“He vanished, too.”

“A girl and a young man,” he said. “That would change things. Psychosocially.”

“A killing team,” I said. “One scenario is the two of them picked up the victims at the party and took them somewhere to be raped and murdered.”

“A Svengali-Trilby situation,” he said. “Dominant male, submissive female . . . because that’s what it usually takes to get an impressionable young female involved in extremely violent behavior. Nearly all sexual violence seems to emanate from the Y chromosome, doesn’t it? What else do you know about this boyfriend?”

“Apart from being a junkie and a pusher, he was manipulative enough to get a street-smart bail bondsman to forgo a bond. And calculated enough to ambush the bondsman—that’s the homicide he’s wanted for. Still wanted. Another of Milo’s open cases.”

“Sad convergence for Milo,” he said. “A junkie in the strict sense—heroin?”

“Heroin was his first choice, but he was eclectic.”

“Hmm . . . then I suppose that would explain it.”

“Explain what?” I said.

“With sexual sadists, one usually thinks of alcohol or marijuana as the drugs of choice, correct? Something mild enough to take the edge off inhibition, but not sufficiently incapacitating to blunt the libido. Other drugs—amphetamines, cocaine—can foster violence, but that’s usually more of a paranoid reaction. But heroin?” He shook his head. “Opiates as the great pacifiers. Take away the necessity to steal in order to obtain heroin and no place would be safer than a city full of addicts. I’ve certainly never heard of a junkie acting out in such a sexually violent manner.”

“Not while high,” I said. “But a heroin addict in need of a fix wouldn’t be good company.”

“I suppose.” He scratched an ear. “Even then, Alex, wouldn’t the violence be impulsive—born of frustration? An addict would be interested in the needle, not luring and raping and cutting up young girls. Just garnering the concentration would be difficult, wouldn’t you say? At least that’s the way it was years ago when I worked with addicts.”

“When was that?”

“During my internship, I rotated through the Federal hospital in Lexington.”

“Where haven’t you been, Bert?”

“Oh, lots of places . . . do forgive my rambling, Alex. What do I know about crime? You’re the expert.”

As I got in the Seville, he said, “What I told you before about Robin. I didn’t mean to presume to instruct you how to live your life. I’ve presumed an awful lot, today, haven’t I?”

“I didn’t take it that way, Bert.”

He sighed. “I’m an old man, Alex. Most of the time I feel young—sometimes I wake up in the morning ready to dash to the lecture hall and take notes. Then I look in the mirror . . . the life cycle. One regresses. Loses one’s sense of propriety. Forgive me.”

Tears welled in the gray eyes.

“There’s nothing to forgive—”