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to replace him, but it wasn’t much of a debate after that. Pike Podgis was his usual inflammatory self. An autopsy will be held later today.”
“Thank you, Hugh. We’ll check in with you later on to see how things are developing. In other news . . .”
     
    Monty was not interested in other news. A girl killed at St. Bernadette’s, and Pike Podgis being questioned — possibly charged — in the murder. Instead of going to the office, he made a detour to St. Bernadette’s.
    As anticipated, the place had been overrun by police vehicles, television crews, yellow tape, crime scene investigators, and groups of onlookers outside the tape. Some of the pilgrims, preachers, and hawkers of miracle souvenirs were on hand as well, as was Monsignor Michael O’Flaherty. O’Flaherty, Monty knew, had just returned from the peace of a monastic retreat. From cloister to crime scene. It was said of O’Flaherty that, if he had not been called to the priesthood, he would have been a cop. An avid reader of detective fiction, he was occasionally tagged with the moniker Sergeant O’Flaherty. The monsignor was slight of build and white of hair. He spoke in a soft, lilting Irish voice. “Monty! Come round this way!”
    Monty skirted the police tape and joined O’Flaherty at the door to the rectory.
    “That man Podgis is in jail for the murder of a young girl. And it happened right here!”
    “What have you heard, Michael?”
    “Just that she was found here on the grounds, the life bled out of her.”
    “Who found her?”
    “I don’t know. Somebody called the police, but I don’t know who. I was awakened in the middle of the night by the sirens. I got myself dressed, and the police arrived at the door.”
    “What did they say to you?”
    “Oh, they were cagey at first. Said there’d been an incident in the churchyard. Asked me if I knew anything. I guess I had the look of innocence, because they proceeded to ask me whether I’d heard any noises, people about the place, and all that.”
    If anyone on the planet had the look of innocence, it was the mild, early seventies, sweet-faced Monsignor O’Flaherty. He still had that look, even after a close encounter with the Troubles in Ireland on a recent visit. Violence there, violence here in his own backyard. But Monty stayed focused on the present.
    “Was the body still out there?”
    “It must have been, but they took it away after doing their investigation of the scene. You can still see the blood on the face of our saint.”
    “Where’s Brennan?”
    “Up in his room preparing for his day at the schola. Go on up and see him.”
    Monty headed inside and took the stairs up to Brennan Burke’s room, knocked on the door, and was invited in. Burke was at his desk with a musical score spread out before him, a pencil in his hand, a pair of half-glasses perched on his aquiline nose.
    “Did you nab him?” Monty said to Burke.
    “Didn’t have to.”
    “Police question you?”
    “Yeah.”
    “What did they want to know?”
    “Where I went after walking off the set last night.”
    “Where’d you go?”
    “Where do you think?”
    “Midtown?”
    “Yes, I stopped in for a couple of draft, then came home.”
    “Why did they want to know where you went? Are you a suspect?”
    “I think I’m in the clear.”
    “So, what were they after?”
    “Wanted to know whether I’d seen Podgis again after the show.”
    “Why would they think that?”
    “Because I did.”
    “You did what?”
    “See him after the show.”
    “ What ?”
    “The gobshite tracked me down at the Midtown and — ”
    “How did he know to find you there?”
    “He’s an investigative reporter. Remember?”
    “All right. So, what’s this about him tracking you down?”
    Burke waved a dismissive hand. “Wanted to continue the debate, I guess. Seemed a little perturbed that I left the program.”
    “I suspect that ‘a little perturbed’ is not in the typical range of emotions displayed by Podgis. More