Murder Superior(60)

“How can you possibly know it’s a murder investigation?” Sister Scholastica demanded.

Where she had come from, Gregor didn’t know. People seemed to be crowding in from everywhere, even from the front walk, behind the police. With the exception of Bennis—whose frenzied smoking and frantic whispering Gregor could hear coming from behind him into his left ear—and Norman Kevic, the crowd was entirely composed of nuns. Scholastica stepped forward from the sea of habits and drew herself up to her full height, looking all the more Valkyrie-like because strands of bright red hair were escaping from her veil. Even Jack Androcetti started to look a little impressed.

“How can you possibly know it’s a murder investigation?” Scholastica repeated. “We don’t know it’s a murder investigation. We just know that Sister Joan Esther died.”

“Fine,” Jack Androcetti said. “But you called us. This Sister Esther must have died in somewhat unusual circumstances.”

“Sister Joan Esther,” Reverend Mother General said.

“She could have died from anything,” a little nun piped up. “I saw it happen. One minute she was fine and the next minute she was falling over. It could have been a heart attack.”

“It couldn’t have been a heart attack,” Gregor said, “because she was turning blue.”

“People turn blue from heart attacks,” another Sister said. “I’ve seen them. I’m a nurse.”

“They don’t turn that kind of blue,” Gregor said gently.

“I think somebody ought to call the Archbishop,” Sister Mary Alice declared. “Maybe if we get someone from the Chancery down here the police will start to make sense.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Mary Alice,” another nun said. “Get your consciousness raised. We don’t need a priest to take care of us. We can take care of ourselves.”

It was beginning to get to him. Gregor could see it. The big liquid eyes were glazing over. The hangdog face was freezing into rigidity. The hands were opening and closing, opening and closing, like Captain Queeg’s in The Caine Mutiny. Lieutenant Jack Androcetti was coming very close to losing it.

“Just a minute,” he said finally, when the babble had risen high enough so that he could no longer be accused of interrupting anyone in particular. “In the first place, we’re going to secure the scene. That’s what we do when we get to a scene. We’re going to secure it Where is the scene?”

“In there,” Sister Scholastica said, pointing to the reception room doors.

“There are ten long tables set up against one wall,” Gregor said. “Sister Joan Esther was standing next to the one third in from this door.”

“The one without any chicken liver pâté in the statue’s head,” little Sister Angelus offered up.

“Shh,” one of the other novices said.

“But I heard them,” Sister Angelus said.

Jack Androcetti took a deep breath. “Chicken liver pâté. The statue’s head. Sergeant Collins?”

“Right here.” A young black man in uniform stepped forward. Gregor noticed that he wasn’t young enough. He was older than Jack Androcetti.

“Sergeant Collins,” Jack Androcetti repeated, “please take a couple of men and go into that room and find the scene if you can manage it—”

“Well, of course he can manage it,” a nun in the crowd said. “Her body’s still lying right there on the floor.”

“Fine,” Jack Androcetti said. “Sergeant Collins—”

“I’m on my way,” Sergeant Collins said.

Sergeant Collins moved forward, with a small army of men following along behind him, and Gregor began to relax a little. It wasn’t true that there was always one man in every police investigation who knew what he was doing, but if you were lucky it was. This time they were lucky. Sergeant Collins waited politely for Gregor to move his arm and then went on through into the reception room. As he was going past, he winked.

“All right, ladies,” Gregor heard him say in the next room. “We have to clear this room. Everybody out. I’m going to post an officer at the back door. Leave your name with him.”

“I say we shouldn’t be doing any of this until we know what Sister died from,” a nun in the crowd said, but everybody ignored her. They were concentrating on Jack Androcetti, who seemed finally to have made up his mind to do something besides cast aspersions on the general character of Gregor Demarkian. He was casting his eyes around the foyer in dissatisfaction.

“Is there anywhere I could set up an office?” he asked. “A small room with a desk and some chairs?”