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mourning, but to the quiet delight of his loyal followers, it meant that Father McCormick would be sticking around a bit longer.
     
     

 Six
    There was a snapping of fallen branches as John turned the police car into the high school parking lot, immediately spotting a backhoe, which looked as though it had been abandoned in mid scoop. There was one other vehicle in the lot: a blue minivan, parked directly under a tall streetlight. Robert called in the plate number while John stepped out of the car and began surveying the 15 ft. chain link fence enclosing the main building. Looking beyond the no trespassing and danger signs, John fixed his eyes on the impressive looking stone structure of the former high school. In some ways it was as if no time had passed since his own children had attended St. Agassi. Behind the scaffolding, the building looked relatively unchanged, better even. John knew that the historical society had something to do with this fact. The original stone had been repointed to preserve St. Agassi's original beauty—huge gray blocks flecked with mica, famously quarried over a century ago from a neighboring county. A towering stone archway sheltered two solid oak doors with large brass handles. This entrance had once opened into a vestibule leading to the administrative offices, but John recalled that most students used the side doors near the gymnasium, a more direct route from the bus circle to the lockers and classrooms. In his mind’s eye, John could still see his three daughters scooting through those very doors, their backpacks flailing behind them. John shook his head in amazement. Where had the time gone? He and Patty had made the best decision of their lives sending their kids to St. Agassi. In a town where it was typical to see sixteen year olds driving new BMW ’s and wearing Gucci , the ethical teachings and structure of St. Agassi helped keep their feet planted securely on the ground. Each of his daughters had chosen paths for themselves that made them happy and him proud. Liz, the eldest, was a nutritionist with twin girls. Francine, pregnant with her fifth child, taught creative writing in the Chicago public schools; and Paige, the youngest and most idealistic, was building homes in Sri Lanka.
    John turned and gazed across the empty field where St. Agassi Church stood, raised on a slight incline. The grass had been matted down from decades of absorbing the parking overflow of churchgoers. During its more vital years, Father McCormick’s Sunday mass was attended by upwards of four hundred people, a sharp contrast to the parish as it stood now, barren and dark. Next door, a single light shone from the second floor of the rectory, probably Father McCormick’s room, John figured. The single light looked so lonely . He tried to remember when he had last seen the priest. For that first year after Jay's death, there were frequent visits, but once John returned to work, their weekly meetings had ceased, and communication was all but reduced to holiday cards and an occasional phone call. John felt a sense of shame as he stared at the lonely rectory. After all the support Father McCormick had given him! How could he have let so much time pass? He made a mental note to call the priest in the morning, maybe even invite him to dinner. Patty, for one, would be pleased he had thought of it; she'd been on his case to call Father McCormick for a while now.
    Within a minute, a crackly radio transmission identified ownership of the minivan to Yehuda & Hanna Orenstein of 62 Willow Lane. John requested backup and the two officers got to work, panning the scaffolding with their flashlights, tracing the outlines of each window. There were no visible signs of a forced entry. Marie, the 911 operator, had told the dispatcher that according to the caller, a part of the building was in use, which meant there had to be public access somewhere . Somehow the driver of that van had gotten inside.
    John glanced down as