Time Bomb (45 page)

“Assignment? Alex, if you were serious about political assassination, would you
assign
someone like her to do it?”

“Granted we’re talking the amateur hour,” I said. “But competence isn’t always the rule of thumb for those kinds of groups, is it? Look at the Symbionese Liberation Army.”

“Ye olde Crispy Critters,” he said. “Yeah, those guys weren’t too swift.”

“But they got famous, didn’t they? Which is what amateurs are after. High profile and a romantic death.”

“If death is romantic, I’m a fucking poet.”

“Holly had a dreary life, Milo. No present, no future. Belonging to a fringe group could have given her purpose. Going out in a blaze of glory might not have looked bad at all.”

“You’re saying she was on a suicide mission?”

“No. But she might not have worried about the risks.”

“A group thing, huh?” he said. “Back to the ninjas. So who killed Novato and disappeared Gruenberg?”

“Maybe that
was
a dope thing. Or maybe it was the opposition. Right-wing radicals.”

“
Two
groups of assholes?”

“Why not? Now that you mention it, it brings to mind something I just read scribbled in one of Novato’s books: ‘Same old story: power and money, no matter what wing.’ Maybe what he was referring to was political extremism—and he was becoming disillusioned.”

Milo said, “KKK assholes versus commie scumbags? Very colorful. But before you get carried away, don’t forget that what happened tonight could have had nothing to do with politics—just some jealous john. This could all be related to Cheri. Guys get attached to these girls—it happens more than you’d imagine. Or maybe it
was
political but had nothing to do with Holly, or Novato, or Gruenberg. Massengil was not Mr. Charm. Could be one of his disgruntled constituents set out to vote with his trigger finger.”

“Not Mr. Charm,” I said, “but popular enough to last twenty-eight years.”

“So much for the incumbency advantage.” A moment later: “I don’t know, Alex. What’s been going on is so weird I don’t even want to apply logic, because when I do, I start doubting the
value
of logic. One thing you can take comfort in: Your hunch about there being something funny between Massengil and Dobbs was right on.”

I said; “Sloppy seconds. Management consulting. Great way to launder Cheri’s fees.”

“What do you think about what she said—politicos and bondage?”

“Makes sense psychologically. Like you once said, politicians mainline power. For some of them, sex would be just another dominance game. What would be interesting to find out is who else, either here or in Sacramento, was aware of Massengil’s kinks. Who besides Dobbs knew Massengil was carrying on with Cheri. And maybe there were other Cheris. The guy Massengil slugged in the Assembly—DiMarco—would be someone to talk to. What if he found out about it and leaked it—another kind of revenge. Or took a more direct route.”

“Shot them himself?”

“Burr shot Hamilton. White shot Milk and Moscone.”

“Shit,” he said. “All sorts of ways to go. That’s why I wanted to get her down to the station and lean on her some more. I tried to tell Frisk about it, tell him what needed to be done to keep the investigation clean. But he just cut me off. Said ‘Thank you, Detective, everything’s under control.’ As in: Fuck you. I don’t need your faggot ideas.” Milo shook his head. “Fuck it, it’s not my problem. I wash my hands of it. Hate press conferences anyway.”

Saying it too loud and too fast; I wasn’t sure I believed him. That he believed it himself. But this was no time to argue.

28

Linda had phoned and left a message at ten:
Just called to say hi. Be up until eleven thirty.

It was close to one, and though I wanted to talk to her, I decided to do it in the morning.

I was wound up. Sensory overload. Not ready to tackle the kind of stuff Ike Novato had chosen to read about. TV would be reruns of movies that shouldn’t have been produced in the first place, and hucksters pitching cellulite cures and eternal salvation. I did a half hour on the skiing machine, showered, then hobbled into bed and fell asleep.

I woke up thinking about the kids at Hale and called Linda at seven-thirty. She had already heard about Massengil’s murder on the early morning newscast. The newscaster hadn’t mentioned anything about a woman being involved. I told her about Sheryl Jackson.

“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 devel-opmental 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 grandmoth-erly 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 Baum-gartner. She came to the phone sounding cheerful.

“Yes, Alex, what can I do for you?”

“Milo asked me to look through Ike Novato’s books. I just came across something Ike wrote in one of the margins and thought you might be able to explain it to me.”

“What is it?”

“Wannsee Two. He wrote it in the margin of a chapter on the original Wannsee conference.”

“Wannsee Two,” she said, pronouncing it
Vahn-say
. “He never mentioned that to me. Strange that he should even know about that.”

“Whys that?”

“Wannsee Two’s pretty esoteric. Just a rumor, really, that circulated years ago-—back in the seventies. Supposedly, there was a secret meeting between elements of the radical right and those of the radical left—white leftists who’d broken with the black militants and turned heavily racist. The alleged goal was to set up a national socialist confederation—plant the roots of a neo-Nazi party in this country.”

“Sounds like the Bund, reborn.”

“More like the Hitler-Stalin pact,” she said. “The extremes crushing the middle. We checked it out, never found any evidence it had happened. The prevailing wisdom is that it’s apocryphal—one of those urban folk myths, like alligators in the sewer system. But chances are this particular myth got a little special help. The rumor began circulating just around the time of Cointelpro—the counterintelligence program the Nixon administration set up to sabotage radical movements.”

“Where was this conference supposed to have taken place?”

“I’ve heard different versions, ranging from Germany to right here in the U.S. I’ve even heard claims that it took place on a military base—the confederation was supposed to have lots of members in the armed forces and in various police forces around the country. How’s that for something to feed your paranoia?” Pause. “Wannsee Two. This is the first I’ve heard of it in a very long time. I wonder how Ike knew about it.”

“His landlady was an old radical with an interest in the Holocaust,” I said. “The two of them used to talk politics. She may have told him about Wannsee Two and he may have decided to research it.”

“Well, given that, I can see why he’d pursue it. Blacks were a prime target of Wannsee Two. The way the story goes, one of the intentions of the confederation was to foment hatred between the minorities, Pit the blacks against the Jews—have the blacks
kill
the Jews, which would be easy because the Jews were passive wimps, ready to march into the ovens again. Once the blacks had served their purpose, they would be annihilated. Also a snap, because
they
were so gullible and stupid. And of course, when the cowardly Hispanics and Asians saw what was going on, they’d leave the country of their own accord—go back where they came from—and the borders of White America would be hermetically sealed.”