*The Hand of God*
by Edward D. Hoch
       
       When the bishop took the trouble to phone Father Noone personally at Holy Trinity rectory it usually meant there was a problem. Sometimes it was only a parishioner disturbed by the previous Sunday's sermon, or news of a visiting missionary who wished to appeal for funds at the Sunday Masses.
       Bishop Xavier never gave his name when he called, but for David Noone there was no mistaking his jovial, outgoing manner. David had known him as a monsignor in another diocese, the cardinal's troubleshooter, until he was elevated to his present position the previous year. "How's the repentance rate at Holy Trinity this morning, Father?"
       "Holding our own, Bishop."
       "Glad to hear it. I know you have a busy schedule but might you be able to go out to the college Friday morning and fill in for me at this conference they're having?" "The college" always meant St. Joan of Arc, the area's only Catholic institution of higher learning. It had started out as a women's college in the 1950s, but by the '80s it had joined the trend toward admitting male undergraduates as well. About fifteen years ago the clergy had handed over its administration to lay people, though it remained a Catholic institution.
       "Which conference is that, Bishop?"
       "The Church in the Twenty-first Century. It's just the morning session, from ten to noon. The professors are all laymen these days and I felt we should have a clerical presence. I was going myself but something else came up."
       "I'm no match for theologians."
       "You've got a good head on your shoulders. That's all you need. It's only two hours and they'll do most of the talking anyway."
       So it was that Father David Noone drove out to the graceful suburban campus on a cloudy Friday morning in early May. He was barely into high school when St. Joan of Arc opened its doors back in the early fifties, and remembered his disappointment when he learned it was to be a girls' college. As it turned out, by the time he finished high school he'd decided to enter the seminary, so it hardly mattered.
       The college buildings sat at the top of a low hill, reached by a gently curving road flanked by lines of juniper trees. There was a traditional quadrangle at the center of the campus, with some of the buildings connected by tunnels beneath it. As he reached the top of the hill he was surprised to see two police cars and a van from the medical examiner's office. He parked and got out as a short young woman came hurrying over from the gathering crowd of spectators. "Are you Father Noone?"
       "That's me. What's been happening here?"
       She held out her hand. "I'm Rachel Stowe, administrative assistant from the theology department. They sent me to meet you. We've had an unfortunate accident. One of our female students has been found dead."
       "I could administer the last rites," David offered.
       "Our chaplain has already done that."
       "Father Ritz? Is he here?"
       "Over with the detectives." She was a slender, attractive woman in her early thirties, wearing glasses with dark frames that seemed to match her swept-back brown hair. Under different circumstances he guessed she would have a ready smile and a joke, but just then her face was as somber as the leaden sky.
       "What happened to your student?" he asked.
       "They think she was shot. I just wanted to tell you that your ten o'clock session has been canceled because of it."
       "Shot," he repeated. "You mean murdered?"
       "It's too soon to tell. They're still searching for a weapon."
       He thanked her and made his way across the parking lot, stepping around police vehicles until one officer tried to stop him. "Sorry, Father. This is a crime scene."
       "Would you tell Father Ritz I'm here?"
       But Jerry Ritz, the blond, blue-eyed chaplain who looked young enough to be a student himself, reacted to his name and recognized David at once. He hurried over to greet him. "I heard you were replacing the bishop at this morning's session. Good to see you again, David."
       "I guess that's off now. What happened here?"
       "A sophomore named Darcy Clemence. A security guard found her body behind those bushes just after dawn. It appears she'd been shot in the back of the head."
       "Had she been molested or robbed?"
       "She was wearing jeans and a school sweatshirt. They didn't appear to be disturbed. Girls don't carry purses around campus. She had a few dollars stuffed in the pocket of her jeans."
       "She was killed sometime before dawn?"
       "Looks like it. They haven't found anyone who heard the shot."
       David thought about it. "Shooting someone in the back of the head doesn't fit with an attempted assault or robbery."
