Murder at the National Cathedral by Margaret Truman Page B

George. You’ve got marked squad cars all over the place, and the TV crew we ran into downstairs will only be the first of many. You have to say something and do it right up front. It may be shocking news to the congregation, but speculation and rumor are worse.”
    St. James’s expression was one of abject despair. He knew Smith was right, yet making such an announcement was anathema to him. He looked into Smith’s eyes and said, “Of course, you’re right. I’ll announce it early, get it over with. Thank you, Mac.”
    Smith patted his friend on the shoulder and managed a weak smile. “I’ll look in on you later,” he said glumly, his concern not for St. James’s difficult task but for the dilemma into which he himself had suddenly been thrust. Annabel would not be happy.
    Annabel was indeed waiting downstairs when Smith arrived. So were hundreds of people who had gathered for Adam Vickery’s funeral, members of the press, and police everywhere. “Is it true?” Annabel asked. “Murdered?”
    “Yes.”
    She gasped, her eyes flooded. “I can’t believe it.”
    “Believe it, Annie. I saw his body.”
    They joined others in the pews. The bishop, accompanied by Reverend Jonathon Merle and other members of the cathedral’s clergy, slowly ascended to the high altar, known, too, as the Jerusalem altar because the stones of which it was constructed had come from quarries outside Jerusalem. St. James climbed up to the Canterbury pulpit. He surveyed the faces before him. A closed casket containing the remains of Adam Vickery stood alone on one of the risers leading to thealtar. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a sad day in the history of this cathedral. Not only have we come to mourn the death of a man whose record of public service to the nation and dedication to the goals of this cathedral were exemplary, we must also mourn the sudden and brutal death of a man of God who was loved by all, a man of God who reached out to the disenfranchised of our society in a way that our Lord Jesus intended, a man of God who served mankind and his church with vigor and sensitive devotion.” His voice broke. “I speak of the Reverend Paul Singletary.”
    Annabel’s earlier gasp was now a chorus echoed by many in attendance. Suddenly, it was clear why so many law-enforcement officers and press were milling about in the outer aisles. Most mourners had assumed they represented normal security precautions and press coverage of the Vickery funeral. Now they knew better.
    St. James continued, “Unfortunately, we live in violent times. Not only has our dear colleague and friend Paul Singletary been brutally murdered, but it has happened right here in this House of the Lord, in the tiny Good Shepherd Chapel that is open day and night for the bereaved and troubled to seek solace through silent prayer. The shock, which you share, is considerable. Yet, in the cycle of life, we must continue. The life of our departed friend Adam Vickery must be celebrated here today, and his transport to a gentler place, carried there in the hands of Our Lord, Jesus Christ, must not be delayed. I ask all of you to do your best to concentrate on this solemn and necessary ritual. I can tell you nothing else about the death of Father Singletary. That is in the hands of the proper authorities.” He swallowed, blinked his eyes, and said, “Let us pray.”
    The mood of most people following Vickery’s funeral was more soberness at the news of Singletary’s murder than grief for the former official whose obsequies they’d just attended. A hearse and a dozen long black limousines were lined upoutside the south entrance. Smith and Annabel went up to Vickery’s widow, Doris, and extended their condolences. If Mac had never particularly liked Vickery, Doris at least had a fairly pleasing and open personality.
    Vickery had once approached Smith about taking a job in the Justice Department as an assistant attorney general for civil rights. Smith had turned him