“She’s Caucasian, Mr. Gaskin,” Mike said. “You tell me.”

The banker bristled. “You may not be familiar with our church, Mr. Chapman. In addition to a long, fine reputation in the religious community, we’ve got one of the best gospel choirs in the world. You’d be surprised what a service looks like here. Perhaps you’ll come. You won’t be the only white man. And you certainly won’t be the only cop.”

“I’ll do that,” Mike said. “And I apologize for my rudeness. Is there someplace we can go to talk?”

Gaskin glanced around at the four detectives who were making their way through the sanctuary of the church, fanned out between the rows of seats as they looked for any evidence of an intrusion or violent crime. “Is all this necessary, Detective?”

“It is, Mr. Gaskin. One way or another, a dead body wound up on your front steps.”

“She could have come from anywhere,” he said, gesturing with both hands as if in protest to Mike’s suggestion.

“I’d say her mobility was limited, sir. Just like her access. But we can rule out the inside of your church pretty quickly, if you’d let us.”

“There’s a small office through that door to the left, behind the altar. Come with me, please.”

Amos Audley limped ahead of us, keeping a keen eye on the detectives as they scoured the sanctuary. Mike suggested to Sergeant Grayson that he wait at the entrance to the building to direct the comings and goings of investigators, and to keep out the press.

Mercer and I followed as Mike walked behind Wilbur Gaskin. The small room he led us to — bare except for a table and six wooden chairs — was cold and drafty. I seated myself away from the old lead-glass windows that rattled whenever the March wind kicked up.

“Isn’t this about the point when I’m supposed to tell you to get a search warrant?” Gaskin scratched his head and phonied up a smile, though I didn’t think he was as unsophisticated as he tried to appear.