A Perfect Grave (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

P
lease God, tell me what to do.

Sister Denise was alone in her room crying.

She’d told no one about what she’d found hidden under the floorboards in the closet of Sister Anne’s room. Of course, her first impulse had been to turn it over to her superior, Sister Vivian, and to tell the others. But for some powerful and inexplicable reason, Denise felt compelled to keep her discovery secret.

To protect it because no one should see it.

Maybe this was God’s way of speaking to her. Denise didn’t know. A moral war was raging in her heart. Should she tell someone, or forget that she’d ever found it?

Throughout the town house she could hear the sisters making last-minute arrangements for the funeral service at the shelter. It would begin in a few hours and they would leave very soon.

Denise had little time.

Drying her tears, she locked her door, knelt by her bed, made the sign of the cross, and prayed. Then she reached under her mattress and retrieved the cardboard box she found under the floor in Anne’s room.

The box had been used to store candles and was about the size of a hardcover book. It was ancient with frayed, deteriorating corners that were held together with adhesive tape yellowed with age. It smelled of wax when she lifted the lid.

She reached inside and removed the red notebook. It was a number 82, plain, four-star line, with a red hardboard cover. The pages crackled when she opened it to the secrets of Sister Anne Braxton’s life.

It was fitting that it was raining when I entered the little church in Paris to make my amputation with my past life. The warm water against my skin was my baptism…

So began the first entry of Anne’s journal, dated well over twenty years ago. It was written with a fountain pen in Anne’s elegant hand, the revelations of a young woman at the threshold of devoting her life to God.

In reading on, Denise empathized with how Anne had struggled with the same deep concerns that confront all women who contemplate a religious life. How they must accept that they will never bear children, never marry, never have a family or grandchildren, and are destined to live simply in humility and poverty. Anne seemed resolute in her readiness to embrace the realities of becoming a nun.

But as Denise read the entries again, she was troubled by the undercurrent that accompanied all of Anne’s thoughts.

Guilt.

Although Anne offered no details of past acts, and only alluded to remorse for them, an air of atonement accompanied all of her entries.

If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us.

Denise knew that one from The First Epistle of John, along with the rest of it, which Anne had written at the outset of her journal and throughout.

If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

Flipping through the pages and the years of Anne’s life, Denise kept coming back to Anne’s personal torment over something that had happened long ago.

Oh heavenly Father, can I ever be forgiven for what I did, for the pain I caused? Although I am not worthy, please forgive me.

It was a consistent theme of Anne’s writing, one she kept returning to even in the last months of her life.

I deeply regret the mistakes I have made and will accept your judgment of me.

What was it? What had she done? What could she possibly have done that would account for such mental agony?

It fits now.

Denise suddenly recalled one of her last conversations she’d had with Sister Anne. They’d gone alone for a Sunday walk near the park. Sister Anne seemed to be tormented by something before she had finally confided to Denise.

“I believe with all my heart that I will be judged by the sins of my past life and not the religious one I’ve strived to live.” Anne stopped. “And I believe that my judgment could come soon. In the end, I believe God will determine if my struggle to atone was worthy.”

“Atone for what? I’m not sure I understand, Anne.”

“When I was young, I did the most horrible thing.”

“Everyone makes mistakes.”

“I destroyed lives.”

“Destroyed lives? What do you mean? Did you break a young man’s heart?”

Anne looked off.

“God knows what I did. God, and one other living person. Please, Denise. I’ve said more about this than I’ve ever told anyone. Please, you must keep my confidence. Promise me.”

“Of course, Anne. But I don’t understand.”

“If we’re patient, God will reveal all mysteries. After all, He does work in mysterious ways.” Anne hugged her and never spoke of the subject again.

It was so cryptic. “I destroyed lives.” What did she mean?

A sudden knock on her door, and Denise’s heart leapt.

“Are you almost ready, Denise?”

“See you downstairs in a couple more minutes, Flo.”

Denise was coming to a decision. The journal was not her property. Being aware of it, and given all of the tragic circumstances, she must give it to Vivian. Perhaps Denise had hesitated earlier because she’d been upset with Vivian.

She’d reached a decision.

Closing the journal, putting it in the box, she took it with her down the hall, where she knocked softly on the door to Anne’s, well, Vivian’s room. It was weird how she insisted on staying there. The others had whispered how they thought it was macabre, but no one dared question Vivian.

“Who is it?”

“Denise.”

“I’ll be downstairs in a minute.”

“I’d like to talk to you privately.”

