Lynch looked up at Kowalski. “She looks like shit, Sarge.”

“Getting shot will do that for you,” Kowalski said.

“Beyond that, though. Skin seems loose. Color’s bad. Face looks shrunken.”

Lynch stood up.

“All right, Sarge, what else you got?”

“Here’s what I know. Deceased is Helen Marslovak, seventy-eight, lives four doors down, other side of the street. Looks like a single gunshot to the chest. The priest – he’s up in the church – says she finished confession between 3.00 and 3.05 because he starts at 3.00 and she is always the first customer. He figures she probably said a rosary after, which put her out the door about 3.15. An Agnes Weber – she’s inside with the father – came screaming into the church at, the father is guessing, 3.22, because he looked at his watch as soon as she calmed down enough to tell him that the victim was splattered on the stairs, and then it was 3.24. Including the priest, three people were in the church at the time of the shooting. Nobody heard a thing. Also, looking at the body, this ain’t no contact wound, and judging from the spray – you’ll see we got some bits of this and that up top of the stairs – you’re looking at a round with some velocity. My guess is a rifle, but we’ll let the pocket-protector types work that out. One thing you’re not going to like. The father has handled the body, did the last-rites drill before we got here.”

“Saw the oil.”

“Also, the Weber woman tracked through the blood.”

Lynch nodded. “Just the one shot?”

“Looks like. Got all those windows in the vestibule back there, no holes in those. There’s a wooden chest sort of thing back by the wall. They probably put bulletins and such out after mass. Round looks to have hit there.”

“So one shot center chest, likely a rifle. Purse?”

“Yeah. It was on its side, top step. Not even open. Six bucks and change in the wallet. Driver’s license, Social Security card, no plastic. Hanky, keys, rosary. Bout it.”

“And she’s still got the watch. That looks like a couple of grand anyway.”

“Looks like.”

“All right. Thanks, Sarge,” said Lynch.

Lynch nodded to the crime scene guy, letting him know he could start on the body. “OK I go through here on the right?” Lynch asked.

“Yeah, detective. Close to the wall, OK? Got some shit up here.”

Lynch remembered Sacred Heart as looking old school. Dark wood pews in straight rows facing east, broad middle aisle, ornate altar tucked in an alcove on the east wall, racks of votive candles, big statues. Looked like a church, anyway.

Or had. As he pushed through the double doors, he saw white drywall, burnt-orange carpeting and seat cushions, blonde wood pews in a huge, space-wasting semicircle facing the long north wall, the altar on a half-oval riser sticking out of the wall into the pews and something that looked like a life-sized Peter Frampton in a bathrobe hanging from the ceiling on a Plexiglas cross.

“Jesus,” muttered Lynch.

“Well, it is supposed to be,” said a voice to his left. Lynch turned to find a beefy priest in an old-fashioned button-up cassock. Mid-fifties, Lynch guessed. Gone a little to fat, but judging from the chest and shoulders, some weight work in the guy’s past, and not in the distant past.

“Detective Lynch,” Lynch said, offering his hand.

The priest took it. “Father Mike Hughes. I’m the pastor. Actually, I’m the whole staff at the moment. Well, for quite a few moments, now. Young men today just don’t seem to grasp the allure of the collar.”

“Probably need a video game. Priest for PlayStation. Kicking the devil’s ass for him.”

“I’ll suggest that to the cardinal.”

Lynch and the priest sat at the end of one of the pews.

“Comfy, with the cushion and all,” said Lynch.

The priest smiled. “The church was remodeled in the late Eighties. While the liturgical remedies of Vatican II were long overdue, some of the resulting architectural excesses have been less than fortunate.”

“Ms Marslovak like it much?” said Lynch.

“No, I doubt that she did. But you wouldn’t hear it from Helen. The woman would never breathe a word against the church.”

“Know her well?”

“I’ve been here twelve years. She’s been at mass every morning, and I do mean every morning. First in for confession every Friday at 3.00pm sharp. Past president of the St Anne’s unit. Tends the garden. Cooks me a roast first Sunday of every month, God bless her soul.”

“So no reason you can think of for someone to kill her?”

“No, none.”

Lynch sat for a moment. “Look, Father, you were the last person to talk to her. Anything in that conversation that might shed some light here?”

“You mean in her confession?” The priest turned toward Lynch. “Irish boy in a town like this, you’ve got to be Catholic, right?”

“I don’t know how often you’ve got to get your card renewed. It’s been a while.”

“Baptized, though?”

“Oh yeah. St Lucia’s, 1961.”

“Once you’re dipped, you’re ours for life. And you know the rules. If it’s said in confession, it stays there. That secret doesn’t just go to her grave, it goes to mine.”

“I figured,” said Lynch. “Just taking a shot. She have family in the parish?”

“Her husband died three years ago. ALS. Long time going. She’s got a son, but he lives up on the north shore. Lake Forest, I think. Eddie Marslovak? MarCorp?”

Lynch nodded. “That’s where I’ve heard the name. They close?”

The priest shrugged. “She loved him, but she didn’t approve of him. A couple of divorces, professed agnostic. He’d visit, I know, and they talked. But close? I don’t know.”

“How about after the husband died. Any gentlemen friends?”

The priest chuckled. “If you knew Helen, detective, you would know how funny that is. No.”

“Other friends?”

“Helen was something of an institution, volunteered at the school, helped with everything, really. Gave free piano lessons. Taught CCD for thirty-some years.”

“You’re not giving me much to work with here. Listen, Father, looking at her, she didn't look well. Was she sick, do you know?”

The priest paused for a moment. “I hear some things in confidence but not necessarily in confession. Yes. Helen was very sick. Cancer. She was dying. She didn’t want anyone to know, not even her son. She said it was her cross, and she was pleased to bear it. There are elements of this that we discussed in confession that I cannot share with you. But she did talk to me about funeral arrangements. So that she was ill, was dying, that I can tell you.”

“This stuff you can’t tell me, anything in that?”

“Detective, I cannot divulge or even hint at what is said within the seal of confession.”

Lynch looked at the priest, but the priest was looking away.

Agnes Weber was just this side of shock. Probably close to Marslovak’s age. She was holding a pair of long black gloves, absentmindedly wringing them.

“Mrs Weber? I'm Detective Lynch. Can I talk to you for just a minute here? Then we can get you home.”

She nodded slightly, not looking up, still wringing the gloves. “This is so horrible, so horrible.”

“It is, Mrs Weber, and I am very sorry. You knew Mrs Marslovak?”

“Helen? Everybody knew Helen. She was... she was... just so decent to everybody. I lived across from her, just across and one house up. I’ve known Helen for thirty-five years.”

“She sounds like a wonderful woman. The father was telling me.”

“I can’t understand this.” Sounding puzzled, and a little angry suddenly.

“Mrs Weber, how did you get to the church today?”

“Oh, I walked. I always walk. I don’t like to drive anymore. It’s not far.”

“About a block?”

“Yes. I was surprised when I didn’t see Helen. I usually see her walking back when I’m headed up for confession. She’s always there right at three, but there is a show I like that ends then, so I’m a little later.”