A Perfect Grave (5 page)

Chapter Nine

J
ason woke from a deep sleep and didn’t know why.

Then his phone rang again. He cursed and grabbed it.

“You up, Wade?”

“No, what time is it?”

Eldon Reep’s voice kick-started Jason’s brain and he braced for trouble.

“Did we have the murdered nun’s name last night, Wade?”

“It was never confirmed when I filed for our web edition—besides they usually wait to notify family.”

“Her name is Sister Florence Roy, according to everybody but the
Mirror.
”

“Florence Roy?”

“That’s right, twenty-nine years old. Arrived at the order from Quebec. Our competition’s got her damn picture online already. We’ve got squat. We look stupid. I don’t like looking stupid, Wade.”

“Listen, that name can’t be right. Who confirmed it?”

“Did you even go to the scene?”

“Yes, I went to the scene. Who confirmed her name last night?”

“Neighbors, friends. Apparently, people all over this city.”

“What about the Seattle PD or the ME? They complete an autopsy?”

“Get your ass in here, now.”

“I’m on nights, I’ve hardly slept.”

“Get in here now.”

Tension knotted Jason’s stomach as he showered. After shaving, he tried reaching Grace Garner for confirmation of the name. No luck. Dressing, he fired up his laptop, scanning Web sites of Seattle news outlets, where he met the face of Sister Florence Roy and a wave of self-doubt.

How could he have been so far off the mark?

While driving to the
Mirror
, Jason ate two apples for breakfast. As he listened to Led Zeppelin’s “Fool in the Rain,” he reflected on his competition’s stories, finding some comfort in the fact nobody—
nobody so far
—had the angle that the homicide may be linked directly to something in the nun’s past.

Whoever she was. Sister Florence. Sister Anne. Was his angle dead now?

Where would he take the story from here? He had to get a handle on it. But how? As he searched Seattle’s skyline for answers, he remembered something important.

His old man.

Jason seized his cell phone, called his father but got his machine.

“It’s me, I’m sorry, I’m jammed up with the story on the nun’s murder. I want to talk about what’s troubling you. Hang in there, okay?”

The metro editor’s office was empty when Jason got to the newsroom, so he headed straight to his own desk and began working the phones, relieved when he connected with a trusted sergeant he knew.

“Man, I need help,” Jason said, “Is Florence Roy the victim?”

“No. And this bull that’s getting around about it is causing us grief. Good thing you held off, Wade, or you’d be off my Christmas card list.”

“Great, I’m thrilled, can you tell me—wait, hold on, that’s my cell. Got to take it.”

Answering the call, Jason saw Eldon Reep far across the newsroom, emerging from a news meeting an unhappy man.

“Jason it’s Grace returning your calls—all six of them.”

“Thanks, I’ve got a lot of questions.”

“You’ve got about thirty seconds.”

“Who’s Florence Roy?”

Grace took a moment to decide on the shape of the conversation, knowing that Jason often received information that could help, or hurt, an investigation. It was a delicate dance. “I’m off the record, got it,” she said.

“Anything I use, I’ll put to ‘sources.’”

“Fine.”

“Who’s Florence?”

“She’s the nun who found the victim. Some loudmouth TV reporter had called into the town house, got Florence’s name from a distraught nun, got confused—got the story wrong—and now we have this mess. We’re going to issue a statement clarifying things after the preliminary autopsy’s done and ID’s confirmed.”

“When?”

“Should be later today.”

“So is it Anne Braxton?”

“Don’t publish Sister Braxton’s name yet, Jason, until we put it out. But yes, you’ve got it right. The victim is Anne Louise Braxton.”

“Have you notified her family yet? I’m going to start talking to people about her.”

“We’re sorting that out today with the sisters. Go ahead, but stay low-key.”

“What was the last thing Sister Anne did before arriving at her apartment last night?”

“She’d worked at the shelter overseeing meals for street people. We’re canvassing there and the driver of her bus route. You could put out that we’re looking for people who took that bus. I’ll text you the route and time.”

Jason saw Reep standing at the doorway to his office.

“Wade! Get in my office, now!”

Jason held up his hand, indicating that he was nearly done on the phone.

“Grace, do you have any suspects?”

“I’ve got to go, Jason.”

“Me, too, but you do have a weapon—a knife, right?”

“I can’t talk about those things. I’m getting another call.”

“What about a link to her past? I’ve heard this is tied to something in her past. Maybe even gang related, something about payback?”

“We’re hearing a lot of rumors. It’s too soon to rule anything in or out. Sorry, I have to go.”

When the call ended, Jason buried his face in his hands, thinking that at least he had something to build on. Then his office line rang.

“You’ve got five seconds to haul your ass in here!” Reep said.

One wall in Eldon Reep’s office was a theme park of “damn-I’m-good” displays of framed photographs and front pages. Jason stood before Reep’s desk. Reep glared at him, then held a quarter-inch of air between his right thumb and forefinger before his eyes.

