Mary Helen crossed the room and squatted beside his body. Thin streams of blood trickled from his ears, encircling his head with a bright red halo. Avoiding his blank, staring eyes, she grabbed his limp wrist. It was still warm. She felt for his pulse. Nothing. His well-manicured hand fell back. Lifeless. She put her fingers on either side of his long, slender neck, sticky with fresh blood. Still no pulse.

She leaned against the edge of his desk. Don’t fall apart now, old girl. She controlled the sob aching in her throat.

Slowly, she reached for the phone and dialed O. They would need an ambulance-and the police.

What next? Be logical. A priest. He needs a priest. Numbly she dialed St. Ignatius Church.

Sister Mary Helen forced herself to look around the office. Everything was as she remembered it. Nothing moved, nothing different, except for the bronze statue that lay on the floor near the professor’s body. The professor’s body! Kneeling beside the sprawled figure, she reverently intoned the ancient Latin prayer for the dead. De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine. Domine. exaudi vocem meam. The words rang through the empty room.

“Oh, my gosh, is he dead?” Sister Anne whispered. Mary Helen jumped. She had not heard Anne coming. No wonder. Anne was wearing her blasted Paiute moccasins.

“I think so,” Mary Helen answered in a flat tone. Behind her, she heard Anne retch, then bolt from the room.

Mary Helen struggled to her feet, and sank into the professor’s high-backed leather chair. Almost every mystery novel she read mentioned “rubbery” knees. She had wondered how they felt. Now she knew.