       "Unless she was trying to run away," Father Ritz suggested.
       "Yes, there's that, too."
       The young woman from Theology had reappeared at David's side. "Pardon me, Father, but the other speakers from our department thought they might meet with you briefly, so long as you're here. They're trying to reschedule the event."
       "Certainly. Lead the way, Miss Stowe. Or is it Mrs.?"
       She gave a hint of a smile. "It's still Miss, but you can call me Rachel. We're quite informal in Theology."
       "I'll see you later," he told Father Ritz, and fell into step with Rachel Stowe. "I know Professor Bentley," he told her. "How many others are in your department?"
       "There are five professors including Dean Bentley. He's the head of the department, but he wasn't scheduled for your session. You'll be meeting Professors Marlowe, Yang, Godfrey, and Kappawitz."
       "That's a large department."
       "They teach only one or two courses each. The dean and I are the only full-time people."
       "I would think the theology department would be a bit dull for a young woman," he said as they walked toward Becket Hall.
       "Not at all! The professors are a lively bunch, and Dean Bentley is like God. But I do keep busy with campus activities. I handle props for the drama club and conduct an exercise class for faculty wives twice a week. It keeps me fit as well as them."
       The theology department occupied a portion of the top floor in Becket Hall. Rachel Stowe's desk was located in a large square cubicle with low sides, allowing her to greet anyone entering the department. They had come in through a door in one wall of the room, and the professors' individual offices were arranged in a row along the back wall. All the doors were open at the moment, but the four men were grouped in the office at the far right.
       Rachel ushered David in and introduced them. "Professors, this is Father David Noone. Matt Kappawitz, Jack Yang, Mark Marlowe, and Luke Godfrey."
       David shook their hands and couldn't help commenting, "The four evangelists -- Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John."
       "It's not the first time we've heard that," Jack Yang said with a bit of a smile. He was slender and boyish, certainly part Chinese.
       "Nor the last," Mark Marlowe agreed. "We're used to it by now. We're the four evangelists and Dean Bentley is God. Anyway, pleased to meet you, Father." He was a bulky ex-football player type, gruff but likable.
       "Same here. I'm sorry our event had to be postponed. Did any of you know the young woman who was killed?"
       "What's her name?" Luke Godfrey asked.
       It was Rachel who answered. "Darcy Clemence, a sophomore. Father Ritz knows her, and I think she's in our basic theology class."
       "A sophomore, you say?" Godfrey frowned, perhaps trying to place the name.
       The fourth man, Kappawitz, bald and wearing small half-glasses, nodded. "She's in my class. Smart student."
       "Was she assaulted?" Yang asked.
       "They don't know yet," Rachel answered. "She seemed to be fully dressed."
       They were in Matt Kappawitz's office and he walked over to the window. It presented a clear view of the area where the body had been found. "They're removing her now. There's quite a crowd around." David and the others joined him and saw the tall body being placed on a stretcher and covered with a sheet.
       Kappawitz suddenly had a thought. "I wonder if Dean Bentley knows what's happened."
       "He's not usually in this early on Fridays. He has no classes till afternoon," Rachel reminded them.
       "But his car is in its parking place against the wall," Yang pointed out. "See it down there?"
       Luke Godfrey grunted. He was the tallest of the four men and the only one with a beard. David thought he could easily have passed for one of the original evangelists. "I'll go and try his office door."
       "I'll come with you," David said. "We met at a banquet and I should say hello if he's there. When I come back we can talk about rescheduling the symposium."
       He had to walk fast to keep up with the long-legged Godfrey. The frosted glass door at the end of the hall read simply: _Dean Bentley,_ and when Professor Godfrey tried the door it was unlocked. He knocked as he pushed it open. "Dean Bentley?"
       The blinds were down and the office was lit by a desk lamp. David Noone recognized Bentley's snow-white head at once, lying on the desktop as if in slumber. But the trickle of blood from his left temple left no doubt of the truth. A snub-nosed.38-caliber revolver was still clutched in his left hand.
