EARTHQUAKE: THE LONG ROAD BACK : No Rest for the ‘House Doctors’ : Buildings: Hundreds of structural engineers find themselves overwhelmed by people seeking diagnoses of their homes and businesses.

Decked out in stone-washed denims, Hawaiian shirt and low-top Nikes, Leo Parker looks more like some goateed party boy on a three-day Vegas blowout than expert counsel to countless Los Angeles property owners.

But as Parker can quickly tell you, looks can be deceiving--in both people and in buildings rocked by a major earthquake. As he cruises up the long driveway of a Chatsworth mansion last week, its hand-wringing owners awaiting his attention, Parker is a steely eyed consultant who can give the good word on worrisome temblor damage. Or, like some perverse high priest of science, sound a residential death knell.

He’s a house doctor, one of hundreds of local structural engineers who have made 18-hour-a-day house and condominium calls since Monday’s quake rocked both buildings and owners off their once rock-solid foundations.

As the city building inspectors clear out, tens of thousands of property owners are looking for on-the-spot expertise from independent structural engineers such as Parker who have gained a newfound professional status akin to that of brain surgeon or cardiologist: Their opinions are considered with the full weight of a medical diagnosis.

Since the quake, Parker has been tailed by anxious owners who await his every word, seeking his colorful, straightforward explanations on everything from bedroom cracks to fallen fireplaces.

As Irwin and Sherry Learhoff looked on in rapt concern, the 36-year-old Parker explained why most of the damage occurred to the upper floors of their 11,500-square-foot Chatsworth home.

“Much of the mayhem is upstairs because the house shook off the quake like it would a shiver that accelerated up its spine,” he said. “It built up force as it went along. It crested at the top, like a skyscraper rocking in a stiff breeze.”

The cracks, he said, told the real story of the quake’s damage. Some internal fissures running up and down or across a living room wall simply followed the form of the reinforcing plywood sheets beneath them.

But the most disturbing cracks, Parker said, were the diagonal ones--signifying that half the support had twisted one way and the rest the opposite, much like a chiropractor releasing tension from a human joint.

The couple nodded knowingly. Then Irwin Learhoff shook his head: “Geez.”

They were lucky to reach Parker.

“The demand has been so great my head is still spinning,” Parker said. “We have three structural engineers in our firm, far too few to handle the hundreds of requests we’ve had. We finally had to stop taking new business. It’s simply incredible.”

Statewide, there are 3,000 certified structural engineers, a flock of strange scientific birds who outdistance most colleagues nationwide in one critical aspect: analyzing major earthquake damage.

“California probably has the best-trained structural engineers in the world outside Japan,” said Robert Boyens, a Lawndale engineer and spokesman for the Structural Engineer’s Assn. of Southern California. “While other states have wind and water forces, we also have the distinction of having the ground convulse. Our job is to make sure buildings can withstand not only vertical loads but unpredictable seismic activity.

“For years, we have played an invisible role in the building process, working with builders and architects. But all that has changed after the quakes. Now, we’re very, very visible. Suddenly, people know who we are.”

Irwin and Sherry Learhoff know.

For a $250 fee, Parker visited their house in the north San Fernando Valley to hear their story: They were away when the quake hit, avoiding the light fixtures that came crashing down atop their bed.

Two days later, the couple walked about like solemn funeral-goers, pointing at a crumbled second-story fireplace, the telltale crow’s feet around each window and deck, kicking at the shards of brick, fallen helter-skelter.

“The aftershocks are killing us,” Irwin Learhoff said. “Every one of them keeps chinking the armor. It drives you crazy. But I’m no professional engineer who can read this stuff. We need help to figure out if our home is still livable.”

With the couple in tow, Parker circles the house, picking through rubble like an archeologist at some suburban excavation site. He stops suddenly and they immediately give way, watching his flashlight beam pinpoint troublesome stress cracks as he jots notes like some homicide detective.

The Learhoffs want answers now. Because once the insurance company settles their claim, they know there is no going back with any new problems. On this day, Parker has only good news: Sure, the damage looks unsightly, but none is structural.

Sherry Learhoff isn’t sure if she wants to come back home just yet. The place just doesn’t feel right anymore. It’s like living in a house possessed. “You have to ask ‘What’s really safe when you have a 12-month-old?’ ” she said. “My first impulse is to fix up the place and sell it.”

At dawn the next morning, the house doctor is making yet another call.

In Sherman Oaks, he is greeted by an anxious brood of a dozen condominium owners who surround him as they would some prophet, or a celebrity. In the quake’s aftermath, many have moved in with relatives. Like unruly schoolchildren, each pushes to get a front position in a semi-circle surrounding Parker.

“Where are our lives going now? To the state of confusion forever?” said Diana Harrison, an eight-year resident of the La Ventana condominiums. “My place looks like a bomb hit, like I live in Beirut. My possessions are mostly gone. But that’s OK, I’ve had them 70 years. But I still need a place to live.”

Like patients attending some impromptu counseling session, other residents seek deeper answers: When will their fears go away? When can they hang their pictures again? When can they get a good night’s sleep without popping pills?

Walking slowly, saying little to the crowd in tow, Parker calmly examines the outside foundation and moves through a few selected rooms. Behind him, the group purrs as he finally gives a preliminary clean bill of health for their building.

“From here, your building looks just fine,” he tells one owner. “If you don’t live in the corner units where most of the stress occurred, I’d say you can move back in.”

The beaming woman turned to a friend and said: “That’s absolutely wonderful. C’mon, let’s go to Disneyland.”

Not everyone gets such good news. Some grumbling homeowners are told they must stay away until further tests are done.

“That’s when it gets tough,” Parker said. “People hire you to give them good news. When they don’t get it, they want to shoot the messenger. They get angry. But I tell them ‘Hey, I didn’t cause this earthquake.’ ”

Structural engineers have also disagreed with city inspectors on a building’s safety status. “I had one 13-story place where the owner wanted his apartments filled as soon as possible,” Boyens said. “The city had given him the go-ahead, but I still had some problems. But I’m just an adviser. I told him what I thought. I don’t know what he did.”

As the morning haze settles into the San Fernando Valley, Parker leads the clutch of homeowners like some learned professor directing a university field trip. As he leaves each unit, its relieved owner relaxes at the thought that the engineer’s learned eyes have at least come to rest on their damage.

But Nasrin Rousta won’t sleep any better.

“You just want the place condemned so you can move away and never think about it again,” she said pensively. “It’s like a badly damaged car. You really don’t want it fixed, you want it totaled.

“You want something new, something without memories.”