“Can it wait?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come in then, for a moment.”

The room still smelled of ammonia, which Denise would now and forever associate with Anne’s murder. Vivian was a portrait of the imposing leader, writing notes for the memorial service.

“What is it? I have to hurry ahead to meet Father Mercer, he’ll be celebrating the mass today and is going directly to the shelter.”

“I need to show you what I discovered when I was cleaning.”

Denise went to the closet, pried out the floorboards, revealed the hole, then passed the box to Vivian, who was perplexed.

“Anne had hidden this under the floor. It’s her journal.”

“Journal?”

Vivian started flipping through it. Slowly at first, then faster as she absorbed its contents.

“Did you know she’d kept a journal?” Denise asked.

Vivian shook her head without lifting it from the book.

“You knew her longer than the rest of us. Do you know what she’s talking about when she says she regrets the mistakes she made in the past?”

“No, what?” Vivian’s head remained in the book, reading. “No. But what human being doesn’t regret past mistakes?” Finally she lifted her head, her eyes boring into Denise. “Did you tell anyone about this?”

“No.”

“Show it to anyone?”

“No, just you. I thought maybe we might use some of her words at the memorial, then maybe pass it to the detectives.”

“Perhaps later, but not at this time. And you will tell no one, absolutely no one, about this book. Is that understood?”

“But why?”

“This is a very private journal and I’ll need time to study it more carefully before we decide on how to proceed.
Is that understood?”

Denise said nothing, watching Vivian slide Anne’s journal into her valise among the files she was taking with her to the shelter.

“Is that clear, Sister Denise?”

“Yes, Sister.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

“HE’S THE ONE.”

On the Trail of Sister Anne’s Killer: M
IRROR
Exclusive

T
he headline above Jason Wade’s byline stretched six columns across the
Mirror
’s front page above the fold. After reading his article for the third time, Grace Garner jabbed Jason’s number on her cell.

“Grace,” Perelli cautioned her as he drove their unmarked Malibu toward the shelter for Sister Anne’s funeral. “Let it go.”

She waved him off as Jason’s line was answered.

“Jason Wade,
Seattle Mirror.
”

“Nice story.”

“Grace?”

“Is it bull, or is Cooper’s information solid?”

“Judge for yourself. It’s all there in the paper.”

“We want to find him so we can chat.”

“Why? Have you got something on the guy he’s talking about? Why call me?”

“Seems Cooper wanders a bit. Thought you might point me in the right direction. Save me time.”

“Will you give me a jump if something breaks?”

“Like you did for me on your story today?”

“Hey, I don’t work for you. Everything I know about Cooper’s brush with the mystery man is in my story.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I don’t believe this.” She searched the traffic for the right words. “It would’ve been nice if you’d told me this was coming out today, Jason.”

“And it would’ve been nice if you’d returned my calls,” he said. “But,
as usual, Grace
, you didn’t.”

“So this is how it’s going to be?”

“This is how it is.”

She hung up, shaking her head. He was still hurt. That’s what this was all about. Maybe she was wrong to have ever started up with him. Well, that’s his problem, not hers, she ruminated until Perelli interrupted her.

“I don’t know why you called him. He’s always in our face for help but it’s never quid pro quo with him. It’s a one-way street.”

She stared at the buildings rolling by.

Maybe she was wrong to end it with him.

“Focus, Grace,” Perelli said. “You don’t need Wade. We’ve got people looking for Cooper in the International District. We’ve got word out on the street. It’s just a matter of time before we find him. Focus on what you’ve got because it’s good.”

Perelli was right. Piece by piece she was building her case. As he wheeled into Pioneer Square, Grace reviewed the pictures on her camera phone. First, the knife. The murder weapon. It came from the shelter. Then a foot impression that was consistent with the type of sneaker issued only by the Washington Department of Corrections.

The Seattle PD was set up at the memorial service. The undercover surveillance unit was in the white panel van parked near the shelter entrance, secretly videotaping every person filing into the shelter for Sister Anne’s funeral. Maybe, just maybe, they would find someone wearing state-issued shoes.

And maybe they would find the killer attached to them.

Inside the shelter, Sister Anne’s garlanded pine casket rested at one end of the dining room. An enlarged photograph of her laughing among the day care’s children was raised on a tripod next to it. Nearby, one of the plastic-covered bingo tables had been draped with a white sheet to serve as a makeshift altar. It stood before several hundred mourners in hard-back chairs that had been neatly arranged into pewlike rows.

