So lovable, in fact, that he occasionally tried to set her up with inmates.

"Dad would say, 'I met the nicest young man. So attractive, so articulate. Two master's degrees,' " said Jan Moorman, who now lives in Dallas.

So, she asked, when can we meet?

"Oh, that's going to be kind of hard," she remembers her father saying. "He's in solitary confinement."

Julian Moorman -- "Preach," to the convicts -- died from heart failure Tuesday at 87.

Moorman was a career chaplain, starting with 27 years in the U.S. Navy. When he left the service in 1972, he was driven to shepherd a rough-and-tumble flock. For the next 16 years, Moorman was God's in-house representative to the worst North Carolina had to offer.

In the early 1980s, he became the first Central Prison chaplain to hold services for death row inmates.

"That was the ultimate test of his faith," said daughter Mary Dean of St. Louis. "Reaching out to people who had no evident reason for living at all."

This job, dark enough to break a man's spirit, gave Moorman joy.

The Methodist pastor took pleasure in assembling an all-criminal choir. Each Christmas, his wife and four children baked scores of cookies for inmates. Some they decorated with black and white stripes of frosting.

Moorman was also a natural showman, playing piano for prisoners. Later in his career, he became a snazzy dresser.

"The prisoners like it when I dress up," he told his son, Tim Moorman, who also lives in Dallas.

One day when Tim Moorman was his early 20s, his father invited him to see where he worked. They walked the halls unguarded. Having won over some of the prison's baddest bad guys, Moorman was untouchable.

"Word was out," Tim Moorman said. "You didn't mess with him."

One prisoner whom Moorman had guided through some trouble wanted to repay him, perhaps the only way he knew how.

"He said, 'Well, Preach, if you ever need anyone done on the outside, let me know,' " Tim Moorman said.

How connected was Preach? He counted infamous cop killer Frank Wetzel as a friend and one of his greatest successes.

Wetzel, locked up in 1958 for gunning down two cops, became a criminal celebrity through two sensational trials. In 1974, Central Prison Warden Sam Garrison said that while he ran the prison by day, Wetzel ran it by night.

Moorman, worried about attendance at his Christmas service one year, tapped into Wetzel's clout.

"Dad knew he had to move Frank Wetzel to get to all these guys," Jan Moorman said. "So word went out through Frank. 'By God, you better show up for Preach's service.' "

Julian Moorman retired in 1989. But having ministered since his days at Duke Divinity School, he didn't know how to stop.

When his wife, Douglas Moorman, was fighting cancer at Raleigh's Mayview Convalescent Center, he started a "Donut Ministry," distributing five dozen Krispy Kremes at a time to center residents.

Douglas passed away five years ago after 54 years of marriage to Moorman.

In addition to his four children -- Tim and Jan Moorman, Mary Dean and Anne Moorman-Smith of Raleigh -- he is survived by five grandchildren.

Even at Raleigh's Whitaker Glen retirement community, where he lived until his death, Julian Moorman saw himself as the resident chaplain.

And in a nod to his career calling, he referred to himself and others there as "inmates."

"He never wanted to be called Julian," Jan Moorman said. "No matter where he went, it was always 'Chaplain.' "

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