“What about personnel records?” said Milo. “We’re also looking into someone who worked here. There’d be no protection of any sort, there.”

Baldassar fiddled with her glasses. “I suppose that’s true, but . . . twenty years ago? I’m not sure we even have records going back that far.”

“One way to find out, ma’am.”

“What’s this person’s name?”

“Wilbert Lorenzo Burns.”

No recognition on the freckled face. Baldassar got on the phone, asked a few questions, said, “Wait right here,” and returned a few moments later with a scrap of pink paper.

“Burns, Wilburt L.,” she said, handing it to Milo. “This is all we’ve got. Mr. Burns’s notice of termination. He lasted three weeks. August third through the twenty-fourth. Was terminated for absenteeism. See for yourself.”

Milo read the scrap and handed it back.

“What did Mr. Burns do?”

“There’s a fugitive warrant out on him. Mostly he was a narcotics violator. Kind of alarming that when he worked here he was on probation for a drug conviction. About to face trial for selling heroin.”

Baldassar frowned. “Wonderful. Well, that wouldn’t happen today.”

“You vet your employees carefully?”

“A pusher wouldn’t get by me.”

“Guess the former director wasn’t that picky,” said Milo. “Do you know him—Michael Larner?”

“The only one I know is my immediate predecessor. Dr. Evelyn Luria. Lovely woman. She retired and moved to Italy—she’s at least eighty. I was told that she was brought in to beef up clinical services. I was brought in to organize things.” She poked the harmonica. “You’re not implying this Burns was dealing to the kids, here.”

“Do the kids, here, have drug problems?”

“Detective, please,” said Baldassar. “They’re teenagers with poor self-esteem and plenty of disposable income. You don’t need a Ph.D. to figure it out. But believe me, I don’t allow any species of felon to pass through our gates. As far as what happened twenty years ago . . .”

She picked up the harmonica, put it down. “If that’s all . . .”

“Actually,” said Milo, “the investigation’s not just about Willie Burns. It’s about a student Burns was friendly with. A girl named Caroline Cossack.”

Baldassar stared. Then she snorted—I suppose it was laughter, but she looked anything but happy. She said, “Let’s go outside. I want to smoke, but I don’t want to poison anyone else.”

She took us through the glass-paned double doors, past ten rooms, some of which had been left open. We walked by carelessly made beds, piles of stuffed animals, movie and rock star posters, boom boxes, guitars, books stacked in little wooden desks. A few teens were stretched across beds listening to music through earphones, one boy did push-ups, a girl read a magazine—brow knitted, lips moving laboriously.