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  Sherk’s muffled words broke the silence. “Jeez. This is magnificent.”

  “Yeah, I guess. You can speak up; this ain’t a library.” Jack looked around and strode into the sanctuary. Rows of multicolored stained glass windows depicting scenes of the nativity, Madonna and child, the Last Supper, and nameless saints, afforded the only light in the vast space.

  Sherk pointed to a prominent window near the middle row of pews. “Look at that, the Archdiocese of Chicago coat of arms.”

  “Yeah, I know, and talk louder.” Jack glanced at the translucent red design of a phoenix against a gold shield topped with a crown of green, blue, and red jewels.

  Sherk continued in a low voice. “The phoenix is symbolic of the church arising from the ashes of the great fire, as well as the resurrection of Jesus, of course.”

  “Sherk, you’re gettin’ on my last good nerve. Let’s find a live body to talk to.”

  They turned toward the sacristy, and a thin young man wearing black jeans and shirt approached them. He smiled. “May I help you?”

  The men flashed their badges. Jack said, “We need to see the priest, Father Jim I believe.”

  The man cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, officers. I assume you don’t have an appointment.”

  “You assume right,” Jack said.

  “Yes, well, right this way. By the way, I’m Patrick.” The guy appeared nervous. Guess he wasn’t used to cops showing up on official business in his place of worship.

  They followed Patrick to a side exit which led them outdoors to the education building and offices. They entered, walking past the reception area where two women sat at their desks, heads down, appearing busy with paperwork. When the men reached a closed door half way down the hall, Patrick knocked softly.

  Jack heard someone say, “Come in.”

  Patrick opened the door and led them into a spacious paneled office with two large windows on one side and rows of bookshelves filling the remaining walls. A heavy set older man with a receding hairline sat behind a massive wooden desk. He wore the requisite black long sleeved tab shirt with a white clerical collar. An ornate gold crucifix hung from his neck. He smiled and rose from his chair.

  “Well. Who do we have here, Pat?”

  “These are policemen, Father.” The man looked at Jack and Sherk. “If you’ll excuse me, you can introduce yourselves to Father Jim.” He closed the door on his way out.

  Jack introduced Sherk and himself and showed Father Jim his badge.

  The priest continued smiling and offered the men two chairs across from his desk. Jack never felt comfortable with men of the cloth. Didn’t trust them. Perhaps from his days as altar boy when old Father Thomas yelled at him for holding the cruet of wine in the wrong hand. Could also be from media coverage after the priest sex scandals emerged in the mid-eighties and reached the national conscience a decade later. At first Jack’s mother refused to believe the news stories, but later came to terms with the issue, brushing the whole business under her faux Oriental rug.

  Jack sat and crossed his legs. “We need to tell you about Sister Anne Celeste. I’m afraid she was found dead early this morning.” He paused. “It appears it was murder.”

  The priest’s hand flew to his crucifix. He gasped. “Holy Mother of God.”

  Jack sensed something else behind the priest’s shocked expression. Wonder what it could be. Jack’s imagination?

  Chapter 2

  The priest’s face shone with perspiration. He wiped his brow. “Dear Lord, how? What happened?”

  Sherk leaned in. “She was found in her apartment. Cause of death appears to be strangulation. We’ll know for sure within a day or so.”

  Father Jim gasped, turned pale. He crossed himself and bowed his head.

  Sherk continued. “When was the last time you saw Sister Anne Celeste?”

  The priest hesitated. “Excuse me, but I need water. Would you care for some?”

  The men declined and waited while the priest fetched a bottle of water from a nearby table. He took a gulp. “Ah, let’s see. I think she was here yesterday or the day before. We can check with Pat. He manages things. Sister and all the volunteers sign in with him.”

  Father Jim explained that she helped with various tasks, including weekly Bingo, filing, and answering the telephone. He checked a file that verified she entered the Sisters of St. Anne Convent in Chicago for training and was installed at Nativity of Our Lord in 1950.

