A Perfect Grave (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

C
ome on, come on, show us something.

Sister Anne’s bloodstained Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt, jeans, bra, underwear, socks, and shoes were tacked to a large bulletin board in the Seattle Police Crime Scene Investigation Unit.

The clothes she had died in.

Her silver ring, cross, and rosary were up there, too.

And in one isolated corner: the knife used to kill her.

So far, the case refused to yield a break that would lead to a suspect.

But it would come.

It had to come
, Kay Cataldo, a senior forensic scientist with the unit, assured herself, as she examined the board. She mentally crossed her fingers, willing her phone to ring with the call she was expecting.

Cataldo knew her stuff. She was an expert latent fingerprint examiner. She also had two degrees in forensic science and was about to get her PhD. She was qualified by the courts to give expert testimony on forensic matters.
So? What does the expert say now?
Cataldo challenged herself as she resumed studying her evidence inventory lists, test results, crime-scene photos, notes, and the autopsy report.

All puzzle pieces.

She was going to pull it together.

The scene had refused to give up anything useful. The guys at the Washington State Patrol crime lab offered to lend Kay’s team a hand. They were taking a shot at the partial shoe impressions. The quality was terrible—practically a write-off; she bit her bottom lip, thinking she’d have to get back to them.

Maybe WSP would find something?

Cataldo’s small, overworked crew had been going full bore without sleep since the call out to the homicide. They hadn’t had much luck collecting trace, fiber, DNA, anything, for them to go on. They’d dusted and scoped the apartment, town house, everywhere and everything for latents. Nothing. The suspect must’ve worn gloves. Stabbings are intimate crimes where the killer is often cut in the struggle as the weapon becomes blood-slicked and difficult to control.

Not the case here.

Absolutely no indication of a struggle, no defense wounds. No indication of sexual assault, or other trauma. The only blood in evidence at the scene was Sister Anne’s type: O positive. These facts alone would suggest either a come-from-behind lay-in-wait attack, or, a sudden full-frontal blitz attack, from someone she knew.

Go to the weapon.

The knife tossed among the shrubs in the alley. It had been washed, but while testing failed to yield any useable latents, washing failed to remove the traces of O-positive blood. Sister Anne’s. And the fatal wound was consistent with the knife.

Cataldo scrutinized the knife then reread the report on the weapon.

It was a steak knife manufactured by a Swiss company. It had a six-inch blade made of forged stainless steel, containing 20 percent chromium. It was attached to a maple handle secured with three rivets. At the hilt, Cataldo noted a tiny insignia engraved into the blade.

A stylized maple leaf among the Alps.

The knife was not among the inventory of the cutlery in the nun’s town house.

Cataldo’s phone rang with the call she’d been waiting for.

“Kay, better get down here. I think we’ve got something.”

“On my way, Gail.”

Cataldo took a parting glance at the gruesome array of items on the board and dispatched a message to Sister Anne’s killer.

“We’re gaining on you.”

Cataldo’s van roared from the support facility at Airport Way South and she made good time before she arrived in the kitchen of the Compassionate Heart of Mercy Shelter. Her partner, Gail Genert, a senior Seattle police criminalist, was standing with two men.

“This is Sailor and Reggie Longbow. Gentlemen, this is Kay Cataldo, the investigator I told you about. Kay, Sailor and Reggie are in charge of the kitchen.”

The two men nodded to the stainless-steel counter where the entire inventory of cutlery was spread. There were mismatches, different styles of flatware, plastic handled, wooden handled, all steel types. All sets had been neatly grouped. Genert and Cataldo each had crisp, full-scale photos of the murder weapon and placed them next to a group of steak knives matching the one in the pictures.

Sailor unfolded his large tattooed arms and placed his hands on the counter. His voice sounded like it was churning in a cement mixer.

“All of our knives, forks, spoons, and whatnot have been donated over the years. From estates, people moving, hotels, schools, we get all kinds. That knife group is part of an eight-piece set.” Cataldo had bent over to scrutinize the steak knives. The maple leaf/Alps insignia was identical to the one on the murder weapon.

“Go on,” she told Sailor.

“Reggie’s in charge of washing up and he noticed we came up short on one, about say what, two-three weeks ago, right, Reg?”

Longbow, who had a ponytail that nearly reached his waist, nodded.

Cataldo exchanged a poker glance with Genert, who saw the hint of a smile in her eyes.

“Do you have any idea how the knife in the set disappeared?”

Sailor shook his head.

“Could’ve been accidentally swept into the trash?”

Cataldo nodded to the big Hobart dishwasher.

“What about that?”

“Already checked it for strays. Found a spoon. No knives,” Sailor said.

“Maybe someone took it?” Cataldo asked. “Any idea who?”

“We provide three meals a day to about two hundred people a sitting. Some are regulars. Some come once then you never see ‘em again. You do the math.”

