“Anything I can do to help.” Parkhurst was dressed in a black-and-gray nylon jogging outfit and what looked like brand-new Reeboks. If he was at all nervous about being called in to talk to the police on this matter, it didn’t show. Then again, Jessica thought, he was a psychiatrist. If he could read anxiety, he could write composure. “Needless to say, we’re all devastated at Nazarene.”

“Are the students taking it hard?”

“I’m afraid so.”

The human traffic picked up around the two men. It was an old

trick—make the witness look for somewhere to sit down. The door to Interview Room A was wide open; all chairs in the common room were occupied. On purpose.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Byrne’s voice was dripping with concern and sincerity. He was good, too. “Why don’t we sit in here?”

...

Brian Parkhurst sat in the upholstered chair across from Byrne in Interview Room A, the small, scruffy room where suspects and witnesses were questioned, made statements, provided information. Jessica observed through the two-way mirror. The door to the interview room remained open.

“Once again,” Byrne began, “we appreciate you taking the time.”

There were two chairs in the room. One was an upholstered desk chair; the other was a battered metal folding chair. Suspects never got the good chair. Witnesses did. Until they became suspects, that is.

“Not a problem,” Parkhurst said.

The murder of Nicole Taylor had led the noon news, with live breakins on all the local TV stations. Camera crews were at Bartram Gardens. Kevin Byrne had not asked Dr. Parkhurst if he had heard the news.

“Are you any closer to finding the person who killed Tessa?” Parkhurst asked in a practiced, conversational manner. It was the sort of tone he might use to start a therapy session with a new patient.

“We have a few leads,” Byrne said. “It’s still early in the investigation.”

“Great,” Parkhurst said. The word sounded cold and somewhat strident, given the nature of the crime.

Byrne let the word circle the room a few times, then float to the floor. He sat down opposite Parkhurst, dropped a file folder on the battered metal table. “I promise not to keep you too long,” he said.

“I have all the time you need.”

Byrne picked up the folder, crossed his legs. He opened the folder, carefully shielding the contents from Parkhurst. Jessica could see it was a 229, a basic biographical report. Nothing threatening to Brian Parkhurst, but he didn’t have to know that. “Tell me a little more about your work at Nazarene.”

“Well, it’s mostly consultation in the areas of learning and behavior,” Parkhurst said.

“You counsel students on their behavior?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“All children and adolescents face problems from time to time, Detective. They have fears about starting at a new school, they feel depressed, they quite often lack self-discipline or self-esteem, they lack social skills. As a result, they often experiment with drugs or alcohol, or think about suicide. I let my girls know that my door is always open to them.”

My girls, Jessica thought.

“Do the students you counsel find it easy to open up to you?”

“I like to think so,” Parkhurst said.

Byrne nodded. “What else can you tell me?”

Parkhurst continued. “Part of what we do is attempt to isolate potential learning difficulties in students, as well as design programs for those who may be at risk of failure. Things like that.”

“Are there a lot of students who fall into that category at Nazarene?” Byrne asked.

“Which category?”

“Students who are at a risk for failure.”

“No more than any other parochial high school, I would imagine,” Parkhurst said. “Probably fewer.”

“Why is that?”

“There is a legacy of high academic achievement at Nazarene,” he said.

Byrne scribbled a few notes. Jessica saw Parkhurst’s eyes roam the notepad.

Parkhurst added: “We also try to provide parents and teachers with the skills to cope with disruptive behavior, encourage tolerance, understanding, appreciation of diversity.”

This was strictly brochure copy, Jessica thought. Byrne knew it. Parkhurst knew it. Byrne shifted gears, making no attempt to mask it. “Are you a Catholic, Dr. Parkhurst?”

“Of course.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why do you work for the archdiocese?”

“Excuse me?”

“I would imagine you could make a lot more money in private practice.”

Jessica knew that to be true. She had made a call to an old schoolmate who worked in personnel at the archdiocese. She knew exactly what Brian Parkhurst made. He earned $71,400 per year.

“The church is a very important part of my life, Detective. I owe it a great deal.”

“By the way, what’s your favorite William Blake painting?”

Parkhurst leaned back, as if trying to focus on Byrne more clearly. “My favorite William Blake painting?”

“Yeah,” Byrne said. “Me, I like Dante andVirgil at the Gates of Hell.”

“I, well, I can’t say I know very much about Blake.”

“Tell me about Tessa Wells.”

It was a gut shot. Jessica watched Parkhurst closely. He was smooth. Not a tic.

“What would you like to know?”

“Did she ever mention someone who might have been bothering her? Someone she might have been afraid of?”

Parkhurst seemed to think about this for a moment. Jessica wasn’t buying. Neither was Byrne.

“Not that I can recall,” Parkhurst said.

“Did she seem particularly troubled of late?”

“No,” Parkhurst said. “There was a period last year when I saw her a little more often than some of the other students.”

“Did you ever see her outside of school?”

Like right around Thanksgiving? Jessica wondered.

“No.”

“Were you a little closer to Tessa than some of the other students?” Byrne asked.

“Not really.”

“But there was some sort of bond.”

“Yes.”

“Is that how it all started with Karen Hillkirk?”

Parkhurst’s face reddened, then cooled instantly. He was clearly expecting this. Karen Hillkirk was the student with whom Parkhurst had had the affair in Ohio.