Dignitaries representing the state, the county, the city, the Vatican, and the Archdiocese were not afforded any special seating. Conscious of the news cameras and reporters at the back, they did their best to look at ease among the homeless, the poor, and their children—the people Sister Anne helped and loved. The children were hushed during the service.

Father Jeb Mercer, a retired priest and old friend of Sister Vivian’s, had flown in from the east that morning, arriving just in time to celebrate the funeral mass. Between hymns and psalms, a stream of officials delivered eulogies from the podium near her casket.

In a prepared tribute read by a local senator, the governor called Sister Anne, “An angel of mercy who eased pain.” Then the mayor said she was, “the Saint of Seattle,” and promised that the council would name a park in her honor.

The cardinal compared her compassion and devotion to that of Jesus Christ, then read condolences from the Vatican. “She inspired us because her love was blind to race, blind to social standing, blind to human failings. She restored dignity and worth to their rightful owners. She was Heaven’s grace.”

Then Krissie, a nine-year-old girl from the shelter’s day care, went to the podium alone. She looked at her young, single mom, who nodded tearfully as Krissie unfolded a crisp sheet of paper and read, “You made us feel important, like we counted. My mom said you saved us. We love you and we will miss you. God bless you.”

Finally, Sister Vivian spoke on behalf of the other nuns.

“She is the light in the darkness and we will carry on with her mission but with broken hearts, for Anne was our sister, our friend, and we loved her.”

But she was not perfect.

Not a mention of her own failings, her shortcomings, and the self-doubt she battled with on the pages of her journal, Sister Denise thought as she listened to Vivian. Why not mention that Anne Braxton was also very human like the people she helped every day?

Denise didn’t understand.

She didn’t understand why Vivian was so determined to protect Anne’s cryptic past. Why not let everyone hear Anne’s own words at her funeral? Denise didn’t understand anything anymore and pressed a tissue to her eyes.

Some sixteen rows back from Sister Anne’s casket, Rhonda Boland squeezed Brady’s hand. She prayed for him, and for Sister Anne, a woman she never knew but would have liked to have known. Sister Anne would’ve been a good person to turn to—a person she could have gone to for comfort, now, in her most desperate time.

She was the “light in the darkness.”

Rhonda glanced at Brady, reading his prayer book. She was puzzled by whatever mysterious cosmic forces gave rise to his desire to be here. She took some comfort in the fact they’d come. She needed help, even if it was spiritual assurance, because Brady was just a little boy who’d known death too well. His father and now Sister Anne. Maybe God was preparing Brady for the worst.

Maybe God was preparing her?

Between speakers, Rhonda looked around at the mourners jammed into the room. Nearly all were street people. She met the eyes of one man who seemed to be fixated on her and Brady. Rhonda shrugged it off and looked away.

Several moments later, all heads turned to a commotion. It was coming from the entrance, which was jammed with a line of mourners that spilled out into the street.

Grace Garner stood at the back of the crowded room estimating the number of news people among the cameras along the side. She spotted Jason Wade but didn’t make eye contact. Focus, she told herself, while through her earpiece she received updates from the surveillance unit and the plainclothes detectives who were posted everywhere.

“Absolutely no sign of anyone wearing the DOC sneakers, Grace.”

“Thanks.”

For most of the service, John Cooper sat quietly on a hard-back chair in a far corner of the room with his face buried in his hands. Leona Kraver, a retired music teacher and shelter volunteer, who’d read the
Seattle Mirror
that morning, had recognized Cooper.

Leona indicated where he was sitting to the two detectives who’d asked for her help prior to the service. The two big men locked on to Cooper and began making their way to him.

“Grace, this is Foley. We’ve got an ID on our subject. At the back near the door.”

In a short time, the two detectives and two uniformed officers managed to get John Cooper outside, where they shoved him against the wall, patted him down, handcuffed him, and placed him in the back of an unmarked car.

It roared off with news crews rushing from the shelter to the street straining to get footage, or a frame, comparing success with each other.

Some grinned, some cursed.

“What the hell was that?”

“Did you get that?”

Jason Wade made it outside in time to see Grace Garner and Perelli get into their car. He rushed to Grace’s door and tapped her window.

“What’s going on?”

Grace shook her head. She gave Jason nothing as their Malibu squealed away, leaving in its wake a stained page of the
Mirror
to swirl at Jason’s feet.

Cassie Appleton emerged, walking toward Jason as she scrawled in her notebook.

“I think they just arrested somebody, Jason. Did you see who it was?”