The poor kid had never had any moorings, thought Milo, remembering his own brush with truancy: back when his family still lived in Gary and his father was working steel, making good money, feeling like a breadwinner. Milo was nine, had been plagued by terrible dreams since the summer—visions of men. One dreary Monday, he got off the school bus and instead of entering the school grounds just kept walking aimlessly, placing one foot in front of the other. Ending up at a park, where he sat on a bench like a tired old man. All day. A friend of his mother spotted him, reported him. Mom had been perplexed; Dad, always action-oriented, knew just what to do. Out came the strap. Ten pounds of oily ironworker’s belt. Milo hadn’t sat comfortably for a long, long time.

Yet another reason to hate the old man. Still, he’d never repeated the offense, ended up graduating with good grades. Despite the dreams. And all that followed. Certain his father would’ve killed him if he knew what was really going on.

So he made plans at age nine: You need to get away from these people.

Now he mused: Maybe I was the lucky one.

“Okay,” Schwinn was telling Ellen Sato, “so you people don’t know much about her—”

The young woman was on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry, sir, but as I said, I just . . . what happened to her?”

“Someone killed her,” said Schwinn. “We’re looking for a friend of hers, probably a student here, also. Melinda, sixteen or seventeen. Long blond hair. Voluptuous.” Cupping his hands in front of his own, scrawny chest.

Sato’s ivory skin pinkened. “Melinda’s a common name—”

“How about a look at your student roster?”

“The roster . . .” Sato’s graceful hands fluttered. “I could find a yearbook for you.”

“You have no student roster?”

“I—I know we have class lists, but they’re over in V.P. Sullivan’s office and there are forms to be filled out. Okay, sure, I’ll go look. In the meantime, I know where the yearbooks are. Right here.” Pointing to a closet.

“Great,” said Schwinn, without graciousness.

“Poor Janie,” said Sato. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Someone evil, ma’am. Anyone come to mind?”

“Oh, heavens no—I wasn’t . . . let me go get that list.”

The two detectives sat on a bench in the counseling office waiting room, flipping through the yearbooks, ignoring the scornful eyes of the students who came and went. Copying down the names of every Caucasian Melinda, freshmen included, because who knew how accurate Bowie Ingalls was about age. Not limiting the count to blondes, either, because hair dye was a teenage-girl staple.

Milo said, “What about light-skinned Mexicans?”

“Nah,” said Schwinn. “If she was a greaser, Ingalls would’ve mentioned it.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t like her, would’ve loved to add another bad point to the list.”