       "My God!" Luke Godfrey exclaimed, hurrying to the desk.
       David had just an instant to shout a warning. "Don't touch anything! Get the others and send someone downstairs for the police. I'll stay here."
       "Did he shoot himself?"
       "Perhaps. Go for help."
       Though the body was already cold, Father Noone prayed for a moment, giving conditional absolution, and was making the sign of the cross when the others arrived.
       "Is he dead?" Rachel asked.
       "Yes. Did somebody go for the police?"
       "Mark did."
       Matt Kappawitz moved a step closer to the body. "I can't believe he'd kill himself."
       David peered at the dead man's blank computer screen. He tapped the space bar and after a moment the screen came to life. The message on it read: _I'm sorry. I didn't mean to kill her. She hurt my fingers. I'm sorry._
         * * *
A few minutes later a detective named Spears followed Mark Marlowe into the office. Father Ritz was right behind them. "Did you administer the last rites?" the chaplain asked David.
       "Yes. But he's been dead quite awhile."
       "Has anyone notified his wife?" the chaplain asked.
       "She's visiting their son in London," Jack Yang volunteered.
       The detective stared at the glowing screen. "A suicide note on a computer. That's a first for me."
       David Noone looked at the others. "I assume Dean Bentley was left-handed?"
       It seemed to dawn on them for the first time that he'd been shot in the left temple and the weapon was in his left hand. "No!" Luke Godfrey insisted, and the others chimed in. Dean Bentley had been decidedly right-handed and apparently everyone knew it.
       Detective Spears frowned. "That puts a different aspect on things." He dropped to his knees to examine the dead man's right hand, which was resting on the desk. David joined him, watching as the detective carefully lifted the pale right hand. "Look at those two fingers. They've been crushed. They're broken. No wonder he couldn't use his right hand to kill himself."
       Godfrey came to peer over their shoulders. "How could that have happened?"
       David was wondering the same thing himself. His eyes scanned the office, taking in the filing cabinets and overloaded bookcases. He spotted a pair of black bookends on top, miniature reproductions of Rodin's "The Thinker," holding up the Harvard edition of _The Works of William James._ The one on the right was at an odd angle, almost in danger of falling off the tall top shelf. He reached up and lifted it off, surprised at how heavy it was. "Look here," he said to the detective. The felt base of the bookend seemed to bear the imprint of two fingers. "This could have been used to crush them."
       Detective Spears grunted. "I wish you hadn't touched that, Father."
       "I didn't realize it might be connected with his death. I was only trying to keep it from falling."
       The detective produced a large plastic evidence bag and covered the bookend. "We'll need your fingerprints for comparison."
       "Certainly," David agreed, feeling a bit like a scolded child.
       "Why would he do that to himself?" Jack Yang wondered.
       "Maybe she did it," Mark Marlowe said. "That's what he put in his note."
       "I'll have to ask you all to leave," Spears told them. "This is a crime scene. Please wait in your offices until I come to talk with you."
       They followed his instructions, but rather than wait in their offices the four professors gathered around Rachel Stowe's cubicle. Marlowe took out his pipe and lit it. "This is going to get the college some bad local press, however it turns out," he said.
       "Do you think he killed himself?" Rachel asked, tidying up her desk. It seemed obvious to everyone that this Friday would not be a typical workday for the theology department.
       Marlowe took a puff on his pipe before he responded. "Well, it still could be suicide. The injury to his right hand would explain why he used his left. It wouldn't be hard to do with a small gun. I saw what his note said on the computer screen, that she'd injured his hand. All this took place during the night or early morning. Suppose he got that girl up to his office on some pretext and tried to molest her. She grabbed the bookend, smashed his fingers, and ran. Blind with fury, he went after her with the gun and shot her dead as she ran into the woods outside."
       "Difficult to do in the dark," David pointed out.
