Stained Glass by Ralph McInerny Page A

should know of your project.”
    â€œVisit him.”
    â€œOf course, he is an old man now, but he has remained in Peoria, surrounded by mementos of his long career.”

    Was the old woman confusing the present and the past? During the anxious months when the agreement for the Menotti volume was under way, Carl had sometimes suspected that Amos Cadbury doubted that the old woman was compos mentis enough to dole out the huge sum. Was she simply imagining that Angelo Menotti was still alive? When she told him that the artist was not much older than herself, it had given Carl a point of reference to guess the old man’s age. Angelo Menotti, if he were still alive, would be ninety-two at least.
    When the story appeared about the closing of several Chicago parishes, Carl hoped that Jane Devere did not read the Tribune. He decided to visit her and find out.
    She knew. “This is outrageous. They must be stopped.”
    â€œThere are three churches on the list that have Menotti windows.”
    â€œIt must be a conspiracy!”
    â€œHell hath no fury like a bureaucrat, Mrs. Devere.”
    â€œI would buy St. Hilary’s rather than let them tear it down.”
    Coming from anyone else, this might have seemed whimsy.
    â€œIn that awful event, you could turn it into a Menotti museum, provide refuge for his windows.”
    She threw up her hands. “Windows are meant to stay in the churches for which they were designed.”
    â€œI couldn’t agree more.”
    â€œYou haven’t been to see Angelo Menotti?”
    â€œNot yet. I intend to drive to Peoria later this week.” He had formed the intention as they spoke.
    She sighed. “If only I could go with you.”
    â€œA wonderful idea. Of course you should go.”
    The old eyes sparkled at the suggestion. She began to nod. “Perhaps I will.”

1
    Agnes Lamb was an experienced detective, but not the veteran Cy Horvath was, so it was understandable that she reacted as she did when they arrived at the scene of the crime, answering the call from the cruiser that had been first on the scene.
    â€œHomicide?” Cy had asked.
    â€œAt least. It looks like a ritual killing.”
    Cy did not comment but collected Agnes and took off. All cops were influenced now by television, horror films, and maybe comic books—graphic novels, in the phrase—and were prone to importing the categories of fantasy into their work. Ritual killing!
    Agnes was surprised when Cy asked her to drive.
    â€œI forgot to renew my license.”
    â€œYou’re under arrest.”
    Cy liked Agnes. He hadn’t at first. She had seemed pretty clearly a beneficiary of affirmative action, and police work was no place for ideologues. For one thing it was dull, a matter of routine—and disappointment. Most investigations ended up in a tie. Agnes had turned out to be a natural cop, though, one of the best.
    It was not the sort of thing you would want to come upon right after having lunch. The body was in a garage, nude, hanging from the cross strut on which the door lift was mounted. There was a
cloth laundry sack over the head, cinched tight around the throat. The body had looked as if it were being readied for quartering, or open heart surgery. The car in the other stall was still running when the cruiser answered the 911 call.
    Agnes walked into the garage with Cy, then wheeled and went right outside again. There was a woman cop in uniform out there, probably affected as Agnes was.
    Riley stood with his hands on his hips, studying the body. “When the wind is southerly I can tell a hawk from a handsaw.”
    Cy ignored him, going to examine the body more closely.
    â€œHamlet,” Riley said. “You stare at it for a while and you notice it rotates.”
    â€œYou call the coroner?”
    As if in answer a vehicle came into the driveway and squealed to a stop. Dr. Pippen got out. She came toward Cy with her lab coat floating