“Did Hilde have a history of stomach problems?”

“No.” Seacrest's eyes left mine reluctantly. “The first two detectives wondered if she'd been poisoned by the murderer. Had I thought of that I would have had her tested. Not that it would tell much, I suppose.”

“Why not?”

“Let's say she was given something. We'd still have no idea by whom.”

Seacrest looked at me again. “A police psychologist. That's a job Hope would never have taken.”

“Why not?” said Milo.

“She distrusted authority. I'm from a different generation.”

“She didn't like the police?” said Milo.

“She felt all organizations were inherently… inefficient.”

“And you disagreed.”

“I have a certain… arm's-length respect for law enforcement,” he said. “Perhaps because I'm an historian.”

“Have you studied crime history?”

“Not per se. My chief interest is the medieval period, but I'm also interested in Elizabethan history and one account of that age sticks in my mind. During the Elizabethan age, capital punishment was meted out for a wide variety of crimes. Even pickpockets were hanged. Then kindler, gentler souls had their way and the noose was eliminated for less serious offenses. Care to surmise what happened?”

“More crime,” said Milo.

“You get an A, Detective.”

“Do you advocate capital punishment, Professor?”

Seacrest touched his beard. “I don't know what I advocate, anymore. Losing my wife has shaken up all my preconceptions- what exactly will you be doing to help find Hope's killer, Dr. Delaware?”

“Analyzing the file,” I said. “Perhaps talking to some of your wife's colleagues. Anyone in particular I should start with?”

He shook his head. “Hope and I kept our professional lives separate.”

“You don't know anyone she associated with?”

“No, not professionally.”

“What about friends?”

“We really didn't have any. I know that's hard to believe, but we both led very insular lives. Work, writing, Hilde, trying to steal bits of privacy.”

“Must have been harder after the book came out.”

“For Hope it was. She kept me out of the limelight.”

Insular. Little boxes…

“Professor,” said Milo, “is the name Robert Barone familiar?”

Slow headshake.

“What about Milan Cruvic?”

“No. Who are they?”

“People your wife worked with.”

“Well, there you go. I wouldn't know about that.”

“Totally separate, huh?” said Milo.

“It worked best for us.” Seacrest turned to me. “When you do speak to Hope's colleagues, I'm willing to bet what they tell you.”

“What's that, Professor?”

“That she was brilliant but a loner. A first-rate scholar and teacher.” His hands balled. “Gentlemen, pardon me for saying so, but I don't believe this approach will prove useful.”

“What approach is that, sir?” said Milo.

“Examining Hope's academic career. That's not what killed her. It was that book. Getting out into what's known laughably as the real world. She had the courage to be controversial and that controversy inspired some schizophrenic fiend or whatever. Dear God…”

Rubbing his forehead, he stared at the floor. “Give me the ivory tower any day, Detective. Spare me reality.”

Milo asked if we could see Hope's study.

“As you like. Do you mind if I stay down here and have some tea?”

“Not at all.”

“Up the stairs and take the first room to your left. Look anywhere else you please.”

At the top were three smallish bedrooms and a bath off a central landing. The room to the left was walled with budget Swedish-modern cases jammed top to bottom with journals and books, the shelves bowing under the weight. Venetian blinds shielded two windows. The furniture looked strewn rather than placed: two mismatched chairs, a desk, and a workstand with PC, printer, modem, software manuals. The American Psychological Association's Style Guide, dictionary, thesaurus.

Next to the computer were several copies of an article Hope Devane had authored last year in The Journal of Personality and Social Psychology. Coauthor: Casey Locking. “Self-Control As a Function of Gender Identity.”

I read the abstract. No significant differences between men and women in the ability to control nail-biting using a behavioral technique. No relationship between success and subjects' views on sex-role behavior and equality. In Wolves and Sheep Hope claimed women were superior to men in breaking bad habits because estrogen had an “impulse-suppressing” role. The sole exception: compulsive overeating, because societal pressure created body-image conflict in women.

The article said just the opposite. I turned to the Discussion section at the back. Hope and Locking hedged their results by stating that their sample was too small.

As Milo opened drawers and read the spines of shelved books, I inspected the rest of the room. Loose journals and books covered half the floorspace. A red wool throw was tossed carelessly over a box. Just like the carton Locking had carried out, the same neat black lettering.

Five sealed cartons from Hope Devane's publisher stamped WOLVES AND SHEEP, COMP. COPIES were shoved into a corner. Unopened reams of computer paper.

The lettered box contained more of Hope's published papers, Locking the coauthor on two of them. No authorship for the other student, Mary Ann Gonsalvez.

Teacher's pet?

Judging from the conduct-committee transcripts, Locking had been a kindred spirit.

More than that?

He was young, bright, good-looking if you like the brooding underwear-ad type.

Younger man, older woman.

First I'd wondered about Locking and Seacrest, now I was speculating about a heterosexual affair.

Sin on the brain, Delaware?

But the wound pattern connoted sin- someone's idea of transgression made good.

Heart, vagina. Stabbing in the back.

The heat of passion buttressed by cold planning.

Seacrest seemed the bloodless type.

Had he shed blood?

Milo fished some more, then said, “Anything?”

I told him about the discrepancy between the self-control article and the book.

“Like you said, she fudged.” He looked through the office door, across the landing, and cocked his head. I followed him out to Seacrest's office.

Also book-lined and furnished with aesthetic apathy, but pin-neat.

Next, Seacrest's bedroom. Now that he had it all to himself, the historian kept his sleeping space tidy. Queen-sized brass bed, floral coverlet tucked so tight it looked painted on the mattress.

We went downstairs. Seacrest was nowhere in sight.

Milo said, “Professor?” and Seacrest came into the dining room from the kitchen, mug in hand. The tag and string of a tea bag dangled over the side. University mascot on the mug.

“Anything else you'd like to see?”

“Where are Dr. Devane's professional records- patient files, things like that?”

“Anything not here would be in her campus office.”

“I've been through that and there are no patient files.”

“Then I don't know what to tell you.”

“Did she have a private office?”

“No.”

“Did she see patients here?”

“No.”

“Did she see patients at all?”

“She never discussed her work.”

“I'm not talking specifics, Professor Seacrest. Just if she saw any patients.”

“If she did she never mentioned it. We didn't talk about our jobs. Only… scholarly issues.”

Seacrest touched his tattoo.

“Navy?” said Milo.

“Coast Guard.” Seacrest smiled. “A moment of poor judgment.”

“Where'd you serve?”

“Off Catalina Island. More of a vacation, I'm forced to admit.”

“So you're from California.”

“Grew up right here. In this house. Campus brat. My father was a chemistry professor.”