“And you thought she'd know what happened because she was the owner's daughter.”

I nodded and looked at the rear of the house. “There could be records in there. Therapy notes, something about an incident that traumatized one of the students enough to set him off years later.”

“What kind of students went to this school?”

“Emotionally disturbed. Mr. Bancroft, the owner of the school across the street, described them as antisocial—fire setters, truants, and other miscreants.”

She smiled. “I know Mr. Bancroft. So when do you think this traumatic episode might have occurred?”

“Some time before nineteen seventy-nine.”

“Because of that conference?”

“That's right.”

She thought for a while. “And how long was the school around?”

“From nineteen sixty-two to eighty-one.”

“Well, that's verifiable,” she said, more to herself than to me. “Maybe if there was a trauma we'll have a record of it. Assuming something happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“You just told me you think this guy's crazy, doctor—this supposed avenger.” She kept her eyes on me and turned one of her earrings. “So maybe he cooked it all up in his head.”

“Maybe, but being psychotic doesn't mean being totally delusional—most psychotics have periods of lucidity. And psychotics can be traumatized, too. Plus, he might not even be psychotic. Just extremely disturbed.”

She smiled again. “You sound like an expert witness. Cautious.”

“I've been to court.”

“I know—Detective Sturgis told me. And I discussed you with Judge Stephen Huff, too, just to play it safe.”

“You know Steve?”

“Know him well. I used to work juvenile down in L.A. Steve was handling that kind of thing, back then. I know Milo, too. You keep good company, doctor.”

She looked at the house. “This victim down in L.A.—Ms. Paprock. You think she taught at the school?”

“Yes. Under the name of Evans. Myra Evans. Her day job was with the public school system in Goleta. There might still be records of that. And the male victim, Rodney Shipler, worked as a school janitor in L.A., so he may have had a similar job up here.”

“Shipler,” she said, still looking at the house. “Whereabouts in L.A. do you practice?”

“Westside.”

“Child counseling?”

“I do mostly forensic work now. Custody evaluations, injury cases.”

“Custody—that can get mean.” She turned her earring again. “Well, we'll go and look around in the house soon as the tech team and the coroner come and okay it.”

She gazed at the ocean some more, brought her eyes back to the redwood table, and lingered on the coffee cup.

“Having her breakfast,” she said. “The dregs still haven't solidified, so my guess is this is from this morning.”

I nodded. “That's why I thought she was home. But if she was eating out here and he surprised her, wouldn't the house be open? Look how sealed up it looks. And why didn't anyone hear her scream?”