Murder at the National Cathedral by Margaret Truman Page A

Chapel. “There he is, Terry. We were friendly. He married my wife and me a couple of months ago.”
    Finnerty glanced at Smith and smiled. “I didn’t know you got hitched.”
    “It was time,” Smith said.
    “So she said, I’ll bet.”
    Finnerty approached Singletary’s body and bent down. He screwed up his face as he leaned to within inches of the wound. “Didn’t bleed much,” he said, more to himself than to Smith.
    “I noticed that, too,” said Smith.
    “Any idea how long he’s been here?”
    “No. The body was discovered by a woman an hour or so ago.”
    Finnerty looked up from his kneeling position next to the body. “An hour ago? Jesus! What woman?”
    Smith shrugged. “She came in here, probably to pray, discovered the body, and started screaming. The bishop heard the screams and came in. He took her to his dressing room upstairs and called his wife to come over and stay with her. She’s disappeared.”
    “Who?”
    “The woman who discovered the body.”
    “Wonderful. How come?”
    “The bishop’s wife went to get some … It doesn’t matter. She’s gone.”
    “Wonderful.”
    Finnerty touched Singletary’s eyelids and lower jaw. “He’s pretty rigid. He didn’t get it this morning, more like last night. We’ll get a better fix on it at the autopsy.” He stood and stretched. “Who has access to this chapel?”
    “The world, I think. It’s open twenty-four hours a day.”
    “It is? Just this chapel, or the whole cathedral?”
    “I think just this chapel, although you can confirm that with the bishop.”
    Finnerty shook his head and looked out the open window onto the garth and its large, abstract, siliconed bronze fountain. “Where is the bishop?” he asked, his words mingling with the gurgling water from the fountain and the faint, sweet sound of choristers rehearsing.
    “Upstairs with his wife.”
    “Let’s go, before she disappears,” Finnerty said.
    Smith led him up the narrow stone stairs to the clergy’s rooms and into the one reserved for Bishop St. James. After Smith made the introductions, Finnerty said, “Mac told me you wanted to keep this quiet for a while, Bishop. I can’t dothat. I got to move my men in right now, get Forensic over here. There may be a funeral for a dead big shot, but my concern is the dead guy—sorry, Reverend—downstairs.”
    St. James nodded. “Yes, of course, I understand. I just thought—”
    “Yeah, yeah, I know what you thought, but it can’t be. Smith asked us not to make a circus of it, and we’ll try. What about this woman who found the body?”
    Eileen St. James explained that the woman had disappeared.
    “You spent some time with her?”
    “Well, yes, a little.”
    “I’ll have somebody get a description from you.”
    The bishop vacated his chair behind a desk and pointed to the phone.
    Finnerty shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ll coordinate this from downstairs. I’m going to need a list of everyone who was in this building last night and this morning.”
    “Last night?” Mrs. St. James said.
    “Yes. Can you get me that list right away?”
    “I suppose so. I’ll assign someone,” the bishop said.
    “Good.” Finnerty turned to Smith. “You coming with me?”
    “I’ll walk down with you, but I’m attending the funeral. My wife is probably here by now.”
    “Check in with me later.”
    “If you want.”
    “Yeah, I want. Looks like you’re in the middle of this mess, a friend of the corpse, here before we get here, delayed notification.”
    Smith looked at Bishop St. James as Terry Finnerty left. He certainly hadn’t intended to be in the middle of anything. His plans for that day were to attend a funeral and work on some lecture notes for class. St. James’s call had changed all that.
    “Mac, what do we do now?”
    “Concerning what?”
    “Concerning the murder and the service for Adam Vickery. Do I mention during the service what’s happened here?”
    “I don’t think you have any choice,