“Yeah, that’s what they all say.” Murray glanced over his shoulder toward the cells. “Literally.”

Murray opened the thick double-bolted steel door and led Ben down the main corridor of the downtown lockup. The grill floor rattled thunderously beneath their feet, notifying all present that a visitor was approaching. Ben knew his suit and tie immediately identified him; Murray might as well have announced, “Lawyer on the bridge!”

A scabrous man in a cell on the right reached his long arm through the bars. “Hey, lawyer! I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t do nothing!”

Another man on the other side shouted, “Me too! I’m totally innocent, man. I was framed!”

Murray gave Ben a sideways glance. “Whaddid I tell ya?”

Murray led Ben to the last cell on the right. Inside the dark, tiny room, Ben saw a hunched figure on the floor before his metal cot. He was on his knees.

Praying.

Murray turned the key in the lock. Father Beale heard the noise and looked up. Ben stepped inside.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Murray said.

“I will. Thanks.” Ben approached Father Beale. It was hard to think of him as Father Beale, dressed as he was in the standard issue orange jail pajamas rather than a black suit with a white collar. He didn’t look like a man of God. Sadly enough, he didn’t look like anything except another criminal, no different from any of the other poor souls who had proclaimed their innocence as Ben made his way down the corridor. His eyes were red and tired; he probably had not slept well. His back was slightly bent, even after he rose to his feet.

“How are you holding up?”

“Well enough,” Beale said. “When do I get out of here?”

“I don’t know,” Ben replied. Better to be honest than to disappoint.

“I’ve been in jail before, you know. Civic protests, that sort of thing. But I was never behind bars for more than twenty-four hours.”

“This is a capital murder charge,” Ben said. “This is… different.” He took a seat on the edge of the cot, since there were no other options. “We’ve got an arraignment set for tomorrow morning where I’ll ask the court to set bail. But I have to tell you, Father- Oklahoma judges almost never grant bail to capital murder defendants.”

“But surely in my case-where the evidence is entirely circumstantial-and I’m a priest, after all.”

“Believe me, Father, I’ll be playing every card I have. But it’s still a long shot.”

“Then I could be stuck here-until the trial?”

Ben nodded. Or longer, he thought, but did not say.

“But who will look after the church? Who will take care of my parish?”

“Father-realistically, I have to assume your arrest will give the vestry the ammunition they wanted to have you removed. Even the bishop will be hard-pressed to back a priest who’s currently residing in the county jail.”

“A man is innocent until proven guilty. Not only in law, but in the church as well.”

Ben popped open his briefcase and took out a legal pad. “You have more faith in the system than I do, I’m afraid.”

“Faith is my business. Do you have any idea what possessed the police to arrest me?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Ben removed a small file from his briefcase. “I’ve had a nice long chat with Mike-Major Morelli. In Homicide. They found a large acrylic paperweight in your office covered with blood.”

“The murder weapon?”

“Not exactly. They say the woman was suffocated. But she was struck by the paperweight. That’s what caused the wound on the side of her head.”

A shudder passed through Beale. “That’s horrible. Poor Kate.”

Ben showed him a photo of the paperweight, an irregularly shaped clear object about the size of a football. “Do you know what it is?”

“Of course. That’s my St. Crispin’s award.”

“And that is-?”

“It was given to me fourteen years ago by the Episcopal Council of Churches. In recognition of my humanitarian work. So is this why I’ve been arrested? Because my award was used by the murderer?”

“I’m afraid there’s more to it than that. They’ve found your fingerprints on the thing.”

“Well, of course my fingerprints were on it. It’s mine! It was on my desk. I probably touched it every other day!”

“Yes, but you see… your fingerprints were on it… and no one else’s. If the award was used by another person to club Kate over the head, that person’s prints should also be on the award, in addition to or obscuring yours. But there are no other prints. No partials or smudges. Nothing. Except yours.”

“Perhaps the killer used gloves.”

“A good theory. Except that no one on the premises was wearing gloves. Not even the bride.”

“They could’ve been hidden.”

“The police were on the scene less than five minutes after the body was found, and they searched the premises and everyone present before they were allowed to leave. No one had any gloves.”

“Then maybe it wasn’t gloves. Maybe they covered the award with a cloth or rag or… or something.”

“Perhaps. But anything used in that manner would’ve been covered with blood. And the police didn’t find anything. No rag, no cloth, no torn shirt, nothing.”

Beale’s eyes turned down toward the stone-cold floor. “Looks bad, doesn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so. I mean, the killer might’ve washed his hands. But I don’t think he could’ve done his laundry.”

Beale did not look up. “You think I did it, don’t you?” he said quietly.

“No,” Ben said firmly. “On the contrary, I know without a doubt that you did not do it. But it looks like we’re going to have a hell of a time proving it.”

“You saw me, didn’t you? In the bathroom. Washing my hands.”

Ben nodded. This time he was the one who didn’t make eye contact.

“About ten minutes after the wedding concluded I went to my office and found Kate lying across my desk. I rushed to her side, praying she was still alive. I held her in my arms and felt the side of her neck for a pulse; that’s when I got the blood on my hands.”

“That makes sense.”

“But then Ruth O’Connell came along and screamed, and all those other people arrived, and I knew the police would be along shortly, but-but-that still wasn’t really the problem. I can’t explain it. I had to get that blood off my hands. I couldn’t stand it.”

“That’s perfectly understandable, Father.”

“To you, maybe. But what will a jury think?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Ben paused. He’d much rather skip the next topic that had to be addressed, but he couldn’t. And if they had to talk about it, it was better to do it now than later. “Father-I must tell you. I saw you talking to Kate just before the wedding started. You appeared to be having… well, a rather strong disagreement. And I wasn’t the only one who heard.”

Beale’s shoulders sagged. Each new development seemed to bring him lower. “It’s true. We were fighting. She threatened me and… and I got angry.”

“I have to ask what you were arguing about.”

“It was a… theological disagreement.”

“I heard her saying something about… evil. She said something you were doing was evil.”

Beale’s eyes darted up, then quickly looked away. “She was referring to my permitting a gay and lesbian group to meet on the church premises. She’s from the old school; she considers homosexuality an aberration, a sin against God. Evil. She thought that by allowing the group to meet I tainted the whole church with their sin.”

“I see. Do you have any idea why anyone would want to kill Kate?”

“I can’t imagine. I mean, sure, we had philosophical disagreements. She was on the vestry, and they all want to be rid of me. But people don’t commit murder because of philosophical disagreements. Do they?”

“Who knows why people commit murder? I’ve seen more than my share, but I still find it unfathomable.” Ben glanced toward his briefcase. “There’s more evidence, but the forensic teams are still working. Apparently they found a hair on the body, and they’ll try to link that back to you. They’ll probably come up with a few more tidbits before trial. They usually do.” He looked through his papers for a few more moments, then closed the lid on his briefcase. “Anyway, that should about cover it for now. We’ll talk again after the arraignment. We’ll know better where we stand. Anything I can do for you in the meantime?”