I told her who I was, trying without success to make it sound logical, and that I'd come to discuss Hope Devane.

“Oh.” Puzzled. “Might I see some identification?” Pleasant voice, Chicago accent.

I showed her the badge. She studied my name for a long time.

“Please,” she said, handing it back, and pointing to a chair.

The office was cramped but fresh-smelling, gray-metal University issue brightened by batik wall hangings and folk-art dolls positioned among the books on the shelves. The radio rested on a windowsill behind her, next to a potted coleus. Someone singing about the freedom that love brought.

The exams were stacked high. The one she'd put aside was filled with computations and red question marks. She'd given it a B³nus;. When she saw me looking at it, she covered it with a notebook and turned the stack over just as the phone rang.

“Hi,” she said. “Actually not right now.” Looking at me. “Maybe in fifteen. I'll come to you.” Pretty smile. Blush. “Me, too.”

Hanging up, she pushed away from the desk and rested her hands on her lap. “My husband's down the hall. We usually have lunch together.”

“If it's a bad time-”

“No, he's got things to do and this shouldn't take long. So, run that by me again, I'm still intrigued. You're on the faculty but you're working with the police department on Hope's murder?”

“I'm on the faculty crosstown, at the med school. I've done forensic work and occasionally the police ask me to consult. Hope Devane's murder is what they call a cold case. No leads, a new detective starting from scratch. Frankly I'm a member of the court of last resort.”

“Crosstown.” She smiled. “The enemy?”

“I got my doctorate here so it's more of a case of split allegiance.”

“How do you cope at football games?”

“I ignore them.”

She laughed. “Me, too. Gerry- my husband- has become a football fanatic since we arrived. We used to be at the University of Chicago, which believe me is no great seat of athletic achievement. Anyway, I'm glad the police are still looking into Hope's murder. I'd assumed they'd given up.”

“Why's that?”

“Because after the first week or so there was nothing in the news. Isn't it true that the longer a case goes unsolved the less chance there is of success?”

“Generally.”

“What's the name of the new detective?”

I told her and she wrote it down.

“Does the fact that he's chosen not to come himself mean anything?”

“It's a combination of time pressure and strategy,” I said. “He's working the case alone and he hasn't fared well with the faculty people he's interviewed so far.”

“In what way?”

“They treat him as if he's a Neanderthal.”

“Is he?”

“Not at all.”

“Well,” she said, “I suppose as a group, we tend to be intolerant- not that we're really a group. Most of us have nothing in common beyond the patience to endure twenty-plus years of schooling. Hope and I are prime examples of that, so I don't think I'll be of much help.”

“She knew you well enough to ask you to be on the Interpersonal Conduct Committee.”

She placed her pen on the desk. “The committee. I figured it had to be that. In terms of our relationship, we'd spoken a few times before she asked me to serve but we were far from friends. How much do the police know about the committee?”

“They know its history and the fact that it was disbanded. There are also transcripts of the three cases that were heard. I noticed you didn't participate in the third.”

“That's because I resigned,” she said. “It's obvious now that the whole thing was a mistake but it took me a while to realize it.”

“Mistake in what way?”

“I think Hope's motives were pure but they led her somewhat… far afield. I thought it would be an attempt to heal, not create more conflict.”

“Did you voice your concerns to her?”

She tightened her lips and gazed up at the ceiling. “No. Hope was a complex person.”

“She wouldn't have listened?”

“I don't really know. It was just… I don't want to demean the dead. Let's just say she was strong-willed.”

“Obsessive?”

“About the mistreatment of women, definitely. Which is fine with me.”

Lifting the pen, she tapped one knee. “Sometimes passion blocks out contradictory information. So much so- and this is more your area than mine- that I found myself wondering if she had a personal history of abuse that directed her scholarship.”

The quiet one.

“Because of the extent of her passion?” I said.

She shifted in her chair, bit her lip, and nodded. Placed an index finger alongside one smooth cheek.

“I must say I feel uncomfortable suggesting that, because I don't want to trivialize Hope's commitment- to bring it down to the level of personal vindication. I'm a physical chemist, which is about as far as you get from psychoanalysis.”

She wheeled back, so her head was inches from the bookshelves. A brownish rag doll's legs extended past her right ear. She pulled it down, sat it in her lap, and played with its black string hair.

“I want you to know that I thought highly of her. She was brilliant, and committed to her ideals. Which is rarer than it should be- maybe I should explain how I got involved with the committee. Because clearly it's not going to just go away.”

“Please,” I said. “I'd appreciate that.”

Taking a deep breath, she stroked the doll. “I began college as a premed and in my sophomore year I volunteered at a battered-women's shelter on the South Side of Chicago. To get brownie points for med school and because both my parents are physicians and old-style liberals and they taught me it was noble to help people. I thought I'd heard everything around the dinner table, but the shelter opened my eyes to a whole new, terrible world. Putting it simply, I was terrified. It was one of the reasons I changed my mind about medicine.”

Her fingers parted the doll's hair. “The women I worked with- the ones who'd gotten past the fear and the denial and were in touch with what was being done to them- had the same look I sometimes saw in Hope's eyes. Part injury, part rage- I can only call it ferocious. In Hope's case it was strikingly discrepant from her usual manner.”

“Which was?”

“Cool and collected. Very cool and collected.”

“In control.”

“Very much so. She was a leader, had tremendous force of personality. But when we discussed abuse, I saw that look in her eyes. Not always, but frequently enough to remind me of the women at the shelter.”

She gave a shy smile. “No doubt I'm overinterpreting.”

“Did she ask you to serve because of your experience at the shelter?”

She nodded. “We first met at a faculty tea, one of those dreadful things at the beginning of the academic year where everyone pretends to get acquainted? Gerry had gone off to talk sports with some guys and Hope came up to me. She was also alone.”

“Her husband wasn't there?”

“No. She said he never came to parties. She certainly didn't know me, I'd just arrived. I didn't know who she was but I had noticed her. Because of her clothes. Expensive designer suit, good jewelry, great makeup. Like some of the girls I'd known from Lake Forest- heiresses. You don't see much of that on campus. We got to talking and I told her about the shelter.”

She moved in a way that pinched the doll's soft torso and caused its head to pitch forward.

“The funny thing is, all those years I hadn't talked about it. Even to my husband.” Smile. “And as you can tell, I have no problem talking. But there I was at a party, with a virtual stranger, getting into things I'd forgotten about- horrendous things. I actually had to go into a corner to dry my eyes. Looking back, I think Hope drew the memories out of me.”

“How?”

“By listening the right way. Don't you people call it active listening?” She smiled again. “Just what you're doing right now. I learned about that, too, at the shelter. I suppose anyone can grasp the rudiments but there are few virtuosos.”