Eighteen
I stood in the hallway outside Katherine Shepp’s hotel room, kept out by a strip of yellow crime scene tape and the rather imposing-looking uniformed officer standing to the right of the doorway. Inside, I could see Helen standing on the other side of the bed, looking down at Shepp’s lifeless form. The bed blocked her from view, except for her feet.
I had insisted on coming along. “No, absolutely not,” she had said.
“She should receive anointing,” I responded.
“She’s dead, Tom.”
“Her body is dead. I’m concerned about her soul. It happened recently didn’t it?”
Helen shrugged. “Probably. We know she was outside your church about noon. It’s a little after 4:30 p.m. now.”
“Then I need to do this,” I said.
“You don’t even know if she was Catholic.”
“You don’t know she
