professional duties.

Barbara’s body lay next to her desk. The phone, receiver off its cradle, was on the floor, where it apparently had fallen after being knocked off the desk as she fell.

Barbara was wearing a frilly nightgown. She seemed so fragile. Not unlike the doll her daddy had broken when he was doing bad things to her … or the “broken doll” the doctors had wrenched from her body. Of course those who were investigating her death would have no knowledge of those incidents.

Father Tully found an out-of-the-way spot that held no interest for either technicians or detectives. The priest scrunched into the empty corner and quietly observed, his attention focused mainly on his brother, who was in charge.

Without touching it, Zoo squatted near the weapon. “Thirty-eight caliber.” The dead woman’s hand cradled the revolver, handle in her palm, index finger against the trigger.

Tully stood. “Who found the body?”

“The manager.” The patrolman who had responded to the original call opened his notepad. “A Mrs. Marilyn Fradet tried to call the deceased this morning. She was concerned about the deceased-” He looked down at his notes. “A Barbara Ulrich-”

“I know.”

“Well, Mrs. Fradet was worried because Mrs. Ulrich is a recent widow. She” — he inclined his head toward the body-” just buried her husband a couple of days ago.” Zoo nodded, almost impatiently.” Anyway, she called several times and didn’t get any answer. So she asked the manager to check on the Ulrich woman. Which he did. This” — he gestured to include the living room and its contents-” is the way he found it. No one touched anything until the techs got here.”

“Thanks.”

Zoo slowly walked around the room scrutinizing the area and the furnishings. He stopped at the desk where a photographer was snapping pictures with near reckless abandon. “Was there a note?”

“None that we’ve found so far,” one of the technicians said. “We’ve been over the top layer of the desk and the floor. No note. I don’t think we’re gonna find one. It’d be a first in my experience that somebody writes a note explaining everything or saying good-bye and then hides the note before committing suicide. If there’s a note, the writer wants it found and read.”

“Uh-huh.” Zoo returned to the body, looked at it searchingly, then squatted again. From that position, he beckoned his brother.

Father Tully joined him near the dead woman’s head.

Not for the first time the priest found it difficult to associate the finality of death with someone so young, so vital, and with so much of her life before her.

“You know that mantra you’ve been whispering over and over-the one that’s been driving me nuts?”

“You mean about I didn’t think this was a suicide? Sorry, I didn’t mean to bug you.”

“You didn’t. Not all that much anyway-not really. But why, sight unseen, did you think this wasn’t a suicide? I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time a widow threw herself on the funeral pyre.”

“Not this widow. Not from what I’ve heard and seen. Not unless the pyre wasn’t going to be lit … not unless this widow could walk away anytime she wanted.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not saying that she wanted her husband dead, or even that she was glad he was killed. But … I do think that both parties to that marriage would have felt better apart. As it was, they managed to live apart as much as possible without actually breaking their union publicly. I don’t know why-and I doubt that anyone else knows either-they didn’t just get a divorce.

“That’s why I don’t think it was suicide. Her life and her future must’ve looked pretty rosy once Al Ulrich was out of the picture permanently.”

“Well, brother, I tend to agree with you.”

“You do?” The priest was surprised that his brother would agree with any conclusion respecting police business.

“Not for the same reason you gave-though that is supportive. But look at that wound.”

The priest looked, although he didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for.

“Notice anything strange or odd?”

Father Tully studied the wound more carefully, trying to remain objectively detached. It was difficult. He was a priest; caring for and about people was in his marrow, even if most of the time that care was for their souls rather than their bodies. It was hard for him to try to look at the bloody head of the lifeless Barbara Ulrich as a mere technical puzzle to be solved, when all he could think of was the living, breathing woman-a woman with hopes, joys, and fears. “I don’t notice anything,” he said finally. “What am I supposed to be looking for-or at?”

“No powder burns around the hole.”

“No powder burns! I remember now,” the priest reflected. “I think it was on one of the episodes of ‘Hill Street Blues.’ A corpse was supposed to have powder burns and didn’t. What’s that all about, anyway?

Zoo sighed softly. “The closer the gun is to the victim when the bullet is fired, the more likely it will leave a gunpowder residue. Look carefully. See anything like a powder burn?”

Father Tully tipped his head back to get a better view through his bifocals. “Just a few specks, I think.”

“Exactly. Of course we’ll have to wait till Doc Moellmann rules on it. But I’m tentatively classifying this as a homicide.”

“Homicide!”

“Why so surprised? You said from the beginning you didn’t think it was a suicide …”

“Yes, but …”

“She didn’t die of old age.”

“But why call it murder just because of an absence of powder burns?”

“Brother, it’s this way: when somebody is going to take his own life with a handgun, he doesn’t want to miss. See, the suicide is nervous; his hand is probably shaking. Try it. Pretend you’re holding a gun and you’re going to shoot yourself. If you hold the gun a foot away from your head, you can’t be certain you’re going to hit dead on. You’re not going to be able to control the weapon that well at that angle, or without a firm surface to steady it.

“Now, you don’t want to blast your nose or your ear away or just give yourself a painful flesh wound. No, you want to kill yourself with one shot.

“Now, to do this, the suicide holds the gun right up against his head. That way he’s got a good idea of just where the bullet is going. Or, he may stick the gun in his mouth and fire … another sure way he’s going to accomplish what he set out to do.

“So, my tentative label is homicide … uh, excuse me a minute.” He beckoned to Sergeant Moore. “Angie, work this case as a homicide for now. Make sure the techs dust everything-everything. Is the body ready to go?”

Moore nodded. “They were just waiting for you to finish with it.”

“Okay. I’ll call the morgue and see if I can get Moellmann on it. There’s something here and I’m betting Doc will find it.”

The priest and the detective left the room with Zoo’s arm around his brother’s shoulder.

“Where to?” Zoo asked, as they entered the unmarked police car. “I’ve got to get back to headquarters. This has all the marks of being an extra-busy day. You’re welcome to come with me, but I don’t think I’ll be much company.”

“Thanks. But I’d better head for the rectory. Bob should be getting in any time now. It’d be good if I were there with a hearty welcome.”

“Okay.” The lieutenant smiled broadly as he set course for St. Joe’s. “Well, Sherlock, got any idea who done it?”

His brother smiled in return. “I’ve got no idea … unless it was Moriarty.”

“Who?”

“The archvillain of the Sherlock Holmes series.”

“Oh … yeah. But seriously: you’ve been a witness to what’s been going on with the Adams Bank people. Have

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