“It wasn’t what you think, Detective.”

“Enlighten us,” Byrne said.

On the word us, Parkhurst threw a glance at the mirror. Jessica thought she saw the slightest smile. She wanted to slap it off his face.

Parkhurst then lowered his head for a moment, penitent now, as if this was a story he had told many times, if only to himself.

“It was a mistake,” he began. “I...I was young myself. Karen was mature for her age. It just... happened.”

“Were you her counselor?”

“Yes,” Parkhurst said.

“So then you can see how there are those who would say that you abused a position of power, can’t you?”

“Of course,” Parkhurst said. “I understand that.”

“Did you have the same sort of relationship with Tessa Wells?”

“Absolutely not,” Parkhurst said.

“Are you acquainted with a Regina student named Nicole Taylor?”

Parkhurst hesitated for a second. The rhythm of the interview was starting to pick up in tempo. It appeared that Parkhurst was trying to slow it down. “Yes, I know Nicole.”

Know, Jessica thought. Present tense.

“You’ve counseled her?” Byrne asked.

“Yes,” Parkhurst said. “I work with the students at five diocesan schools.”

“How well do you know Nicole?” Byrne asked.

“I’ve seen her a few times.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“Nicole has some self-image issues. Some...troubles at home,” Parkhurst said.

“What sort of self-image issues?”

“Nicole is a loner. She’s really into the whole Goth scene and that has somewhat isolated her at Regina.”

“Goth?”

“The Goth scene is loosely made up of kids who, for one reason or another, are spurned by the ‘normal’ kids. They tend to dress differently, listen to their own kinds of music.”

“Dress differently how?”

“Well, there are all kinds of Goth styles. The typical, or stereotypical Goth dresses in all black. Black fingernails, black lipstick, numerous piercings. But some kids dress in a Victorian manner, or an industrial style, if you will. They listen to everyone from Bauhaus to the old-school bands like the Cure and Siouxsie and the Banshees.”

Byrne just stared at Parkhurst for a few moments, fixing him in his chair. Parkhurst responded by rearranging his weight on the seat, straightening his clothes. He waited Byrne out. “You seem to know a lot about these things,” Byrne finally said.

“It’s my job, Detective,” Parkhurst said. “I can’t help my girls if I don’t know where they’re coming from.”

My girls again, Jessica noted.

“In fact,” Parkhurst continued, “I confess to owning a few Cure CDs myself.”

I’ll bet you do, Jessica mused.

“You mentioned Nicole had some troubles at home,” Byrne said. “What kind of troubles?”

“Well, for one, there is a history of alcohol abuse in her household,” Parkhurst said.

“Any violence?” Byrne asked.

Parkhurst paused. “Not that I recall. But even if I did, we’re getting into confidential matters here.”

“Is that the sort of thing students would necessarily share with you?”

“Yes,” Parkhurst said. “Those who are predisposed to do so.”

“Are many of the girls predisposed to discussing intimate details of their home lives with you?”

Byrne put a false emphasis on the word. Parkhurst caught it. “Yes. I like to think that I am good at putting young people at ease.”

Defensive now, Jessica thought.

“I don’t understand all these questions about Nicole. Has something happened to her?”

“She was found murdered this morning,” Byrne said.

“Oh my God.” Parkhurst’s face drained of color. “I saw the news...I had no...”

The news had not released the name of the victim.

“When was the last time you saw Nicole?”

Parkhurst thought for a few crucial moments. “It’s been a few weeks.”

“Where were you on Thursday and Friday mornings, Dr. Parkhurst?”

Jessica was certain that Parkhurst knew that the questioning had just crossed a barrier, the one that separated witness from suspect. He remained silent.

“It’s simply a routine question,” Byrne said. “We have to cover all bases.”

Before Parkhurst could answer, there was a soft rap on the open door.

It was Ike Buchanan.

“Detective?”

As they approached Buchanan’s office, Jessica could see a man standing with his back to the door. He was about five eleven, wearing a black overcoat, a dark fedora in his right hand. He was athletically built, wide-shouldered. His shaved head glistened beneath the fluorescents. They stepped into the office.

“Jessica, this is Monsignor Terry Pacek,” Buchanan said.

Terry Pacek, by reputation, was a fierce defender of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, a self-made man from the hardscrabble hills of Lackawanna County. Coal country. In an archdiocese where there were nearly one and a half million Catholics and close to three hundred parishes, no one was a more vocal or staunch advocate than Terry Pacek.

He had come into his own in 2002 during a brief sex scandal where six Philadelphia priests were dismissed, along with a few from Allentown. Granted, the scandal paled in comparison to what had taken place in Boston, but still, with its large Catholic population, Philadelphia reeled.

Terry Pacek had been front and center in the media during those few months, visiting every local talk show, every radio station, and showing up in every newspaper account. Jessica’s image of him, at the time, had been that of a well-spoken, well-educated pit bull. What she was not prepared for, now that she had met him in person, was the smile. At one moment, he looked like a compact version of a WWF wrestler ready to pounce. The next moment, his entire face changed, lighting up the room. She could see how he had charmed not only the media, but also the vicariate. She had the feeling that Terry Pacek could write his own future in the ranks of the church’s political hierarchy.

“Monsignor Pacek.” Jessica extended her hand.

“How is the investigation going?”