collectibles. What do you think that does to his ability to think straight about this?”
She hated my…
“When did you learn this?”
“Extremely recently.” Pause. “Sources at the ballistics lab.”
He cursed. I couldn’t tell how much of his resentment came from having to get facts on the investigation secondhand, how much from the possibility I might work with Mahlon Burden.
“So,” I said, “you’re saying I should turn him down?”
“Me telling you what to do? Perish the thought. I just want you to think carefully about it.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Milo.”
“While you had him there, did you ask him about the boyfriend?”
“I didn’t ask him about anything. Didn’t want to engage him until I was sure which way I was going to take it.”
“Sounds like you’re already engaged, pal. Only question is, when’s the wedding?”
“What’s bugging you, Milo?”
“Nothing. Oh, hell, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the idea of you working for the other side.”
“Not for. With.”
“Same difference.”
“What puts him on the other side, anyway?”
“Good guys and bad guys. Know of a more meaningful distinction?”
“He didn’t pull the trigger, Milo. All he did was sire her.”
“She was nutso. Where did it come from?”
“What, guilt by procreation?”
A long, uncomfortable silence.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said. “Where’s my milk of human compassion for him- he’s a victim too. It’s just that I called you in to help the kids. Trying to do something positive in the middle of all this crap. I guess I don’t want to see you used- to whitewash what she did.”
“That would be impossible. What she did is indelible, Milo.”
“Yeah. Okay, sorry. Don’t mean to ride you. It’s just been a terrific day. Just got back from another crime scene. Toddler murder.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Pure shit. Two-year-old victim. Mom’s boyfriend gets loaded on ice and dust and God knows what else, uses the baby for punching practice. Neighbors heard the kid wailing all day, called Protective Services two weeks ago. Social workers came down last week, evaluated, wrote it up as ‘high risk,’ recommended removal from the home. But they hadn’t gotten around to processing it yet.”
“Jesus.”
“Processing,” he said. “Don’t you just love that? Like sausage. Shit into the grinder, out the other end, tagged and wrapped. Can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings. What new load of garbage will need to be processed.”
12
I mulled over Burden’s offer without coming to any conclusion, woke up Friday morning still thinking about it. I put it aside and drove to the school to work with the ones I was sure were the good guys.
I could tell I was making progress: The children seemed bored, and a good part of each session was spent in free play. Most of the afternoon was spent working individually with the high-risk youngsters. A few were still experiencing sleep problems but even they seemed more settled.
Doing remarkably well.
But what would the long-term effects be?
By four I was sitting in an empty classroom thinking about that. Realizing how poorly my training had prepared me for the work I was doing, how few insights standard psychology had to offer about the effects upon children of traumatic violence. Perhaps my experiences could be useful to others- other victims and healers, certain to materialize soon in a world grown increasingly psychopathic. I decided to keep detailed clinical records, was still writing at five when a custodian lugging a mop and bucket stuck his head into the room and asked how long I was planning to be there. I collected my stuff and left, passing Linda’s office. Carla’s work space was dark, but the light was on in the inner office.