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“No. I prepared them, kept them with me at all times. To do otherwise would be disrespectful.”
“I have to take this into evidence.”
“I understand. But the tabernacle can’t leave the church. Please, if you need to examine it, can it be done here? I’m sorry,” he added, “I never asked your name.”
“Lieutenant Dallas.”
“You’re not Catholic.”
“What gave you the first clue?”
He smiled a little, but the misery never left his eyes. “I understand you’re unfamiliar with the traditions and rites of the church, and some may seem strange to you. You believe someone tampered with the wine or the host.”
Eve kept both her face and her voice neutral. “I don’t believe anything yet.”
“If this is so, then someone used the blood and body of Christ to kill. And I delivered them to Miguel. I put them in his hands.” Beneath the misery in his eyes, Eve saw the banked embers of anger. “God will judge them, Lieutenant. But I believe in earthly laws as well as God’s laws. I’ll do whatever I can to help you in your work.”
“What kind of priest was Flores?”
“A good one. Compassionate, dedicated, ah, energetic, I’d say. He enjoyed working with young people, and was particularly good at it.”
“Any trouble recently? Depression, stress?”
“No. No. I would have known, I would have seen it. We live together, the three of us, in the
rectory behind the church.” He gestured vaguely, as if his mind was crowded with a dozen other thoughts. “We eat together almost daily, talk, argue, pray. I would’ve seen if he’d been troubled. If you think he might have taken his own life, he wouldn’t. And he would never do so in such a way.”
“Any trouble with anyone? Someone with a grudge, or a problem with him—professionally or otherwise?”
“Not that he mentioned, and as I said, we talked daily.”
“Who knew he’d be doing the funeral today?”
“Everyone. Hector Ortiz was a fixture in the parish. A well-loved and well-respected man. Everyone knew about the funeral mass, and that Miguel was officiating.”
As she spoke, she crossed to a door, opened it. The May sunlight beamed through the exit. The door had a lock, she noted, nearly as simple as the one on the wooden box.
Easy in, easy out.
“Were there any masses earlier today?” she asked López.
“The six o’clock weekday Mass. I officiated.”
“And the wine, the host came from the same supply as the funeral mass?”
“Yes.”
“Who got it for you?”
“Miguel. It’s a small service, usually no more than a dozen people, maybe two. Today, we expected less as the funeral would be so well attended.”
Come in, Eve mused, attend Mass. Go back, poison the wine. Walk away. “About how many did you bring in this morning?”
“At morning Mass? Ah . . . Eight or nine.” He paused a moment, and Eve imagined him going back, counting heads. “Yes, nine.”
“I’ll need that list, too. Any unfamiliar faces in that one?”
“No. I knew everyone who attended. A small group, as I said.”
