In Death 27 - Salvation in Death

waiting, but he wasn’t her priority. She skirted around the glossy casket all but buried in red and white carnations. The dead guy inside wasn’t her priority either.
    She engaged her lapel recorder, but when she started to climb the two short steps to the platform that held the altar—and her priority—her partner plucked at Eve’s arm.
    “Um, I think we’re supposed to, like, genuflect.”
    “I never genuflect in public.”
    “No, seriously.” Peabody’s dark eyes scanned the altar, the statues. “It’s like holy ground up there or something.”
    “Funny, it looks like a dead guy up there to me.”
    Eve walked up. Behind her, Peabody gave a one-legged bounce before following.
    “Victim has been identified as Miguel Flores, age thirty-five, Catholic priest,” Eve began. “The body’s been moved.” She flicked a glance up to one of the uniforms securing the scene.
    “Yes, sir. The victim collapsed during Mass, and there was an attempt to revive him while the nine-one-ones were placed. A couple of cops were on scene attending the funeral. That guy’s funeral,” he added with a chin point at the casket. “They moved people back, secured. They’re waiting to talk to you.”
    Since she’d sealed her hands and feet before coming in, Eve crouched. “Get prints, TOD, and so on, for the record, Peabody. And for the record, the victim’s cheeks are bright pink. Facial injuries, left temple and cheekbone, most likely incurred when he fell.”
    She glanced up, noted the silver chalice on the stained white linen. She rose, walked to the altar, sniffed at the cup. “He drink from this? What was he doing when he collapsed?”
    “Taking Communion,” the man in the front row answered before the uniform could speak.
    Eve stepped to the other side of the altar. “Do you work here?”
    “Yes. This is my church.”
    “Yours?”
    “I’m the pastor.” He rose a compact and muscular man with sad, dark eyes. “Father López. Miguel was officiating the funeral mass, and was taking Communion. He drank, and he seemed, almost immediately, to seize. His body shook, and he gasped for air. And he collapsed.” López spoke with the faintest of accents, an exotic sheen over rough wood. “There were doctors and other medicals here, and they tried to revive him, but it was too late. One said, one thought, it was poison. But I don’t believe that could be.”
    “Why?”
    López merely lifted his hands. “Who would poison a priest in such a way, and at such a time?”
    “Where did the wine come from? In the cup?”
    “We keep Communion wine locked in the tabernacle, in the anteroom.”
    “Who has access?”
    “I do. Miguel, Martin—that is, Father Freeman—the Eucharistic ministers serving the Mass.”
    A lot of hands, Eve thought. Why bother with a lock? “Where are they?”
    “Father Freeman is visiting family in Chicago, and expected back tomorrow. We have—had—three ministers today due to the large attendance at the Requiem Mass.”
    “I’ll need their names.”
    “Surely you can’t believe—”
    “And this?”
    He actually paled when Eve lifted the silver disk holding the wafer. “Please. Please. It’s been consecrated.”
    “I’m sorry, now it’s evidence. There’s a piece missing. Did he eat it?”
    “A small piece is broken off, put in the wine for the rite of fraction and commingling. He would have consumed it with the wine.”
    “Who put the wine in the cup and the . . .” What the hell did she call it? Cookie? Cracker?
    “Host,” López supplied. “He did. But I poured the wine into the receptacle and placed the host for Miguel before the Consecration. I did it personally as a sign of respect for Mr. Ortiz. Miguel officiated, at the family’s request.”
    Eve cocked her head. “They didn’t want the head guy? Didn’t you say you were the head guy?”
    “I’m pastor, yes. But I’m new. I’ve only had this parish for eight months, since Monsignor Cruz retired. Miguel’s been here for more than five years, and married two of Mr. Ortiz’s great-grandchildren, officiated at the Requiem for Mrs. Ortiz about a year ago. Baptized—”
    “Just one minute, please.”
    Eve turned back to Peabody.
    “Sorry to interrupt, Father. ID match,” Peabody told Eve. “TOD jibes. Drink, seize, collapse, die, red cheeks. Cyanide?”
    “Educated guess. We’ll let Morris confirm. Bag the cup, the cookie. Pick one of the cop witnesses and get a statement. I’ll take the other