A few people that he knew greeted him and went inside to await the nine o’clock service. Lagging behind them was an elderly woman, smartly dressed, who climbed the stone steps, but halfway up, he watched her stop, slowly turn and come back down the steps toward him. “Excuse me,” she said. “You’re the chief of police, aren’t you?” “Yes, I’m Burris Reeves,” he said. “My name’s Marjorie Sanders,” the woman said, clearly uncomfortable in his company. She looked at the sidewalk for a moment, either with great uncertainty or as a means of collecting herself; then she raised her head. “I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if I could.” Marjorie Sanders was slightly stoop-shouldered, and her face was patterned with wrinkles, but her alert brown eyes were like a doe’s, honest and skittish. “I was afraid to say anything at first, I’ll admit it,” she said, “but something has been on my mind day and night. I know this isn’t the right place to do this but—there’s something I have to speak to you about, Mr.
