A Perfect Grave (14 page)

Chapter Thirty

J
ason’s stomach churned with the sick feeling every reporter dreads.

He was missing the story.

They’d arrested somebody at Sister Anne’s funeral but he didn’t know who and he didn’t know why. Was it Cooper? Were they questioning him about the stranger he’d seen arguing with Sister Anne, the guy who stole the knife from the shelter?

Jason didn’t know.

No one would tell him anything and not knowing was killing him. He glanced at the clock in the
Mirror
’s cafeteria, resisting the aroma of frying bacon, burgers, and fries. Grabbing only a coffee for his dinner, to go with a plate of adrenaline and fear, he apologized to the early night crews inching their trays toward the cash register.

He jumped the queue and left two crumpled bills without waiting for change.

He had no time.

He had to find out what happened at the funeral. He’d called every source he had, except Detective Grace Garner. He’d burned a bridge there. At this point, his best hope was his old man.

He took a hit of coffee and felt a pang of guilt.

His dad had enough crap on his mind. Having to carry a gun again had resurrected the pain of seeing his partner’s suicide.
Blowing his brains out before his eyes.
It explained all the turmoil in their lives and why his mother walked out on them all those years ago.

Man oh man.

Jason made a mental promise to talk about it all with his dad. But later, after he had his story under control. Until then, he needed his father to pump his old friends inside the Seattle PD for information.

Jason stepped aside, reached for his cell phone and made the call.

“Hey Dad. You get anything?”

“Not much, I’m afraid.”

“Damn.”

“You know that earlier they’d developed a list of ex-cons, parolees who are regulars at the shelter.”

“Yeah.”

“Creeps with violent pasts.”

“Yeah, yeah, like the usual suspects.”

“All of them have been eliminated, cleared.”

“So what happened at the funeral today?”

“I wish I knew. I asked about that.”

“Did you push hard?”

“I’ve got to be careful, Jay, I can’t risk my license.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“Of course I pushed, but none of my guys would breathe a word.”

“Which means that whatever happened is huge. I don’t like this.”

“I’ll do my best, son.”

“Dad, it’s fine, thanks. How’re you doing? With everything, I mean?”

“I’m doing the best I can. Look, I’d like to talk to you just as soon as you can manage it, son.”

“Absolutely. We’ll talk once I get a handle on this story. I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go. Call me if you get something, okay, Dad?”

Jason headed for the stairs. They would get him to the newsroom faster. He still had some time. Glimpsing a copy of today’s front page with his exclusive story on Cooper, Jason thought that this was starting to be a replay of last night. Find a story. Pull it out of the fire. Eldon was pleased with his Cooper story, but it was dead news now.

What you got for tomorrow’s paper?

Concentrating on what he could try next, Jason made a beeline for his desk, hoping to avoid Eldon Reep. He failed. Reep was at Vic Beale’s desk, where they were huddled with Cassie Appleton, when he spotted Jason.

“Wade! Get over here!”

Cassie had her notebook open, flipping pages filled with her notes. Jason didn’t like the air here. Beale and Reep looked pissed off. His stomach tightened.

“Enlighten us,” Reep said. “What happened at the funeral today?”

“They arrested somebody.”

“Who?”

“I’m trying to confirm it.”

“Oh you’re trying to confirm it? Well, did you think about maybe getting your ass on the street? Maybe visiting your buddy Cooper, see if he’s home under I-5?”

“I’ve been doing a lot of things.”

“So has Cassie here. Inform our all-star here what you’ve learned.”

“After you left, I talked to people. Seems all the street people had a sudden memory loss. Nobody knew who was arrested, or saw much. It happened fast. I just got off the phone with Butch Ettersly. He’s a camera- man with WKKR. Turns out I know his sister from my hometown. Apparently it all went down right in front of Butch. He says KKR is the only news team to get it all.”

“What do you mean?”

Jason saw Beale reach for the remote for the TV near his desk.

“Here we go,” Beale said.

The sound carried a few ominous bass notes then the graphic:
BREAKING NEWS WKKR EXCLUSIVE
:
ARREST IN NUN MURDER
filled the screen, then shrank to be placed below the news anchor’s desk.

“I’m Carol Carter. We’re interrupting our programming to bring you this live report. Seattle Police have made an arrest in the murder of Sister Anne Braxton and our WKKR camera was there.”

