Caitlin could see who won in the smile growing behind Lakshmi’s frown. “A blowout?”

“Kieran had a foot on both of us but couldn’t handle the ball. Dave’s only contribution was smack talk. We destroyed them, so they upped the bet. Whoever lost had to buy pizza and wings. We probably gained five pounds that night.”

“You all hung out?”

Lakshmi took a deep breath. “They were fun.”

“Does it hurt to say that?”

She nodded. “They didn’t seem like monsters.”

“It doesn’t sound like they are.”

Lakshmi started to respond, but Caitlin didn’t give her the opening. “Look at this from my perspective. A college girl goes out with two male friends. From all reports, she gets drunk—way too drunk—and possibly high on cocaine, but maybe something else, that makes her lose control of her body. Her friends don’t notice, which means they’re either just as drunk or riding the same high.”

“They could have—”

Caitlin held up her hand. “So they all go back to the apartment to pass out. The natural assumption is something awful happened. How awful do you think these guys made it?”

“What do you mean?”

“These were her friends—your friends, even. Isn’t the likely conclusion something accidental? Alcohol poisoning, an overdose, a slip and fall?”

“Yes, of course, but that’s not the crime.”

“I know,” Caitlin continued. “The crime is covering up what happened to her.”

“Which makes them monsters.”

“Well, assholes, sure. Scared college kids, high out of their minds, afraid of losing everything because maybe they bought the drugs—maybe even thought they’d be culpable for her death. Probably could be, but there’s plenty of evidence that Angela participated willingly. To me they sound like scared kids who made the wrong choice.”

Lakshmi pulled her posture out of beaten-dog pose. “I see your point.”

“I’m not saying they aren’t guilty, Lakshmi, but the best journalists in the world can interview drug smugglers, dictators, and serial killers, and leave themselves out of the story.”

“Could you sit down with the man who raped you and stay neutral?”

Caitlin thought about seeing Troy Woods again. Professional as she was, she couldn’t say. Last she checked, he was confined in the Miami Correctional Facility in Kokomo, north of Indianapolis—two hours away.

“Fair point,” she said. “But that crime’s been solved. Let’s concentrate on yours.”

*   *   *

Heading west down a tree-lined concrete path, the first beads of sweat appeared on Caitlin’s brow. A beautiful Indiana afternoon in the seventies still carried more humidity than the rainy season in Los Angeles.

“So, this Professor Branford?”

“Chad,” Lakshmi answered.

“Right, Chad Branford. He was a grad student at the time. Any chance he’s still in the program?”

They crossed the street with a handful of students on foot and bicycles, headed toward the theater complex.