Chase clears his throat, brings me back to the task at hand. We’re here to pay our respects and to observe, based on the age-old cop tenet that a murderer often likes to take part in the aftermath of his deed. The trip out to see Tyler White didn’t yield anything helpful except to confirm the fact that Dr. Bradley had started interviews for his book, and if what Tyler told us was true, he didn’t get very far. I glance over the congregation. Maybe there’s a killer in this church somewhere.

Mrs. Bradley sits in the front pew with her sister, brother-in-law, and parents. She’s a thin figure in a black dress and long dark coat, her hair tied back in a ponytail. The casket rests up front and is covered with an impressive spray of white flowers. The priest and his attendants are busy, and the organ, upstairs and behind us, roars to life with heart-pounding resonance. The congregation stands. It’s a big crowd. Dr. Bradley was a popular man.

The priest’s deep voice echoes through the church as my eyes search the people standing before him. The Bradleys’ friends, the ones we’ve interviewed, are all accounted for. I try to figure out who the others might be. It’s just a guessing game, of course, but one that could, possibly, provide a smidgeon of insight into what appears to be a totally senseless murder.

When the service is over, the family leads the exiting mourners up the center aisle. Mrs. Bradley catches my eye, but her sister hurries her away. Chase and I remain in our seats, allowing us to observe the faces of the people leaving the church.

Once the place is empty, save the priest’s attendants working up front, Chase turns to me. “You notice anything interesting?”

“No. You?”

He shakes his head.

I’m reluctant to leave and wander slowly down a side aisle past tapestries that hang between the stained-glass windows. They depict the twelve stations of the cross. While St. Mary’s is a beautiful church, I remember the comfort of our parish church in our old neighborhood. It was where my siblings and I had our First Communions. Where my two oldest sisters got married and where my brother Ricky’s funeral was held. I was just a kid when Ricky was killed in Vietnam. The memory sweeps over me and fills me with an aching sadness. It was an early lesson in the unfairness of life. To my child’s mind, it was inconceivable that the big, strong brother who used to carry me piggyback was never coming home again. For months, I listened for the front door, for his booming voice in the hall.

I still have the last letter he wrote me from Vietnam. He was already dead by the time it arrived, so Ma grabbed it from the stack of mail. She kept it tucked in the pocket of an old cardigan she wore. Even though it was addressed to me, Ma kept it with her until she died. She’d sit at the kitchen table, drink her tea, and slip her hand into her pocket periodically and run her fingers over the envelope. It was the one thing I wanted when Ma died. My sister Maureen, the oldest girl in the family and by far the bossiest, was in charge of doling out Ma’s few possessions. Maureen made a stink about it until Danny and I cornered her in Ma’s kitchen and she handed it over. Maureen never liked the fact that I was the youngest and, in her eyes, a spoiled brat, but Ricky had sent the letter to me, and as Danny told her, Ma would have wanted me to have it.