Murder at the National Cathedral by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online Page B

skull was cut open.
    Smith came out of the chapel and joined the bishop in the hallway. “Horrible. Shall I call from your office?”
    “No, upstairs, right above here. My dressing room.”
    Eileen St. James was nervously pacing the floor when they entered. “Eileen, Mac Smith is here,” St. James said.
    She spun on her heel and had the look of someone reacting to a very loud and sudden sound. “Oh, Mac, yes! George said he had called you.”
    St. James said, “Where is the woman?”
    “She left.”
    “Left?” St. James and Smith said in unison.
    “I couldn’t stop her. She kept crying and moaning. I went to get some towels and cold water. When I returned, she was gone.”
    “Damn!” Smith said.
    “Did she ever tell you who she was?” the bishop asked.
    His wife shook her head.
    Smith sat at the desk, his hand poised over the telephone. He looked up at the bishop and his wife and said, “Now look. No matter what happens, you must promise to be totally honest with the authorities. Whatever problems this may cause the cathedral can’t be helped and will soon pass.”
    “The press will have a field day with this,” St. James said. “One of our own, probably our most visible priest, murdered right here in the National Cathedral. I can’t believe it.”
    “I had trouble believing it, too, until I saw the damage done to Paul’s head.” Smith’s hand rested on the telephone. He looked at them before picking up the receiver and putting it to his ear. Before he could punch in the number of Washington’s MPD Homicide Division—a number he’d never forgotten from his days as a lawyer who had handled many criminal cases—the sound of sirens was heard outside.
    Smith slowly lowered the receiver into its cradle. “I think someone beat us to it.”

6
    Minutes Later—Clouds Moving In
    Mac Smith went outside. Six Washington MPD squad cars had arrived; they’d parked in pairs outside the three main entrances to the cathedral, their uniformed officers fanning out over the cathedral close. An unmarked car had also arrived, and Smith recognized one of the men getting out of it. Chief of Homicide Terrence Finnerty was a lean-cheeked, wiry little man with a nasty cast to his face, and once-yellow hair discolored with age. He wore a cheap green raincoat, and black shoes sufficiently scuffed to make you notice them. The two other detectives who followed were bulky, heavy men. The black man carried a two-way radio, the white man a notepad. As Finnerty came up the steps leading to the south entrance, he spotted Smith and said in what could pass for a near-falsetto, “Mackensie Smith. I didn’t know you were a daily communicant.”
    “Only on special occasions,” Smith said. “The funeral of a friend of mine is taking place this morning.” It wasn’t truethat Adam Vickery was a friend. Smith and Vickery had certainly known each other well enough when Vickery was attorney general and Mackensie Smith was Washington’s most respected and successful criminal attorney. But it wasn’t friendship. Smith had found Vickery to be shrewd, tough, and unpleasant. Compounding that evaluation was Smith’s conviction that Vickery was not the most honest of men, and that the conflict-of-interest charges leveled at him had sufficient substance to ensure that had they been aggressively pursued, the result could well have been a finding of actual conflict, not just the appearance of conflict that had become a popular rationale for the sleazy behavior of some public officials. Still, Mac Smith had his reasons for attending the funeral, including the adages “Once you’re dead, all bets are off” and “Everyone is entitled to be remembered for his best work.”
    Smith glanced at the squad cars and their uniformed occupants. “Heavy artillery, Terry?”
    “Got a call about a murder here. Know anything about it?”
    “Yes.”
    Smith’s abrupt answer caused Finnerty’s face to tighten. A muscle in his right cheek pulsated, and