Dramatic footage showed the lightning-fast arrest. Jason’s stomach knotted. He recognized the unidentified man as Cooper while it played in slo-mo. After a few seconds Carol Carter returned to say, “WKKR’s David Troy has the story. David, what do we know so far?” Carol Carter said to the white teeth and tanned, chiseled face of David Troy, WKKR’s veteran crime reporter, standing in front of the shelter.

“Carol, in a bizarre twist to this tragic case, police arrested the man during a moving funeral service for the murdered nun, whom the mayor called the Saint of Seattle.”

“Any details on the identity of the man arrested, or why?”

“Not much, but my sources indicate the man is John Randolph Cooper, a troubled war veteran who, after seeing action in Iraq, was a regular at the shelter and very close to Sister Anne—”

“Sounds like he’s reading your story, Wade,” Beale said.

“We should’ve got Cooper’s picture last night,” Reep said.

“He would have refused,” Jason said, “believe me.”

“We’ve got photo and the library trying to get unit albums and something from his military records,” Beale said.

“And his high school yearbook,” Cassie added.

Reep studied the WKKR’s report. “Is it Cooper there, Wade?”

Jason nodded.

“David,” Carol Carter asked, “have your sources told you if Cooper’s a suspect?”

“Not on the record. As you know, police are playing their cards close to their vest on this one. But I’ll speculate that he possesses information vital to the case, Carol.”

“Thank you, David,” Carol Carter said. “Just to recap, WKKR’s David Troy brought us the breaking news that police arrested a man during today’s funeral service for Sister Anne Braxton, whom the mayor called the Saint of Seattle. That man is believed to be John Randolph Cooper. We now return—”

Beale muted the TV.

“That just kills us,” Beale said.

“How could you let this happen, Wade?” Reep said.

“Excuse me?”

“You and Cassie break the story that the murder weapon is a knife from the shelter—”

“Cassie had nothing to do with that story.”

“Then you find this Cooper living in a hellhole under the Interstate, a troubled war vet who goes to the shelter and knew the nun.”

Jason nodded.

“And he tells you about some stranger he saw who argued with her and took the knife.”

“Right”

“And you just saw what happened?”

Beale shot Jason a glare. He couldn’t hold his tongue.

“TV just used your story to kick us between the legs and break things wide open, pal.”

Jason’s mouth went dry with the awful realization.

“That’s right, Wade,” Reep said. “Now the lights are coming on, now he gets it. Cooper was likely talking about himself. You were likely interviewing the nun’s murderer, Wade! We’ve got no pictures, no confirmation. We’ve got squat. You should have allowed Cassie to go with you to find Cooper.”

“I did. She backed off!”

“You refused to wait up for me. You left me behind.”

“Bull!”

“Wade,” Reep said, “you dropped the ball!”

Jason swallowed hard, ran his hand over his face, glanced at the time.

“Now listen to me, Wade!” Reep’s voice stopped conversations throughout the newsroom. “You get your ass to Homicide, because that’s likely who’s got him, and you get it confirmed that they believe he’s the killer, and you do it before deadline, or you don’t come back.”

Chapter Thirty-One

T
he Seattle Homicide Unit’s interview room reeked of lies.

Its oppressive fluorescent lighting burned on the pale cinder-block walls holding the mirrored window that reflected Cooper, waiting alone in a metal chair at the bare table.

Staff Sergeant John Randolph Taylor Cooper.

Age: 45. Born in Kent, Washington, according to his military records.

They’d just been faxed from St. Louis, and Grace Garner was studying them from the other side of the mirrored window.

Cooper was commander of an M1 Abrams tank when his patrol came under attack during operations in western Iraq. Three members of his crew died. For his brave action under fire, Cooper was recommended for several medals and awards.

But after the tragedy, he’d suffered severe mental trauma and was sent to a psychiatric ward of a military hospital, where he’d experienced several episodes. In one violent outburst, he’d threatened to plunge his toothbrush into a nurse’s throat if she didn’t tell him where they were keeping, “Yordan, Bricker, and Rose.” Other incidents were hallucinatory, or related to medication.

After eleven months, Cooper was discharged but he couldn’t find a steady job and had no family to support him. Haunted by his ordeal, Cooper succumbed to addictions and life on the street. He became a regular at the shelter. And while Sister Anne seemed to be the only person able to reach him, he had been seen arguing with her several times, according to statements from the shelter’s staff.

“Grace?” Perelli repeated, “are you ready to go at him?”

