We walked toward the first classroom. A door at the end of the corridor swung open. A tight cluster of nine or ten people poured out and barreled in our direction.

At the group’s nucleus was a tall white-haired man in his sixties wearing a gray sharkskin suit that could have been purchased for Eisenhower’s victory party. His face was stringy and hawkish above a long, wattled neck- beak nose, white toothbrush mustache, pursed mouth, eyes buried in an angry squint. He kept up a vigorous pace, leading with his head, pumping his elbows like a speed-walker. His minions were whispering at him, but he didn’t seem to be listening. The group ignored us and blew by.

I said, “Looks like the esteemed assemblyman’s run out of words.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled. We continued walking.

I said, “What do you know about the sniper?”

“Just that he’s dead.”

“It’s a start.”

She turned sharply. “A start at what?”

“Dealing with the kids’ fears. The fact that he’s dead will help.”

“You’re going to get into gory details with them right away?”

“I’m going to be truthful with them. When they’re ready for it.”

She looked doubtful.

I said, “The key is for them to make some kind of sense out of a crazy situation. In order to do that they’ll need as much accurate information as possible. Facts. About the bad guy- presented at their level, as soon as possible. The mind abhors a vacuum. Without facts, they’ll fill their heads with fantasies of him that could be much worse than reality.”

“Just how much reality do you think they need to absorb?”

“Nothing gory. Basics. The sniper’s name, age, what he looks… looked like. It’s crucial that they see him as human. Destructible. Gone forever. Even with facts, some of the youngest ones will be incapable of understanding the permanence of his death- they’re not mature enough, developmentally. And some of the older ones may regress because of the trauma- temporarily ‘forget’ that dead people don’t come back to life. So they’re all vulnerable to fantasies of the bad guy returning. Of his coming back to get them again. Adult crime victims go through it- after the initial shock’s worn off. It can lead to nightmares, phobias, all kinds of post-traumatic reactions. In children the risk is higher because kids don’t draw a clear line between reality and fantasy. You can’t eliminate the risk of problems, but by dealing with misconceptions right away, you minimize it.”

I stopped. She was staring at me, grimly, the brown eyes unwavering.

“What I want,” I said, “is for them to understand that the bastard’s truly destroyed. That he’s not some supernatural bogeyman that’s going to keep haunting them.”

“Bastard” made her smile. “Okay. Just as long as it doesn’t end up scaring them more-” She stopped herself. “Sorry. You obviously know a heck of a lot more about this than I do. It’s just that they’ve been through so much for so long, I’ve gotten protective.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Good to see someone caring.”

She ignored that. This one definitely didn’t like compliments.

“I don’t know a thing about the bastard,” she said. “No one saw him. We just heard the shots. Then there was a lot of panic- screaming and shoving. We were trying to stuff the kids back into the building, keeping their heads down. We ran as fast and as far away as we could, trying to make sure no one got trampled. No one even knew it was over until that guy Ahlward came out of the shed, waving his gun like a cowboy after the big draw. When I first saw him, it freaked me out- I thought he was the sniper. Then I recognized him- I’d seen him in Latch’s group. And he was smiling, telling us it was all over. We were safe.”

She shuddered. “Bye-bye, bogeyman.”

The lone patrolman had tilted his head toward our conversation. He was young, handsome, coal-black, perma-pressed.

I walked up to him and said, “Officer, what can you tell me about the sniper?”

“I’m not free to give out any information, sir.”

“I’m not a reporter,” I said. “I’m a psychologist called in by Detective Sturgis to work with the children.”

Unimpressed.

“It would be useful,” I said, “for me to have as many facts as possible. So I can help the kids.”

“I’m not free to discuss anything, sir.”

“Where’s Detective Sturgis?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

I returned to Linda Overstreet’s side.

She’d heard the exchange. “Bureaucracy,” she said. “I’ve come to believe it’s a biological urge.”

A door farther down the corridor opened, disgorging another group. This one revolved around a man in his early forties, mid-sized and chunky. He had a roundish, freckled face under an early-Beatles mop of gray-streaked dark hair which covered his brow. His clothes were formula junior-faculty: oatmeal-colored tweed sport coat, rumpled khaki pants, black-and-green plaid shirt, red knit tie. He wore round tortoise-shell eyeglasses, the kind the British health service used to give out for free. They rested atop a nose that would have done a French bulldog proud. The rest of his features were too small for his face- pinched, almost effeminate. I thought of old pictures I’d seen of him. Long-haired and bearded. The facial hair had made him look more seasoned, twenty years ago.

The academic image was enhanced by the people around him- young, bright-eyed, like students vying for the attention of a favorite professor. Each of them was final-exam solemn, but the group managed to radiate a boisterousness that was almost festive.

The round-faced man noticed us and stopped.

“Dr. Overstreet. How’s everyone doing?”

“As good as can be expected, Councilman Latch.”

He came over to us. The staffers hung back. With the exception of one bulky, blunt-faced, red-haired man about Latch’s age, none was older than twenty-five. A clean-cut bunch, dressed for success.

Latch said, “Is there anything I can do, Dr. Overstreet? For the kids? Or your staff?”

“How about calling out the National Guard for some protection?”

He flashed a brief, campaign-poster smile, then turned serious. “Anything a little less… martial?”

“Actually,” she said, “we could use some information.”

“What kind of information?”

“About the sniper. Who he was, his motivation. Dr. Delaware here will be working with the children. He needs to know as much as possible in order to answer their questions.”

He seemed to notice me for the first time, held out his hand and gripped mine hard. “Gordon Latch.”

“Alex Delaware.”

“Good to meet you, Alex. You’re a psychologist? Psychiatrist?”

“Psychologist.”

“From the School Board?”

Before I could answer, Linda said, “Dr. Delaware’s a private practitioner recommended by the police. He’s a specialist in childhood stress.”

Latch’s blue eyes focused behind his welfare specs. “Well, all power to you, and thanks for coming down on such short notice, Alex. It’s been a horror- unbelievable. Thank God it turned out the way it did.” He glanced back at his staffers, got nods from some of them. “What’s your game plan- vis-à-vis the kids?”

I gave him a brief rehash of what I’d told Linda.

He took a moment to digest it. “Sounds right on target,” he said. “I was involved in your field once upon a time- majored in psych up at Berkeley. Crisis counseling, community mental health, primary and secondary prevention. We had a place in Oakland. Trying to integrate mental patients back into the community. Back in the good old days when humanism wasn’t a dirty word.”

“So I’ve heard.” As had anyone who read the papers.

“Different times,” he said, sighing. “Gentler and kinder. What happened today just underscores how far we’ve drifted. Damn, what a tragedy!”

Linda said, “What can you tell us about the sniper, Councilman Latch?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. We don’t know much ourselves. The police have been awfully close-mouthed, as is their wont.”