“I’m this close to suspending you, Wade.”

“For what?”

“I understand you were in a bar last night when the nun murder broke.”

“My father is a recovering alcoholic. He was struggling with a personal issue, and called for me from a bar, which was a family emergency. I was at the murder scene, on top of the Yesler story from the get-go.”

“You can prove it?”

“It’s all in my overnight note I’d sent to you. Did you read it?”

“If you were on the story, why did you miss the name?”

“I didn’t. The victim is Sister Anne Braxton. Not Sister Florence Roy. Florence is the nun who found her. Why are you so quick to crap on the work of your own staff?”

“You listen to me, Wade. Our penetration in the metro market is eroding. If we keep losing circulation we’ll have to cut staff. This is about our survival. It’s crucial for us to be first.”

“First to get it wrong? What kind of award do you win for that?”

Reep ignored Wade’s last salvo, rolling up his sleeves, consulting his notes from the meeting.

“This is how we’re hitting the story. Jenkins will do a metro column on good and evil in the city—innocence lost kinda crap. Anita Chavez is trying to pull information on the nun from the Mother House.”

Jason took notes as Reep continued.

“Chad Osterman is on his way over to the Archdiocese. And Mirabella Talli will give us a feature on the history of nuns, the order, and its works. Wade, you will work on the investigation and profile the victim. And you damn well better give me exclusive breaking news that ensures that the
Mirror
owns this story. This is your chance to redeem yourself.”

“Redeem myself for what?”

“The fiasco with Pillar.”

“I resent this.”

“Cassie Appleton has asked me to put her on the story. I’m assigning you to work with her.”

“What! No thanks. I work alone.”

“You work with her, or you don’t work at the
Mirror.
”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Cassie’s had a rough time since Pillar. She needs to regain her confidence as a reporter in this city and build some street cred at this paper.”

“You’re making a big mistake.”

Jason walked out of Reep’s office, grabbed his jacket, and left the newsroom to pursue the story. As he stepped into the elevator, the red message light on his office phone began flashing.

Chapter Ten

L
ess than twenty-four hours after Sister Anne had offered hope to those who had lost it, her naked corpse lay under a sheet on a stainless tray.

Her spiritual journey had carried her to the white cinder-block walls of the autopsy room of the King County Medical Examiner’s Office, in the Harborview Medical Center, downtown near the bay.

Her life had been reduced to this summary:

Anne Louise Braxton, Caucasian female, age 49 years, weight 131 pounds, height five feet six inches. Cause of death
—
hemorrhaging attributed to a fatal, deep force incise wound transecting the internal jugular and carotid arteries, consistent with a sharp, or serrated blade, of four to six inches in length. Decedent’s identity confirmed through dental records and direct visual identification.

In a small office beyond the autopsy room, Detective Garner watched Sister Vivian Lansing as she paused from reading the documents the medical examiner’s staff had set before her and removed her glasses. Earlier that day she’d arrived from Chicago and was a bit jet-lagged. The sixty-year-old nun, who was a senior council member of the Compassionate Heart of Mercy, gently clasped the bridge of her nose.

“I need a moment,” she said.

During the drive to the center, Sister Vivian had told Grace that she had known Anne Braxton since the younger nun had entered the order, some twenty-five years ago. That fact had stirred a whirlwind of emotions and memories of working alongside her in Ethiopia, Senegal, Haiti, the South Bronx, and Cabrini Green.

“You know what she told me, detective? She said that we face risks to deliver love, it’s what God has in the cards for us.”

While serving together, the two nuns had confronted more horror than most people would face in a thousand lifetimes.

Watching her now, Grace knew that nothing had prepared Sister Vivian for seeing her friend on that table, in that cold antiseptic room,
with her throat slashed.
Sister Vivian was struggling to reconcile her memories with the face she’d identified only moments ago.

Under the hum of florescent lights, Grace, Perelli, and Sister Ruth Hurley, a resident in the town house where Sister Ann was murdered, watched patiently as Sister Vivian composed herself before replacing her glasses and returning to the documents.

As she poised her fountain pen over the signature line, Grace noticed Sister Vivian’s hand quiver before the pen scratched across the paper, followed by the snap of a page, then another signature before the ME staffer gathered the papers into a white legal-sized folder.

“Thank you, Sister,” said the staffer wearing a lab coat. “Please accept our condolences. We’ll contact you about releasing her to you through the funeral home. It should be later today.”

“And her personal items?” Sister Ruth said. “Her clothes and her things?”

“Yes,” Grace cleared her throat. “Those items have been collected by our forensic people. They’ll work on them and hold them as evidence.”

“I see.”

“I think we’re finished here, Sisters,” Grace said. “There’s another room, where we can talk, privately.”

