Special Agent Dane Carver said to his unit chief, Dillon Savich, “I’ve got a problem, Savich. I’ve got to go home. My brother died last night.”

It was early, only seven-thirty on a very cold Monday morning, two weeks into the new year. Savich rose slowly from his chair, his eyes on Dane’s face. Dane looked bad-pale as a sheet, his eyes shadowed so deeply he looked like he’d been on the losing end of a fight. There was pain radiating from his eyes, and shock. “What happened, Dane?”

“My brother-” For a moment Dane couldn’t speak, and just stood in the open doorway. He felt in his gut that if he actually said the word aloud, it would make it real and true and so unbearable he’d just fold up and die. He swallowed, wishing it were last night again, before four o’clock in the morning, before he’d gotten the call from Inspector Vincent Delion of the SFPD.

“It’s all right,” Savich said, walking to him, gently taking his arm. “Come in, Dane. That’s right. Let’s close the door.”

Dane shoved the door shut with his foot, turned back to Savich, and said, his voice steady and remote, “He was murdered. My brother was murdered.”

Savich was shaken. Losing a brother to a natural death was bad enough, but this? Savich said, “I’m very sorry about this. I know you and your brother were close. I want you to sit down, Dane.”

Dane shook his head, but Savich just led him to the chair, pushed it back, and gently shoved him down. He held himself as rigid as the chair back, looking straight ahead, out the window that looked out at the Justice Building.

Savich said, “Your brother was a priest?”