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older, but solid and good quality. The area over the sofa was cluttered with family photographs. Jessica immediately recognized a half-dozen photographs of Nicole – as a toddler on the beach, a gap-toothed grin at about seven or eight, as a twelve-year-old at what looked to be a piano recital.
    ‘First off, Mr Solomon, on behalf of the PPD and the city of Philadelphia, I’d like to say how sorry we are for your loss,’ Byrne said.
    David Solomon leaned forward. His hands dangled at his side, as if he did not know what to do with them.
    Jessica had seen it too many times. Productive people, active people, blue-collar and white-collar, people who made things, fixed things, put things into their proper places suddenly, when faced with a shattering loss, had no idea what to do with their hands. Some clasped their hands in front of them in supplication or prayer, some shoved their hands into their pockets, perhaps to keep from lashing out at total strangers, or the world at large.
    Some, like David Solomon, simply let his hands float in space.
    ‘I know that this is a terrible time for you,’ Byrne said. ‘We just have a few questions for you, and then we will leave you to your family and your arrangements.’
    For a few moments, Solomon stared at Byrne. He seemed to be processing the information. Then he nodded.
    ‘Is there anyone else here today?’ Byrne asked.
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My mother, Adinah.’
    ‘Where is she?’
    Solomon pointed into a small room off the living room. There sat an older woman in a wheelchair. She was staring out the window. Jessica had not even noticed her when they entered the house.
    ‘She has Alzheimer’s,’ Solomon added. ‘It’s not good.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Byrne said. He took a few moments. ‘Now, some of the questions I’m going to ask you will seem terribly personal. Even invasive. I’m afraid they are necessary. What we’re trying to do is get as much information as we can, as quickly as we can.’
    Solomon nodded again.
    ‘Are you currently married?’ Byrne asked.
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘I am widowed.’
    ‘Do you have any other children?’
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nicole was my only child.’
    The second wave of grief seemed to land when he said this. He tried to hold back the tears. He could not.
    While Byrne gave the man time to compose himself, he made a few notes. As he did this Jessica had to the opportunity to look a little more closely at the room. She saw that the stairs had a motorized lift, for, she figured, Adinah Solomon. She also noticed that all the doorways had been widened for the woman’s wheelchair.
    ‘We have just a few more questions for now,’ Byrne said. ‘May I ask what you do for a living?’
    ‘I’m a social worker,’ he said. ‘LCSW. I minored in Talmudic studies.’
    ‘Are you in private practice, or do you work for a provider?’
    ‘A provider,’ he said.
    ‘We’ll need their contact information before we leave.’
    Another nod.
    ‘Did Nicole have any troubles in her life recently?’ Byrne asked. ‘Perhaps at school, or here at home?’
    Jessica watched the man closely. It was a mandatory question in a forensic interview such as this – that being a non-leading dialogue – one that always came loaded with a lot more innuendo and suspicion than was intended. Whenever parents or siblings of deceased minors heard the question, they also heard an accusation.
    ‘What do you mean by trouble at home?’ Solomon asked.
    ‘I’m asking whether or not Nicole had been depressed or unresponsive lately,’ Byrne said. ‘Maybe she spent more time in her room alone, less time with family.’ Byrne leaned back, increasing the space between himself and Solomon, giving the man the impression that this was not an accusation of any sort. ‘I have a daughter just a few years older than Nicole, and I know what a difficult age this can be.’
    Byrne let the statement buffer what would be a second run at getting the information.
    ‘So,’