“Ma’am. Just like in a cowboy movie,” she said, smiling. “I’m sure that’s true, Lieutenant, but don’t forget where we are. Can you imagine how many of these people would love to file a suit for breach of privacy?”

“Good point,” he said. “Would it help if I told you Mr. Ramos isn’t in trouble but his sister could be? I’m sure he’d like to know. Ma’am.”

“Sorry. I wish I could help.”

He relaxed his shoulders. Deliberately, slowly, the way he does when he’s struggling to stay patient. Big smile. He pushed black hair off his forehead and pressed his bulk against the counter. The secretary moved back instinctively.

“Where are the first-year students, right now?”

“They should be out of . . . jurisprudence class. Maybe out on the lawn.”

“How many are we talking about?”

“Three hundred seven.”

Milo said, “Male Hispanic. You guys doing better with your minority admissions or will that narrow it down?”

“He’s not real Hispanic-looking,” said the secretary.

Milo gazed at her. She blushed, leaned forward, whispered, “If someone was real tall, they’d be easy to spot.”

Milo smiled back. “We talking basketball, here?”

“Maybe a guard.”

* * *

Long, slow strides carried George Ramos across the lawn in an awkward but purposeful trajectory. Like a wading bird— an egret— making its way through a marsh. I put him at six-six. Pale and balding and stooped, carrying a stack of books and a laptop. Whatever hair he had left was medium brown and fine and streamed over his ears. He wore a blue V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt, pressed khakis, brown shoes. Tiny-lensed glasses perched above a beak nose. Young Ben Franklin stretched on the rack.

When we stepped in front of him, he blinked a couple of times and tried to pass us. When Milo said “Mr. Ramos?” he stopped short.

“Yes?”

Badge-flash. “Do you have a moment to talk about your sister, Wilfreda?”

Behind his glasses, Ramos’s brown eyes hardened. His knuckles bulged and whitened. “You’re serious.”

“We are, sir.”

Ramos muttered under his breath.

“Sir?”

“My sister’s dead.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“What in the world led you to me?”

“We’re looking into some foster children and— ”

“Lee committed suicide three months ago,” said Ramos. “That’s what everyone called her. Lee. If you knew anything about her, you’d know she hated ‘Wilfreda.’ ”

Milo kept silent.

“She was sixteen,” said Ramos.

Milo said, “I know, sir.” It’s rare for him to have to look up at anyone. He didn’t like it.

Ramos said, “What kind of parents would name someone Wilfreda?”

* * *

The three of us found a bench on the west side of the lawn.

George Ramos said, “What do you want to know?”

“Lee’s experiences in foster care.”

“What, a scandal?”

“Maybe something like that.”