“No, just checking to see if you've thought of anything. And I wanted to introduce you to Dr. Delaware. He's our consulting psychologist.”
The soft eyes squinted. “Oh?”
“Given your wife's background I thought Dr. Delaware might be able to help us.”
“Yes, I suppose that's a good idea.”
“By the way, where's the dog?”
“Pardon?”
“Your Rottweiler.”
“Hilde? I gave her away. She was Hope's dog.”
“Not a dog person, yourself?”
Seacrest hadn't stopped staring at me. “The truth is, I'm tired. Can't seem to get my energy back. Can't give Hilde the attention she deserves. And I don't need yet another reminder of the way things used to be.”
“Who'd you give her to?”
“An organization called Rottweiler Rescue.”
“What kind of dog was Hilde?”
“Nice, a bit rambunctious.”
“Was she protective?”
“Seemed to be, though that's not why Hope bought her. She wanted companionship. When she walked.”
Seacrest wiped his eyes.
“Did the two of you never walk together?” said Milo.
“No, I'm not one for exercise. Hope loved physical activity and Hilde was an active dog. Always had her eyes on Hope. That's why it was terribly… ironic. Hilde not being there.” He scratched his beard. The eyes were wide, again. Very bright, as if backlit by hot, white metal.
“After Hope's death, the dog was miserable,” he said. “I was depressed, not equipped.”
“Who took care of Hilde during Professor Devane's book tour?”
“Oh, I did, but Hope never stayed away long. Two, three days on the road, back for two or three, then out again.”
“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.