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write an article, coming to someone as peripheral as me before going to your subject. Who did you say you worked for?”
    “
City Beat
,” I tell her. “He seems to have a busy schedule, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be interviewing him next.” She settles down after this, so I ask, “Did Jason Hamel and your husband have any disagreements that you know of?”
    Now she looks amused. “If you mean besides how to run a business venture, yes, they did. James and Mark were members of the Skeptic Society. They were atheists with a capital A and had their own website—besides the mining site—where they debunked everything from Sasquatch to the Virgin Birth. Jason was very offended.”
    We hang out in silence for a while. It seems like she’s out of material for me, and I’m out of questions. At the door, I thank her for her time. She points a finger up at me and says, “You print what I told you. That man is a murderer.”

    ¤ ¤ ¤

    In my car, I call Jimmy and leave a message. There are two voicemails from Tanya, plus a text message that says, Call me NOW.
Sure thing, lady, I’ll jump to it.
I delete them all and head back. As I approach Wilshire, the church catches my eye. The Z makes a turn as if it has a mind of its own and I’m in the church parking lot.
    I’ve never been much of a fan of organized religion. When I was about fourteen I told my mother that I felt closer to God while I was sitting on my surfboard on a freezing day at the beach than sitting in church listening to someone drone on about the Bible. I never had to go to church again. On the other hand, my condition is peculiar and I don’t know whom else to talk to.
    The church is empty. I look down the aisle at the altar and wait. It’s quiet and serene, shafts of sunlight pouring through stained glass in interesting shades of silver. I take a seat in a pew and leave the body. I hover for a second; it looks like it’s asleep, not about to keel over, so I roam. I find the priest in his office, sitting at a desk, writing. He stops and looks up, as if he senses me, but then resumes.
    I go back to the body and enter, stand it up, make it cough, and wait. The priest comes out through a door to the left of the altar and walks halfway to where I stand. He puts his hand out, palm up, inviting me forward. He’s a small man, probably around sixty, Hispanic, with rimless glasses, and dressed in gray slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled back. I guess he wasn’t expecting company. When I reach him he gestures for me to sit. I don’t know why but I like him already.
    “I am Father Tomas. What can I do for you, my son?” The accent is slight, the voice deep for a man his size. He sits next to me and turns to face me.
    I don’t have a plan, so I’m surprised when my mouth says, “I’m dead.”
    He says, “We can feel that way at times. Sometimes we are spiritually dead and ready for an awakening. Depression is another matter. Perhaps if we talk we can discern your problem.” He gazes at me with affection and concern, and I feel bad. I don’t want to disturb his universe, but somebody has to hear it.
    So I tell him, “No, Father. There’s a bullet in my head and I’m clinically dead. I woke up in a morgue and walked out while no one was looking.”
    Now he smiles a little, like I’m pulling a fast one on him. I take off my cap and show him the wound. This gets his attention, and he tells me I need immediate medical help.
    I show him the report from the morgue. An idea pops into my head. I put the cap back on and say, “Will you try an experiment, just to humor me?” The smile wavers, and he nods slightly. I say, “Go back to your office, lock your door, and write something private on the page under the page you were already writing on. Then come back out here.” He nods again, gets up, and walks back to the door he came through earlier.
    I leave the body as he’s walking away and follow him. He locks the door. I watch him lean over