“Cindi ever say anything about hating Negroes or Jews? Homosexuals?” Slidell pronounced it “homo-sectials.”

“That would have been out of character.”

“Abortionists? The federal government?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But you don’t know.” Slidell was losing patience.

“The sad truth is, teachers know very little about their students. About their private lives, I mean. Unless a student chooses to confide.”

“Which Cindi did not.”

Bradford stiffened at Slidell’s accusatory tone. I met her eyes. Rolled mine, implying that I also found his attitude boorish.

Slidell tapped his pen on his pad, eyes locked on Bradford. She didn’t blink.

The standoff was interrupted by Slidell’s cell phone. Yanking it from his belt, he checked the number.

“Gotta take this.” Slidell shoved to his feet and lumbered from the room.

I decided to continue with the good-cop ploy.

“It must have been dreadful losing a student like that.”

Bradford nodded.

“Was there talk on campus?” I asked gently. “Among faculty and students? Speculation about what happened to them?”

“Frankly, there was surprisingly little. Lovette was an outsider. Other than STEM, Cindi wasn’t a joiner. She wasn’t”—Bradford hooked a half quotation mark with the fingers of her free hand—“popular.”

“Kids can be cruel.”

“Viciously cruel.” Bradford was falling for my female-bonding shtick. “Cindi Gamble loved engines and wanted to be a race car driver. For a female, in those days, such an avocation did not make you prom queen, even in Kannapolis.”

“I know it’s hard to remember so far back. But was there any student with whom she was close?”

The free hand rose, palm up, in a gesture of frustration. “As I understood it, she spent all of her time at some track.”

“Do you remember seeing Cindi with anyone in particular at school, maybe in the halls or the cafeteria?”

“There was one girl. Lynn Hobbs. Cindi and Lynn often ate lunch together.”

“Did Lynn give a statement?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you know where she lives today?”

Bradford shook her head.

“Would you mind telling me who interviewed you back in ’ninety-eight?” I asked.

“Two police officers.”

“From the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember their names?”

“No.”

“Can you describe them?”

“One was tall and thin. Very polite. His accent suggested he wasn’t local. The other was coarser. He looked like a bodybuilder.”

“Detectives Rinaldi and Galimore?”

“That sounds right.”

Leaning forward, I lowered my voice to confide, girlfriend to girlfriend. “Anyone else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Were you questioned by the FBI?”

As before, Bradford’s gaze jumped toward the archway behind me, then dropped. Clearly our presence was making her anxious. She nodded.

“Did you make a formal statement?”

“No.”

“Did the special agent mention the Patriot Posse?”

“I don’t recall details of the conversation.”

“Did the FBI ask you to keep your discussions confidential?” Before Bradford could answer, Slidell reappeared and tipped his head toward the door.