  Before Jack could calculate her tenure, Sherk said, “Wow, over sixty years. Quite a history. When did she retire?”

  The priest paged through the file. “She retired in 1985 at age sixty. She’s been volunteering since then, but not every day. The last few years she’d come in two, three times a week for a few hours.”

  “Slacking off, huh?” Jack’s voice sardonic.

  Sherk rolled his eyes. The priest said, “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing. Tell me about her, Father. What was she like, how did she get along with people?”

  “Very friendly, outgoing lady. I started here three years ago, and everyone held her in highest regard. A compassionate, faithful servant.”

  Yeah, look where it got her, Jack thought. “Can you think of any reason someone might want to harm her?” He studied the priest and noted a twitch in one eye.

  “Oh, mercy, heavens, no. She was loved by everyone.” He took another swig of water.

  Doth the good padre protest too much?

  “Father, we’re well aware of confessional privilege, but if you know anything, if Sister—”

  “I can’t comment on that, Detective, ah, Bailey is it?”

  “Yes, Jack Bailey. I know the law, Father, but sometimes if someone’s deceased—” He figured the priest wouldn’t budge, but why not try.

  The priest pushed back his chair. “Are you Catholics, Detectives?”

  Sherk shook his head. Jack said, “I was brought up in the church, but—” He let the sentence hang in mid air.

  Father Jim sighed. “I see. Then you know the sanctity of the priest-penitent covenant.” He eased himself from the chair. “I need to contact Sister’s niece, Molly Winters. Has she been notified?”

  “Not yet. Heading that way now.” Jack knew the clergy often accompanied officers for notification of kin, but he preferred to see the niece without the padre.

  The priest looked at his watch. “Oh dear, I’m afraid I’ll be late for a meeting if I come with you. Perhaps if we hurry.” His voice trailed off.

  Sherk said, “I’m sure Ms. Winters will need your comfort, Father Jim, but maybe you would prefer to see her when you have time to spare. You’ll need to meet with her regarding funeral arrangements, I assume.” Good ol’ Sherk to the rescue.

  “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll plan to visit this evening. Oak Lawn isn’t that far.” Father Jim cleared his throat. “I recollect hearing somewhere that Sister was sort of, ah, a shirttail relative of a former priest here, oh, maybe in the seventies. Somehow connected with Molly, but can’t recall how.” He scratched his head. “The old brain can’t remember a lot of things these days.”

  “A lot of that going around.” Sherk said.

  Jack scoffed. Still in his forties, his partner wouldn’t know squat about aging.

  They said their goodbyes to Father Jim and exited the building. Jack wondered if the priest’s memory was as muddled as he’d claimed. Bet he remembered plenty.

  “Don’t see much sense in talking to church people at this point,” Jack said.

  “I agree. Sister was a saint. Loved by one and all. Likewise, with the niece no doubt.”

 
They climbed into the cruiser and headed for 90 south, then 94, exited on 20 and drove west to Oak Lawn, a middle class suburb a few miles south of Midway airport. Traffic wasn’t heavy yet; just wait an hour or two.

  Jack parked in front of a neatly kept one-story red brick house with white trim. The neighborhood was over forty years old, established with well-maintained yards and plenty of trees. Random patches of snow clung to the grass, but spring was around the corner as Jack’s mother said. At least the sun was out. Nice to wear light weight jackets and ditch the parkas, gloves, boots.

  Sherk rang the front doorbell. A dog yelped from inside. They waited. A voice called out, “Who is it?”

  “Bridgeport Police.” They held up their badges at the peephole.

  The door opened halfway, and an attractive, fifty-something woman looked anxiously at them. “Oh God, is it Aunt Anne? She lives in Bridgeport.”

  Jack said, “Molly Winters?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “We need to talk to you. May we come in?”

