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more than her words did. The sergeant doubted that Sister Agatha’s efforts would be fruitful.
    After saying good-bye, Sister Agatha drove to downtown Bernalillo, stopping in one of the parking spaces beside themultiacre park and community center. There was plenty of shade, with all the old trees and shrubbery, and the lawn was lush and green despite the previous day’s heavy foot traffic.
    City employees were taking down some of the tents that had sheltered vendors. Volunteers in red safety vests were scouring the grounds, picking up discarded food containers and napkins. As she strode across the grass with Pax in the direction of the swings, she saw a mobile camera unit from an Albuquerque TV station driving up the road leading to the southwest corner of the park. The vehicle parked at the curb, and two people got out. By the time she was halfway there, they’d disappeared behind a hedge of reddish orange trumpet vines.
    Soon, she came around the end of the vines to a large area cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape tied and wrapped around several trees. Keeping Pax at heel and leashed, she stood and watched a TV camerawoman and well-dressed male reporter film a segment just outside the tape. Two other individuals with still cameras stalked the permimeter, angling for the best shots and taking several each. Curious townspeople who’d walked up the road or hiked across the park, as she had done, stared at the area with morbid fascination.
    â€œHey, Sister Agatha, Pax!” Chuck Moody called out, then came jogging up to them from behind.
    Chuck, one of the two employees at the Bernalillo newspaper, the
Chronicle,
had more energy and bounce than anyone else she’d ever met. Chuck stood five foot four and had recently adopted a new haircut that made him look a bit like a Chia Pet. His head was completely shaved except for a thin line of reddish hair that grew out of the very center of his skull.
    â€œI had a feeling I’d be catching up with you here today,” he said, then continued with barely a pause to catch his breath. “The Garcia political machine is putting serious pressure on locallaw enforcement to close this case. They’re after Sheriff Green’s blood.”
    â€œTom didn’t murder anyone,” she said calmly.
    â€œYeah, that’s what most people I’ve talked to believe, too. The fact that Robert was holding a bloody club in his hand when he died makes no sense. Robert wouldn’t have taken on an armed man with a club. Too great a chance of failure, if nothing else. Robert Garcia
always
had a plan. If he’d really wanted Tom dead, he would have contracted it out, being careful not to set up a trail that could lead back to him and making sure he had a perfect alibi. The sheriff would have been taken out of the picture for good, and Robert would have been in the clear. But grabbing a piece of broken branch off the ground and duking it out with a pistol-packing officer? No way. Garcia was a planner and manipulator, not some hothead.”
    â€œYeah, the entire scenario has a definite smell to it,” she said. Her eyes narrowed as she noticed the absence of his equipment bag. “What, no camera? So what really brought you here today?”
    â€œYou know me too well,” he said with a quick little smile. Glancing around to make sure no one could overhear, he continued. “I have an idea. It’s possible that there might have been a witness to the murder, someone the deputies wouldn’t know about. I bet you anything that Scout was here yesterday.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œScout’s a homeless guy who has been hanging around town for months. He apparently avoids the shelters, but he’s getting by, stealing food and raiding garbage cans.”
    Sister Agatha nodded, remembering the stories she’d heard. “They call him Scout because he wears a Boy Scout neckerchief beneath his gray cap. He protects his neck from