Grace guessed Sister Vivian at being close to six feet tall. Her neat white hair glowed against her dark skirt suit, a well-fitting simple design. She had the bearing of a ball-busting corporate CEO, Grace thought, catching the silver flash of the cross hanging from her neck when she sat at the large table in the empty conference room. Next to her, Sister Ruth, in her plain print jacket and black skirt, had the less imposing presence of a grade-school teacher quick to confiscate gum.

“We understand you brought Sister Anne’s personal files from the town house and the Mother House in Chicago,” Grace said. “Do they list her family?”

“No.” Sister Vivian snapped open her valise. “We were her family.” She slid two slim folders to Grace, who looked them over quickly, made a few notes in her case log, then passed them to Perelli.

“Do you have any suspects, Detective?” Sister Ruth asked.

“No,” Grace said, “we’ve got other detectives canvassing the shelter, her route traveled from there to the town house and the neighborhood. And we’re working on potential physical evidence.”

The nuns nodded.

“Is there anyone Sister Anne may have had contact with who may have wanted to harm her?” Grace asked.

“I am not aware of anyone,” Sister Vivian said “Are you, Ruth?”

“Everyone loved Anne.”

“What about the people she helped at the shelter?” Grace asked. “We understand most of them have addictions, substance problems, many have criminal records. We’re checking those we know, but does anything stand out? Altercations, threats, anything?”

“No, and this is what I cannot fathom,” Sister Vivian said. “These are people she helped. She shouldered the burden of their trouble, so why would anyone want to harm her?”

“What about in the neighborhood?” Perelli said. “Anything out of the ordinary recently?”

Sister Ruth shook her head.

“She also helped women in abusive relationships,” Perelli said. “Maybe a vengeful spouse or ex-partner thought Sister Anne turned his woman against him?”

“That’s possible,” Sister Ruth said. “We have encountered people with violent personalities or anger issues, but no one comes to mind.”

“Sisters,” Grace made a note, “we’d like you to volunteer all of the order’s records on the people you’ve helped—names of abused women, ex-convicts, parolees, everyone you have on file for any reason. Staff lists, too. All of Sister Anne’s case files, if she had any. Everything.”

“But that is all confidential,” Sister Ruth said.

“We can get a warrant,” Grace said.

“We’ll provide it to you,” Sister Vivian said.

“But it’s privileged,” Sister Ruth said, “like the seal of the confession.”

“Ruth, we’re not ordained priests—none of it constitutes a confession. Police can exercise a warrant. And,” Sister Vivian leveled her stare at Grace, “we can trust the detectives will honor the sensitivity of our files and the privacy of the people we are helping.”

“Absolutely,” Grace said.

“We’ll not impede the investigation,” Sister Vivian said to the other nun. “We’ll arrange to provide the information.”

“Thank you,” Grace said. “Our crime-scene people will release Sister Anne’s room later today. But for your security, you must replace the faulty lock on the town house and consider relocating for a time.”

“Detective, thank you, but the sisters will not be moving,” Sister Vivian said. “In fact, while I’m here, I’ll stay in Sister Anne’s room, once we clean it.”

“But for your safety, until we make an arrest. Maybe the university,” Grace said.

“That won’t be necessary. We’ve already forgiven the person who took our dear Sister’s life,” Sister Vivian said. “Like the Holy Mother, we’ll confront evil with love. We hold no hardness in our hearts for the person responsible. Nor do we hold any fear. We offer Mary’s mercy because we accept whatever God has planned for us.”

“We understand,” Grace said. “Still, we’ll talk to the precinct commander about having a couple of patrol cars sit on the town house.”

The nuns nodded as Grace, again, flipped through Sister Anne’s file from the order. It contained next to nothing in the way of personal information.

“Can you tell us anything about her background? This mentions nothing about a father, mother, sister, brother, or what she did before she became a nun.”

Sister Vivian twisted her cross.

“She never wanted to talk about her life. As I recall, she was largely alone in this world until God called her to serve.”

“This says something about Europe.”

“Yes, the Order’s Mother House, or headquarters, was in Paris. Anne Braxton was a young woman living alone in Europe when she entered the Order. Since then our Mother House relocated to Washington, D.C., then to Chicago. Anne had served all over the world before her work brought her here to Seattle.”

“Can we get anything more about her personal history? It’s like she just dropped out of the sky.”

Sister Vivian nodded, promising to send out information requests to all the Order’s missions around the world where Sister Anne had worked. She said that she believed that the nun who’d advised Anne when she was first accepted as a postulant may still be living.

“We’re trying to locate her as well. But Detective Garner, isn’t it more important to determine what happened here in the hours leading to her death than anything in her life from decades ago? Isn’t that how you handle these things?”

Grace looked into the eyes of both nuns.

“Well, until we know the facts, everything is critical. And everyone’s a suspect. That’s how we handle these things, Sister.”