       "It may have been getting light. Even if it wasn't, the parking lot is lit all night as a security measure. He had enough light to see her. Then, overcome with grief at his actions, he returned to his desk, typed that message on his computer, and shot himself with his uninjured hand."
       Detective Spears had entered the office in time to hear this. He asked to speak to each of them individually, beginning with David and Luke Godfrey, because they were the ones who'd found Dean Bentley's body. The first thing the detective asked David was what he thought of Marlowe's theory.
       David smiled slightly. "I think we both know it couldn't have happened that way."
         * * *
Detective Spears promised to call David Noone as soon as he had the lab results. David had just finished officiating at a Saturday morning wedding when Spears was on the phone. "Just checking in, Father. In case you were wondering, both of them were killed with the same gun, and the powder burns on Dean Bentley's head are consistent with suicide."
       "It was the bullet that killed him?"
       "No doubt about it."
       "And the hand?" The hand of God, he'd almost said.
       "It doesn't make sense, what we talked about yesterday."
       "Does the medical examiner agree with us?"
       "Absolutely," Spears said. "The fingers were broken by that bookend, yet the hand was pale. There was no blood and no bruising, and no blood on the bookend, either. The injury was caused after death, but not immediately after death. The blood had to drain from the hand into the lower extremities."
       "What about the gun? Is there any record of the serial number?"
       "We traced it to an out-of-state pawn shop. Those places sometimes sell weapons at gun shows without checking on the buyer. Anyone could have purchased it."
       "Even Bentley himself?"
       "Even Bentley himself," Spears agreed. "He often worked late on campus and there's been some petty crime in the area."
       "Has his wife been notified?"
       "Yes. She's flying back tonight with their son. She's shocked by the whole thing, can't imagine him killing himself."
       "Neither can I, at this point," David said. "The supposed suicide note said she hurt his fingers. If that wasn't done until after death, then Dean Bentley couldn't have written the note."
       "I questioned the dead girl's roommate yesterday afternoon, but she couldn't tell me much, just that Darcy had been out all night. I guess that's not too unusual on campuses these days."
       "What did the autopsy show about sexual activity?"
       "Nothing recent, and only a minimum of alcohol in her blood. Maybe one drink."
       "I'd like to speak with the roommate. What's her name?"
       "Linda Bonesteel." He gave David her dorm number.
         * * *
There were no Saturday afternoon classes at Joan of Arc, and the dead girl's roommate was not at her dorm. Dressed in his black pants and a sport shirt, David prowled around the campus without success. It took him nearly an hour to locate someone who knew the young woman and could point her out in one of the library carrels where she was typing a paper. He introduced himself and asked if they could talk.
       Linda Bonesteel eyed him suspiciously. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt, without makeup, and wasn't particularly attractive at that moment. "I'm not a Catholic, Father. If you've come to give me some sort of grief counseling -- "
       "No, no. I just want to ask you about Darcy."
       "I've already talked to the police."
       "If you could just give me five minutes of your time..."
       "Go ahead," she said with a sigh.
       "Were you and Darcy friendly?"
       A shrug. "She was my roommate. I've had worse."
       "Was she often out overnight?"
       "Sometimes on weekends. Not usually on a Thursday night."
       "A boyfriend? Did she talk to you about anyone?"
       The roommate shook her head. "I think he was..."
       "What? Please tell me. It might help us find her killer."
       "She let something slip once about having a crush on one of her professors. But I don't know if it ever amounted to more than that. We weren't close enough for me to ask her about it."
       "If she wasn't with him Thursday night, where might she have been?"
       "Maybe drinking at the Balboa Lounge. I didn't tell the detective that because she wasn't twenty-one. I didn't want to get the bartender in trouble."
       David's next stop was the Balboa Lounge. It was across the street from the campus, a popular student hangout. Even on a Saturday afternoon there were a few guys already drinking at the bar, watching an NBA playoff game. One of the bartenders knew Darcy Clemence, and he remembered seeing her Thursday night, though he hadn't waited on her.
