The faculty numbered seven ministers. The dean was Reverend Doctor Crandall Wascomb, D.Theol., Ph.D., LL.D. Crandall’s picture made him out to be around sixty, with a thin face above a high, smooth dome of brow, silver-white hair that covered the top of his ears, and crinkly eyes of the exact same hue as his powder blue jacket.

I called his extension. A woman’s taped voice told me Dr. Wascomb was out of the office but he really cared about what I had to say. “Please leave a detailed message of any length and repeat your name and phone number at least once. Thank you and God Bless and have a wonderful day.”

My message was short on details but I did toss in my police affiliation. There was a good chance I’d made it sound more official than it was, but Dr. Wascomb’s training prepared him for minor transgressions.

Repeating my name and number, I hung up, reflecting on human depravity.

* * *

Just after nine p.m., Dr. Crandall Wascomb called while I was out with Allison. My service operator said, “Such a nice man,” then she gave me the number. Different from his office. It was nearly eleven but I phoned anyway and a soft-voiced woman picked up.

“Dr. Wascomb, please?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Dr. Delaware. I’m a psychologist.”

“One second.”

Seconds later, Wascomb came on, greeting me as if we were old friends. His voice was a lively tenor that conjured a younger man. “Do I understand correctly that you’re a police psychologist?”

“I consult to the police, Dr. Wascomb.”

“I see. Is this about Baylord Patterman?”

“Pardon?”

A beat. “Never mind,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“Sorry to bother you so late, Doctor, but I’d like to talk to you about a Fulton alumna.”

“Alumna. A woman.”

“Cherish Daney.”

Pause. “Is Cherish all right?”

“So far.”

“So she’s not a victim of something terrible,” he said, sounding relieved.

“No. Is there some reason you’d think that?”

“The police aren’t generally messengers of hope. Why are you concerned about Cherish?”

“I’ve been asked to learn about her background— ”

“In what context?”

“It’s a bit complicated, Dr. Wascomb.”

“Well,” he said, “I certainly can’t talk to you over the phone about something complicated.”

“Could we meet face-to-face?”

“To talk about Cherish.”

“Yes.”

“I must tell you, I have nothing but good things to say about Cherish. She was one of our finest students. I can’t imagine why the police would want to learn about her background.”

“Why didn’t she finish her degree?” I said. And who’s Baylord Patterman?

“Perhaps,” said Wascomb, “we should meet.”

“I’ll be happy to come to your office.”

“My office calendar’s quite full,” he said. “Let me leaf through my book . . . it appears as if I have one opening tomorrow. One p.m., my usual lunch break.”