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.