  She let the men inside and shooed a medium-sized tan dog of blended heritage down a hallway. “Go lie down Bruno. It’s fine.” The mutt plodded off.

  Jack said, “I’m Detective Bailey, this is my partner, Detective Sherkenbach. We won’t take much of your time.”

  Slim with light brown hair, the woman wore fitted jeans and a lightweight yellow sweatshirt. She led them through the entry into a tidy living room furnished in neutral tones. The words, ‘nice ass’, passed through Jack’s brain.

  Molly gestured toward the sofa. “Did something happen to my aunt?” She sat in a beige arm chair next to the sofa. Wringing her hands, she leaned forward.

  Jack said, “I’m afraid we have bad news, Ms. Winters.” He waited a couple seconds. “Your aunt was found this morning in her apartment. She couldn’t be revived. We’re very sorry.”

  Molly’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh my God! A heart attack? Did she fall?”

  Sherk leaned toward her. “Ms. Winters, I regret telling you this, but your aunt appears to be the victim of a homicide. That is, right now, we think she may have been— ah— strangled.”

  Molly gasped. “What? You can’t mean—she was—somebody killed her? My aunt? That can’t be.” She held her face in her hands and sobbed quietly.

  This was never easy. Worst part of the job for most cops. “Can I get you some water?” Jack asked.

  “No. No thanks.” She stared into space. “I can’t believe it.”

  Sherk told her details of what happened earlier. They sat in silence.

  Jack said, “I know you’re still in shock, Ms. Winters, but can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm your aunt?”

  “Oh, God no. Everybody loved Aunt Anne. Everybody.” She paced back and forth between the furniture. “Maybe a robbery? Someone broke in?”

  “It didn’t look like forced entry,” Sherk said. “When did you last see her?”

  “Um, about two weeks ago for my mom’s birthday. They were sisters, Mom turned eighty-two last month. She lives in Beloit, Anne and I drove together, stayed the weekend.” Molly stopped pacing and sat on the edge of the chair. “Oh, God, how will I tell Mom—murdered? This is like, like the twilight zone or something.”

  “You sure you wouldn’t care for water?” Sherk asked. “I’ll go in the kitchen and— “

  “No. Hell, I need a drink. I shouldn’t, but—” She got up and turned toward the kitchen. “Want to join me?”

  Jack was tempted, but knew better. He and Sherk waited while she disappeared in the kitchen. A minute later she returned with a glass of red wine. “Wish I had something stronger.” She sat and took a hefty drink.

  “Did you notice any change in your aunt’s mood, state of mind lately?” Jack asked.

  “No. She was always cheery, maybe slowing down a little, but she’s, ah, was eighty-seven.” Molly took another drink. She spoke slowly. “But, now that I think about it, after dinner last Christmas she and I were talking alone. I’m a lapsed Catholic, but she never poured on the guilt. Anyway, I said I should confess my sin of gluttony for stuffing myself, can’t recall the details, but she said something about herself and confession. Damn, I can’t remember.”

  “So you think the topic of confession pertained to her directly?” Jack’s interest piqued.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I know I kidded her, saying, ‘Oh, Anne, you’ve never done anything wrong in your whole life. What, do you confess you burned the toast?’ Then she looked at me, kind of a sad smile. She said sometimes not doing something—She closed down after that, like something unpleasant drifted through and then she was back to her old self.”

  Jack started to rise. “Thanks, Ms. Winters. Here’s my card. Call if you think of anything else.”

  Sherk said, “We spoke with Father Jim. He’ll be contacting you about arrangements.”

  Molly led the men to the door. “Thanks. He was good to Anne. She was the oldest volunteer there.”

  The men said their goodbyes and strode toward the cruiser. “You thinking what I am?” Jack asked.

  “Think so. Sin of omission. What did the good Sister fail to do?”

