In the Bleak Midwinter

“I’m thinking about the next step. Suppose he arrests someone from St. Alban’s. It’s in the Post-Star. It’s on the news. Then the real murderer turns up. That leaves us wide open to a lawsuit. Contributing to defamation of character or some such. Lawyers. You have to think of the ramifications of everything you do these days.”

Millers Kill’s chief of police was smiling reassuringly to a young couple wrestling their two little girls into snowsuits. “Mama,” the older child said, “is that Officer Friendly?”

“I was wondering when you’d get over here. I wanted to wait for you before I started showing the pictures around.” Russ reached behind him and swept the folder off an unused prie-dieu standing beside the door. He looked keenly at Mr. Fowler. Clare introduced the two men.

“I recall reading about you in the Post-Star around the time you were appointed police chief, Van Alstyne. You were in the Eighty-ninth MP brigade weren’t you? I was chief of staff at Fort Hood during their deployment there in ’eighty-seven.”

The chief blinked and straightened slightly. “Yes, sir, I was in the Eighty-ninth.” Clare bit back a smile. Evidently she wasn’t the only one to have a hard time treating the colonel as a civilian. “I’m surprised you’d remember something like that,” Russ went on.

“Military service is something I always look for. It’s what makes a man.” He frowned. “Or woman.” Clare felt her cheeks flush. Fowler pointed to the folder. “You ready to start this, Chief?”

“Yessir,” Russ said.

“Then I might as well be the first. Set an example, let everyone know what’s expected of them. Nothing to be afraid of, after all.” Russ looked at Clare. She nodded. He flipped open the folder. Clare had avoided looking at the photographs when she had been saying good-bye to parishioners at the front door, but now she took a long, steady look at the face of the unknown. Four shots, face front, profiles, and full body, covered with an institutional green sheet. She was struck by how much less real the girl looked, laid out on a steel table, lit by fluorescents and flashbulbs. Not at all like the sleeping princess, leaves frozen into her long hair, that she had stood over on the bank of the creek.

“Sorry,” Fowler said. “Don’t know her.” He frowned. “Where did you say it happened?”

“I didn’t,” Russ said. “We found her body just upstream from Payson’s Park.”

The colonel glanced at Russ. “Kids still go there to get away from their parents?” He shook his head. “I used to skinny dip in the river there. Jump off the old trestle bridge and swim downstream. It was a more innocent time. . . . Sorry I can’t be of any help.”

“Thank you anyway,” Russ said.

Fowler nodded, slipping on his overcoat. “Reverend, I’ll be seeing you at the next vestry meeting. Chief Van Alstyne, good to meet you.” When he opened the door, the sunlight and snowlight flooded the parish hall, drawing glances from the rest of the room.

Clare held up her hands. “May I have your attention, please? For those of you willing to help with the police investigation, Chief Van Alstyne is ready to have you look at the photographs. If you could give him your name before leaving, he’ll be able to keep track of which members of our congregation have seen the pictures. I know it’s an unpleasant task, but it’s important that we all do our part to help the police catch whoever is responsible for this crime. Thank you.”

There was a surge of bodies toward them. “Good heavens.” Clare murmured. “They don’t seem to be too horrified at the prospect of autopsy shots, do they?”

“Reality TV,” Russ whispered. “If you’ve seen all those specials on serial killers, this is pretty tame.” He raised his voice. “If you could form a line there, we can get you all out of here quickly.”

It was a repeat of the earlier scene in the vestibule of the church, with more people. The same exclamations, expressions of sympathy, philosophical mutterings. No one recognized her. There was a moment of excitement when Mae Bristol’s turn came up. She held two of the photos in her hands, looking slowly from one to the other. “I feel as if I should know her,” she said. “I just can’t place her. But I’m sure I’ve seen her before.” She shook her head and smiled apologetically at Russ and Clare. “Too many years of too many young people, I suppose.”

The tedium of the whole process reminded Clare of how she had felt waiting on the trail for the evidence to be photographed. Police work was a lot like combat, she decided, hours and days of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror.

“Oh! My! God!” The squeal brought her mind back to the scene at hand. Alyson what’s-her-name stood in front of Russ, flanked by two well-dressed adults who were presumably the parents who had spoiled her. “I know her! That’s Katie McWhorter! I know her!”

CHAPTER 8