       "What was she drinking?"
       "Probably Coke. She wasn't twenty-one."
       "Did you see her leave?"
       "Maybe, a little before closing time."
       "Was she with anyone?"
       He screwed up his face, trying to remember. "Older guy, bald, with those little glasses. I didn't know him."
       David thanked him and left.
       He found Matt Kappawitz at his bachelor apartment near the campus. "Well, Father Noone! This is an unexpected pleasure on a Saturday afternoon. Come in!"
       He picked up the remote and turned off the baseball game he'd been watching. "Could I get you a beer?"
       David smiled. "Just one. That's my limit." He waited until the professor brought him a glass and a cold bottle from the refrigerator. Then he said, "I wanted to talk about the killings, about who might have had a motive for them. So far as I know, you're the only person who knew both victims well."
       "Come now! Are you saying I'm a suspect?"
       "Not at all. I'm a parish priest, not a detective. But you did know them both. You told me Darcy was in your class."
       "That's right, but most of the department probably knew her as a student. She'd come to my office a couple of times."
       David poured his beer slowly into the glass. "Did you happen to see her Thursday night, before she was killed?"

       "I don't believe so. I'm not in the habit of fraternizing with my students."
       "She was at the Balboa Lounge, Professor. She left shortly before closing with a man who fits your description."
       He started to protest the accusation, then thought better of it. "I saw her there, yes. She was my student and I was trying to be friendly."
       "Did you buy her a drink?"
       "She wasn't twenty-one. I gave her a few sips of my beer."
       "And you left with her."
       "We left at the same time. I walked her partway to her dorm and then left her."
       "Why didn't you walk her all the way?"
       "To avoid the sort of questions you're asking."
       David took a sip of beer. "Just where did you leave her?"
       "Near the library."
       "Show me where that is in relation to her dorm."
       Kappawitz got a pen and notebook and made a rough diagram of the central campus. "I left her here," he said, tapping his pen on the front of the rectangle representing the library.
       David took the pen and drew a line from the library to Darcy's dorm. "What's this building?"
       Professor Kappawitz moistened his lips. "Becket Hall, near where her body was found."
       "What time did you leave her?"
       "It must have been shortly after two."
       "Did she ever say anything about Dean Bentley?"
       "Not really. We kidded about imagining him as God. It was just a joke."
       "If she saw a light in his office, might she have gone up there?"
       "Certainly not! None of us would have. Actually, when he works late he always closes the blinds anyway. The light barely shows through."
       "Could she have been romantically involved with Bentley?"
       "I can't imagine that," he replied, though there was a trace of uncertainty in his voice.
       "Why the hesitation?"
       "Jack Yang mentioned once that he thought Bentley cheated on his wife. I don't like gossip and I didn't pursue the conversation."
       "I'm wondering about his hand. The fingers were crushed after he was dead, but not immediately after. They could have been crushed by someone other than the killer. The office was unlocked."
       Matt Kappawitz frowned. "Why would anyone do that?"
       David Noone held up his right hand. "The thumb and forefinger are essential for a priest because he holds the host during the consecration. If some people viewed Dean Bentley as God, crushing his fingers might have been viewed as destroying his power."
       The professor shook his head. "Only a madman would do that. If you'll excuse me, Father, I'd like to get back to watching the game."
       "Thanks for your help," David said. He let himself out while Kappawitz turned on the television.
         * * *
David walked back across the campus, taking in the sights. Graduation was only weeks away and the bulletin board in the student union was crowded with the usual notices seeking summer jobs or rides home. The drama club was performing Sidney Kingsley's _Detective Story,_ which reminded David that once again he was trapped in a detective story himself.
       Father Ritz was coming out of the cafeteria. "Are you helping with the funeral arrangements?" he asked the chaplain.
