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five-years-short of drawing his Social Security, was overweight, with a ruddy complexion, and bald except for a thinning fringe of steel-gray hair. Tough-talking. Opinionated. Curious. Unapologetic. Suspicious. All the qualifications of a cop. And McGraw had them all. He was one of our paid paranoids, a cop who saw a conspiracy on a cloudy day. He was aggressive, dedicated and fiercely loyal to the police department. He leaned back in his leather chair and took a cigar from inside his breast pocket. He lit it, and suddenly was surrounded by a cloud of thick, blue smoke. His eyes narrowed as he gazed at Farrell, who sat opposite. “So, you’re telling me you had a little chit-chat with this old codger, Willie Groda? What’s his story?”
    “Checked the Data Base. Groda’s already in the system.”
    “Oh, yeah? What were the charges?”
    “In July of 1995, Groda was arrested and charged with the first degree sexual abuse of a nine-year-old girl. He’d apparently picked her up in a shopping mall.”
    “Holy Shit! You’re kiddin’ me!”
    “He served eighteen months in the Crittenden County Jail, in Arkansas.”
    “So, the old son of a bitch has a wrap sheet. I’ll be goddamned.” He paused. “What’s your take on this old guy, Farrell? What’s he like?”
    “I gotta admit, Groda looks a little weird, a little scary.”
    “You were sayin’ he’s the custodian and caretaker at this boys’ summer camp?’
    “Yeah. That’s right.”
    McGraw snickered. “Nothin’ like puttin’ the fox in the hen-house. I wonder if the archdiocese even bothered to check this guy out?”
    “Apparently, not.”
    McGraw took a deep drag on his cigar. “But then, you’re telling me Groda was puttin’ the finger on Father Reiniger, claiming he was messin’ around with the boys. Right?”
    “That’s what Groda implied.”
    “You think the old man has any proof, of this?”
    “Claims he overheard an argument between Reiniger and the camp counselor.”
    “And, what’s his name?”
    “Jack Kramer. A nice guy.”
    McGraw rolled the cigar around in his mouth. He glanced at Farrell contemplatively. “This guy, Groda, could be covering his ass, intentionally steering us in another direction.”
    Farrell nodded. “Yeah. Could be.”
    It was at this precise moment, there was a light tapping on the door and Detective Juarez entered. McGraw turned to face him. “What’s up, Gregg?”
    “You’re not gonna believe this. Forensics has come up with the final DNA results, on the Novak case.”
    McGraw grinned. “Try me!”
    “They tested the DNA twice, to be doubly sure. They got a positive match. Father Reiniger.”
    Instinctively, McGraw flinched. “You gotta be shittin’ me, Gregg! Father Reiniger? The priest?”
    “That’s right, Captain. Like I said, a positive match.”
    McGraw paused for a long moment. He seemed to be studying the tip of his cigar. “Well,” he said, “let’s not get our hopes up too high, here. Reiniger might have sexually molested the boy, but that doesn’t mean to say he murdered him. So far, we have no physical evidence linking him to the crime.” He paused again. “I sure as hell buy the whole scenario. Reiniger certainly may have had the motivation. But, I gotta have hard evidence. Facts. Something solid. I can’t go to the D.A. unless I smell a conviction. You know what I mean?”
    “Yeah,” Farrell said, “I know what you mean.”
    McGraw flicked the ashes of his cigar into an already overflowing ashtray. “In the meantime, let’s pick Reiniger up!”
     

     
    The Catholic section of Alta Vista’s Westlawn Cemetery, was easily identifiable because of its accumulation of carved, marble headstones: angels, open prayer books with rosaries, even a glistening statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Danny Novak’s funeral. It was close to 12:00 noon, and the sun was hot in the sky. The heavy bronze casket sat rested and poised above the open grave. A cross of cardinal-red roses covered