  Chapter 3

  The next morning Jack awoke groggy and unsettled before the alarm buzzed. Images of Jack’s fifth grade teacher, Sister Petrina, infiltrated his brain, part of fractured dreams where sheep grazed and priests leaped out of confessionals. Were the damned nightmares snaking their way back in his life? He’d done well since his move from Texas; couldn’t face a recurrence of PTSD symptoms. He knew he wasn’t cured, but still—

  Boone, Jack’s large yellow dog of questionable ancestry, lumbered across the floor and nuzzled against the pillow.

  “It’s okay, boy, might as well get up.” Jack thought about Sister Petrina as he headed for the shower. Mean old battle ax; a firm believer in corporal punishment, and the sting of her ruler on Jack’s knuckles remained etched in his memory. At least his nieces and nephews were spared the rod of present-day nuns, lucky kids.

  The phone rang as he emerged from the shower. Who’d call this early except to deliver bad news? He wrapped a towel around his waist, retrieved the phone from his nightstand, read the caller ID. Crap. He tapped on speaker mode. “Hey, Ma. What do you want so early?”

  “Jacky, is that any way to talk to your old mother? Listen, I read about the nun in the paper. Do you know anything about that? Sister Anne Celeste. You know, I think I remember her. She was about my age.” His mother finally took a breath.

  “Yeah, Ma, got wind of it yesterday.” At times he wondered why he’d moved back to Chicago.

  “How did it happen? The paper didn’t give a cause of death. It said—”

  “Ma, we don’t know yet. I gotta go. Some people have to work, you know.” He finished toweling off.

  “Don’t get smart with me, mister. I’ve worked damn hard my whole—”

  “I know, I know, fingers to the bone and all that. I’ll see you in a couple days for dinner like we planned. Have a good one, Ma.” He hung up before she could utter another word. He imagined her “humph” as she hung up. At this hour, he visualized her dyed henna hair still in curlers, bathrobe tied around her ample waist.

  Half an hour later, Jack arrived at the station. He shivered as he stepped from his car. A whiff of burning logs drifted into his nostrils, reminding him of promised snowfall. The air felt frosty, the sun hidden behind puffy clouds. Jack heard forecasts of possible late winter storms, but with April two weeks away, he hoped for the best. He’d had enough winter with long days of no sun. No wonder folks were depressed. Next winter he’d consider vacationing in the south. Not Texas. Too m
any ghosts remained in Richmond. That door must stay closed.

  He greeted the gray-haired cop at the front desk and made his way down the hall toward the bull pen, a large drab room which housed detectives, patrol cops, CSI guys, and office assistants. Rows of interior windows alongside the door were covered halfway with open mini blinds, enabling everyone in the hallway to gawk inside and see who was where. This annoyed Jack and his colleagues; felt like a fish bowl.

  An aroma of fresh coffee floated through the air as he reached his desk and grumbled good morning to Sherk, whose desk faced Jack’s. Cops of various shapes, sizes, and gender stared at computer screens or bustled about, phones buzzed, keyboards clicked.

  “Morning, Jack,” Sherk said. “The sarge wants to see us about the nun case. Any further ideas before we grace her with our presence?” Sergeant Daisy LePere ruled over her detectives with an iron fist, a fact Jack’s co-workers warned him about his first day on the job.

  “Figured the bitch in heels would wanna bust our balls about it.” Jack sat and rearranged stray papers on his desk. “Couple things about the case first. I think we need to find out if there’s been allegations against priests at the Sister’s church back in her day. And who was the shirttail relative the padre mentioned? We’ll ask Molly Winters after the shock wears off.”

  “Yeah. As we said yesterday, Sister Anne may have been part of a cover up.” Sherk rose from his chair. “Let’s go face the dragon lady.”

  Jack reached for his stained White Sox mug. “Need coffee first.”

  He trudged to a table beside the far wall and filled his cup, then they headed toward Daisy LePere’s office down the hall from the bull pen.

  The door was open, and they walked in. “You wanted to see us?” Sherk asked idiotic questions at times.