       "Not really. The young woman's body is being sent home to Pennsylvania. And we're waiting for Mrs. Bentley's return from England to arrange his funeral."
       "I'm looking for Professor Yang."
       Father Ritz thought about that. "I believe he tutors a young man on Saturday afternoons. You might try his office."
       "Thanks. I will."
       "Stop by my place later and we can talk."
       He found Yang alone in his office on the top floor of Becket Hall. "Come in, Father," he said. "I've just finished a tutoring session. Some of these young people need all the help we can give them."
       "Theology is not the easiest of subjects," David told him.
       "Agreed. Can I help you with anything today?"
       "I'm just nosing around, trying to help Detective Spears a bit. I don't have any business here, really, and I'm not after gossip. But Professor Kappawitz recalls that you once suggested Dean Bentley might be cheating on his wife."
       Jack Yang shifted the pencils on his desk nervously. "I don't like to speak ill of the dead. A couple of months ago I came back to my office late one evening and thought I heard a woman's voice in Bentley's office. There were -- how should I say it? -- passionate sounds from within."
       "Could it have been Darcy Clemence?"
       "I have no reason to think so. There are six hundred other women enrolled here. For all I know it could have been his wife."
       "But that's not too likely."
       "No," he agreed. "This had more of a clandestine feel to it."
       "But if Mrs. Bentley found out about it she might have had a motive for killing him."
       "She's in England, due back tonight," Yang reminded him.
       He had one more question he wanted to ask, regarding their feelings toward Dean Bentley, but felt it unwise to ask Yang. As he was leaving the building he spotted Rachel Stowe and Professor Marlowe just entering. "You people working on a Saturday?" he asked.
       "We have to start cleaning out the dean's office," Marlowe explained. "I asked Rachel to help me sort out his personal things now that the police have finished with it."
       "I wonder if I might speak to Rachel for a moment," David said.
       "Certainly. I'll be up in his office, Rachel," he said, and headed for the elevator.
       "What can I help you with?" she asked David.
       "I didn't want to ask you in front of Marlowe. How were relations between Dean Bentley and the professors? Did any of them want his job?"
       She gave a quiet chuckle. "All of them. Does that answer your question? They may have called him God but they certainly didn't worship him. Every one of them thought they could do a better job running the theology department."
       "Did any of them feel strongly enough to kill him?"
       "Theologians don't kill people, Father. You should know that."
         * * *
Campus life seemed more subdued than usual that Saturday afternoon, no doubt because of the double tragedy. David sought out the chaplain's office as Jerry Ritz had suggested. "Want to relax and go to the play tonight?" Jerry suggested. "I've got a couple of tickets."
       "Is it any good?"
       "I hear the kids do a great job with it."
       David phoned the rectory to make certain the senior priest in residence there was handling the five o'clock Mass. Then they had a light supper on campus and walked over to the auditorium where the drama club production was being performed. _Detective Story_ was not a mystery but a powerful if somewhat dated story about detectives, set entirely in the squad room of a New York precinct station. There was little or no violence until someone grabbed a detective's gun for the final shooting that brings the play to its climax.
       The student cast received a standing ovation at the end. On their way out David thanked Father Ritz for bringing him. "I thought you'd enjoy it," the chaplain said.
       "I more than enjoyed it. Now I know who killed Darcy Clemence and Dean Bentley."
         * * *
It was nearly midnight when Detective Spears joined them in the chaplain's office. "What's this all about?" he asked David. "Couldn't it wait till morning?"
       "I've telephoned the killer and arranged for a meeting in the theology department. I'm going there now. I want you and Father Jerry to be standing by."
       "I hope you know what you're doing," Spears said. "I'd have a tough time explaining another killing out here."
       "I'll go in by the door, in case our friend is watching. Jerry tells me you two can take the tunnel under the quadrangle so you won't be seen."
