Murder On The Mind

Murder On The Mind - Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

Richard and I showed up at Christ the King Roman Catholic Church half an hour before the funeral Mass was due to start. We had to park on a side street three blocks away.

Days earlier, I had realized I was picking up the feelings of my fellow passengers on the plane. Yet, even with that experience under my belt, I wasn’t prepared for the prickling sensations that radiated from the mob outside the church.

The murmur of voices vibrated through me like the buzz of a hive. The press of close-packed bodies seethed with a myriad of emotions. I penetrated the gathering, swallowing down sudden panic. Fists clenched, I gulped deep breaths of air so cold it scorched my lungs. Richard’s eyes bore into mine. Was he waiting for me to freak?

I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Two policemen stood atop the church steps, keeping the horde of newsmen, photographers, and rubberneckers at bay. Private security had been hired, too. A man in a black overcoat checked the names of the mourners against a list on a clipboard. We didn’t bother to check in with him—he wasn’t about to let us in. With nothing much to see, I wandered through the crowd, eavesdropping.

Refused entry, a man spoke to a woman in low tones. “Matt and I were friends for over twenty years.”

“There’s no point hanging around,” she said. “Maybe United Way will have a memorial service for him.” She took the man’s hand and led him away.

I scanned the crowd and seemed to recognize one of the reporters, who stood with a still photographer, but I couldn’t place the face. I turned aside—didn’t want him to see me in case he recognized me, knowing I’d feel foolish when I couldn’t come up with his name.

Behind me a clique of young people stood huddled in a knot. “Do you think Diane even knows we’re here?” someone asked.

“I’ve never been turned away from a funeral before.”

“Like you’ve been to a million funerals,” her friend said.

A white hearse turned the corner, waiting for the crowd to part so it could stop by the church’s side entrance. I had to stand on tiptoe to watch as the funeral director and his associates escorted the bronze casket into the church. Where were the official pallbearers? This wasn’t like any funeral I’d ever seen or been part of.

Richard glanced at his watch. “Mass will be at least an hour long. You don’t want to wait until it’s over, do you?”

“I don’t know yet.”

I should have done something. I should have asked people questions, but I didn’t know who to single out—or what to ask. If the people standing outside the church weren’t on the official attendees list, were they close enough to the victim to have known anything that would help me?

Richard stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Jeff, your cheeks are getting chapped. Your lips are practically blue. If I didn’t know better, I’d diagnose you as cyanotic.”

“Don’t you mean hypothermic?”

“Come on, let’s go home.”

I looked back at the crowd. He was right. Coming to the church had been a complete waste of time. Besides, Richard looked frozen.

“You win, old man. We may as well go before the cold settles in those arthritic bones of yours.” Truth was, I felt lousy, but I wasn’t about to admit it to him.

As we neared the edge of the crowd, I broke through a ribbon of triumph—the same as I’d felt in the dreams.

I whirled and scanned the blur of faces around me.