Free The Church of Dead Girls by Stephen Dobyns Page A

loft with Eunice Duncan. Did they expect the killer suddenly to betray him- or herself when confronted with that sad little cardboard box and the doleful words of Father John? I suspect many people thought something theatrical would happen, which was partly why they came. But in fact, nothing happened.
    The service came to an end and people wound their way to Homeland Cemetery, a procession of cars with their lights on led by the Cadillac hearse from Belmont’s Funeral Home. It was raining, the leaves had turned, and the peak of color had passed. Perhaps half the people in the church went to the cemetery, Ryan Tavich and Franklin among them, as well as several plainclothesmen. Father John spoke to the people grouped by the grave and there were many umbrellas.
    Homeland is a pretty place, with large oaks and quite a few stones from the Victorian period, weeping dryads and angels. People formed a semicircle and Aaron stood across the grave from his father and his half sister. It was a little grave for a little box and was dwarfed by the flowers, especially the roses, which had been brought from the church. The grave would soon have a very large stone, paid for by Patrick. Someone said the stone was so big that it could have included a drawer in which to put the box of ashes. Others felt that the purchase of such a stone, at least six feet high, was an act of defiance on Patrick’s part. Still others found it in bad taste, as if Janice shouldn’t have a stone, as if her ashes should have been sprinkled somewhere along the Loomis River.
    Nothing out of the ordinary happened. The service ended and people departed, leaving a muddy trail through the wet grass. Before the end of the month some of these same people joined together again for the funeral of Michelle Moore, and this time Franklin and little Sadie would be the chief mourners. It was a much smaller funeral with far fewer flowers but with a full-sized casket. No policemen came, except for Ryan Tavich.

Seven
    I would hear about the murder investigation from several sources, including my cousin. The investigation was hampered by too many leads—all of Janice’s lovers—and none: no one had seen anything. Many of Janice’s lovers were identified. Their alibis were questioned. A certain scandal accompanied this, since some were married, involved with other women, or well-known within the community, like Judge Marshall in Potterville. And there was the likelihood of more lovers who hadn’t yet been identified. There was also the chance that the murderer was a woman. And of course it was possible that the murder was unconnected to Janice’s love life.
    It was hard not to brood about Janice’s missing left hand. Presumably it existed somewhere. In volume it must have equaled the contents of the white cardboard box. Why had it been taken in the first place? To kill Janice in a jealous rage was perhaps understandable; to cut off her hand was an act of madness.
    Several times I heard from my cousin that the police were about to make an arrest, but nothing happened. Some of the men involved with Janice had no alibis, or very poor ones, but that fact by itself didn’t establish guilt. Patrick McNeal was interrogated and the police in Buffalo were asked to establish where Aaron had been at the time of the murder. Even Paula’s movements were scrutinized.
    As more days passed, we increasingly realized that answers would be slow in coming. One began to hear more often that the murderer was somebody from out of town, somebody unknown to us. The murderer must have come from Utica or Syracuse, even Norwich. The state police had taken over the case altogether, though the sheriff’s department still had a deputy involved. But the state police had resources that the county didn’t. As for our own policemen, Ryan Tavich alone remained busy, but only in off-hours and mostly with discretion. After all, he was a suspect himself.
    It was