She closed Cooper’s file and nodded, recalling the advice Lynn Mann gave her over the phone from the King County Prosecuting Attorney’s office. “Play it by the book, Grace, by the book.”

Grace inhaled. Every time they stepped into the interview room to work on a suspect, the lying game started.

“It wasn’t me. I wasn’t there, that’s not my gun, knife, club, whatever. I wasn’t there, ask my sister brother mother father daughter son friend or the dude who left town yesterday. I saw this guy running away. He was a tall, short, fat, skinny Hispanic Asian, black, white guy—like eighteen to fifty years old, man. Find him.”

But if Grace was lucky, physical evidence, solid physical evidence, could help her leverage a confession.

Upon entering the small room, Perelli set the
Seattle Mirror
on the table, spun it round so Cooper could see today’s article.

“You’re famous for what you know, Coop,” Perelli said.

Cooper didn’t respond. Clearly police made him uneasy.

“We need your help,” Grace indicated the article, “to see that the right thing is done for Sister Anne.”

Cooper considered things, then nodded.

“Good, thank you. But before we go further,” Grace said, “I have to tell you that you have the right to remain silent and anything you say can—”

“What’s this? Are you charging me with something?”

“No, John,” Grace leaned closer, “we’re not charging you with anything. We need your help and we’re required to follow procedure and advise you of your constitutional right to refuse to help us find the truth about Sister Anne’s murder.”

“You’re ex-military, Coop,” Perelli said. “You know regs.”

Coop knew a lot of things. He weighed his situation for several moments. Then he shrugged, inviting Grace to resume advising him.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him present while you are being questioned. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning, if you wish one. Do you understand each of these rights as I have explained them to you?”

“I understand.”

“Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to us now?”

“I’m good. I don’t need a lawyer. I get it. You brought me here because you need my help to find this guy?” Coop tapped Jason’s article in the
Mirror.

“We need your help,” Grace said, “to learn the truth about what happened.”

“Want me to look at a sketch or something?”

“This.” She opened her folder and slid an eight-by-ten full-size color photo of the knife. The murder weapon. “Ever see one like that before? It’s fairly unique with the maple leaf symbol.”

“Sure, it’s like the one I saw that guy take from the shelter.”

Grace slid a second photo, a series of enlargements showing shoe impressions in blood, and the alley behind the town house near the bush where the knife was found.

“These impressions are like fingerprints and they were made by Sister Anne’s killer. And see this,” Grace slid another photo, a file photo of a standard pair of tennis shoes standard-issue only by the Washington Department of Corrections. “These are the kind of shoes the killer wore. Guess where we found shoes like these?”

Cooper’s face whitened. He’s eyes moved along every photograph Grace had set before him and suddenly realization rolled over him.

“Now the lights are coming on, aren’t they, Coop?” Perelli eyeballed him, then slammed his hand down on the counter. “We got them from your little penthouse under I-5. Shoes just like the ones her killer wore, Sergeant!”

Cooper shook his head.

“Somebody put them in my cart a long time ago. I don’t even wear ‘em. I’ve got a lot of gear there.”

Perelli’s metal chair scraped and tumbled as he stood to lean into Cooper, drawing his face to within an inch of his.

“Don’t lie to us,” he whispered. “Make it easy on yourself. Be a man and tell us exactly what happened.”

Cooper’s eyes widened as he stared at the pictures.

Perelli righted his chair and sat in it.

“John,” Grace’s voice was almost soothing, “was it a sexual thing, or an argument? Did you follow her to the town house to talk to her? Maybe something was troubling you and she said something that triggered all the bad things that happened to you? John, it’ll help you to tell us now. So you can get help, John.”

“You owe it to your buddies,” Perelli said, “to their memory, to do the honorable thing, here.”

Cooper shot Perelli a look. Grace sensed something was seething just under Cooper’s skin.

“John, look at me,” she said. “Just tell us what happened.”

Cooper went back to the pictures. It seemed as if a monumental sadness washed over him. Tears welled in his eyes as he shook his head.

“I loved her.”

Grace nodded encouragement.

“I would never hurt her.”

“We know, John,” Grace said. “Was it an accident?”

“I don’t know. I mean,” he swallowed, “sometimes, I black out.”

Grace exchanged a quick glance with Perelli.

“We know. It’s in your records,” Grace said.

“I didn’t hurt her. I couldn’t hurt her.
I don’t think I hurt her.
”

Cooper thrust his face into his weathered hands and released a deafening cry of anguish.

“I want a lawyer.”