       David crossed the campus to Becket Hall and entered the building. It was unlocked and he could see that a light was already on in one of the theology offices. As he got off the elevator, Professor Godfrey came out to see who was there. "Father Noone! What brings you here in the middle of the night?"
       "I'm meeting someone."
       "Odd time for a meeting."
       "Judging by Dean Bentley's activity, the place was pretty busy at night."
       Godfrey smiled slightly. "Who've you been talking to?"
       "The word gets around. It's gossip, I know, but it can become important when it involves two murders."
       "Is that what this is about?"
       David sat down at Rachel Stowe's desk. "You see, we were led to believe that Darcy Clemence died first, apparently at Dean Bentley's hand, but nothing could be further from the truth. It seemed that the right-handed Bentley had shot himself in the left temple, and he'd been forced to use his left hand because two fingers of his right hand had been broken by a blow from a heavy bookend. It looked good, except that enough time had elapsed between the killing and the maiming that the blood had drained from his hand and there was no bruising or bleeding. That told me the suicide note on the computer was faked, because Bentley couldn't have mentioned a hand injury that occurred after his death. But why go to all that trouble? Why didn't the killer shoot him in the right temple to begin with? There is only one possible explanation. Both were killed with the same gun, but Bentley must have been slain before the killer had any intention of committing a second murder. I think Darcy Clemence died because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, passing Becket Hall late at night just as the killer was leaving the building. As a theology student she was known to the killer, and she would surely remember this encounter when Bentley's body was found."
       "So he took out the gun again and shot her in the back of the head?"
       "Something like that," David agreed. "Then a near-perfect plan presented itself. Rolling the body into the underbrush, the killer returned to Bentley's office, shot him a second time at close range to leave the necessary powder burns, and placed the gun in his left hand. Knowing he was right-handed, the killer lifted that heavy bookend off the top of the bookcase, crushed his fingers with it, returned the bookend to its place, and wrote that message on the computer. It might have worked, except for the absence of blood and bruising."
       Luke Godfrey was staring at him. "You're telling me all this because you think I did it."
       The elevator bell dinged in the hallway. "Not at all, Professor. In fact I think this will be our murderer arriving now."
       The door opened and Rachel Stowe walked in.
         * * *
"What is this?" she asked. "Are you hearing his confession, Father?"
       "Hardly. But I'll hear yours if you'd like. I was just explaining to Professor Godfrey how you killed Dean Bentley and Miss Clemence."
       "That's insane!"
       "Is it? Sit down and I'll run over it again for you."
       When he'd finished, it was Luke Godfrey who raised an objection. "I missed it the first time you explained it to me, Father, but not this time. If the killer fired a second shot into the dean's head to create powder burns, there'd have been two bullets. I'm sure the medical examiner would have discovered it in his autopsy."
       "That was bothering me, too," David Noone admitted, "until I went to see the drama club's production of _Detective Story_ tonight. When the shots rang out at the end of the play I had the answer. The second shot, fired by the killer to leave the powder burns, had to have been a blank cartridge."
       "Where would the killer have found a blank cartridge in the middle of the night?"
       David hadn't taken his eyes off Rachel's face. "Do you want to answer that?" he asked.
       "I..."
       "You told me earlier that you handled props for the drama club, and you must have had a key to their storage room. Before returning to Dean Bentley's body you detoured to the auditorium where you knew you could find a.38-caliber blank cartridge to fit your gun. You also knew the gun couldn't be traced to you."
       "I won't hear any more of this," she announced, turning toward the door, but David kept on talking.
       "What happened, Rachel? Did he promise to leave his wife when she returned from London, and then change his mind? You're shorter than the others. You must have had trouble reaching that heavy bookend on top of the bookcase. And trouble putting it back. That was why it was barely on the edge of the shelf."
       She was out the door, where Spears and Father Ritz were waiting. She collapsed crying into the chaplain's arms, and those arms circled her, whether in capture or comfort David could not tell.
       
Copyright (C) 2002 by Edward D. Hoch.