“Gentleman,” Cataldo said, “thank you for helping. We’re not sure what we have here, but it’s critical these details remain confidential. Circulation of this information would constitute obstruction of justice.”

“Ma’am,” Sailor said, “Reggie here’s a mute and I generally don’t talk to people. Outside of running the show back here, this is the longest conversation I’ve had in months. And I’m going to end it by saying I hope in my clean and sober heart you find Sister Anne’s killer before we do. That woman was a saint.”

Cataldo hurried outside, reached for her cell phone, and punched Grace Garner’s number. When Grace answered, Cataldo said, “It appears the knife used to kill Sister Anne came from the shelter.”

Chapter Twelve

W
as he closer to the murderer?

The line for dinner at the Compassionate Heart of Mercy Shelter began forming after 5:30
P.M.
When the doors opened at six for the one-hour evening meal, it had grown to several dozen people.

Defeated old men in worn, stained clothes, teenagers with pierced faces, young mothers with small children, ex-cons, addicts, and drifters.

Was Sister Anne’s killer here, among them?

Jason Wade adjusted his Mariners ball cap, pulled up the collar of his jacket, thrust his hands into his pockets, joined the line, and waited. The smell of hot food wafted from the window.

He’d missed getting down here for lunch, but was thankful that he was able to ditch Cassie at the paper. It gave him time to chase the story his way, alone, while dodging the messages Cassie had left on his cell, like the latest: “
Where are you, Jason? I want to meet up with you, call me.
”

He’d spent the afternoon digging in Sister Anne’s neighborhood. He’d door-knocked in the eastern fringes of Yesler Terrace and Jefferson Terrace and tried to bring Tango’s tip about a possible link to gang payback into play.

But he got nothing.

He also burned up minutes on his cell phone working cop sources.

Again, nothing. And he couldn’t reach Grace.

All Jason had was Sister Anne’s name, a lead that a knife had been used, and about three hours to deadline for the first print edition. He didn’t have a strong angle to advance the story and his stomach tensed when he spotted a TV news crew down the block going live. Jason envisioned Eldon Reep watching the report in the
Mirror
newsroom then demanding: “
What’s Wade got? Have we heard from Wade?
”

The clock was ticking on him.

An emergency siren wailing in the distance pulled Jason’s attention back to the line as it began filing into the shelter. It was evident from murmured conversations that most everyone now knew that a nun with the shelter had been murdered.

“Good to see you.” A white-haired woman wearing a print top, with a silver cross around her neck, greeted each visitor by grasping their hand.

Jason held hers, leaned closer, then dropped his voice. “Sister, I’m a reporter with the
Seattle Mirror
and I am terribly sorry about the news.”

“Thank you.”

“I’d like to spend a moment here to get a sense of the mood. It’s inspiring that you’ve kept the doors open, considering.”

“God helps us persevere.”

“Did you know the Sister?”

Sadness flitted across the woman’s face, and her body language indicated that she’d prefer to see to the other visitors who were flowing around them. Jason moved on, coming next to a table with a jar for donations. He put a folded ten into the slot.

At the serving table he selected a tray, then a fork, spoon, and knife, letting his thoughts linger on the blade until he found himself looking over a food table at a large man wearing a full-length apron preparing a plate for him.

“Welcome friend. We have meatloaf, chicken, mashed potatoes, beans, some soup, and salad. How does a bit of everything sound?”

“A small bit of everything, please. I’ll pass on the soup and salad, thank you.”

After the chink of serving spoons against Jason’s plate, he scanned the tables of the hall for a seat. Some people had collected into small groups and seemed to know each other, some were smiling, catching up. Others were far off, alone, hunched over their food and eating slowly in quiet desperation.

Jason took an empty spot between two large groups. To his far left there was a group of men. To his right were several young families with babies. As he ate, he listened to their conversations.

“I’ve been divorced for two years,” a woman, who had a nose ring and appeared to be in her late teens, told the bald young man across from her. The man sitting next to the woman was holding a baby bundled in a yellow jumper. The man with the baby was wearing jeans and a vest and called to a man at the end of the table, “Yo, Dickie, heard what happened?”

“What?”

“One of the nuns here got murdered last night.” The baby-holder took a mouthful of beans and bounced the baby on his knee.

Dickie had heard. “Cops were in here at breakfast and lunch asking questions.”

“Which one was it who got killed?” the baby holder said.

“Dunno,” Dickie said. “Hey Lex? You know which Sister got murdered?”

An obese man wearing glasses and sitting at the next table shook his head slowly.

At the far end of Jason’s table, an unshaven man in his sixties with a mean scar down his cheek was sitting with six or seven quiet men. Scar man asked, “What did the cops want to know?”

The man with the baby shrugged. “Dickie, what did the cops ask you?”

“Where I was the night she got killed and if I had a record?”

A gentle rumble of laughter rose from the group of quiet men.

“Excuse me,” Jason said, “but does anyone know if the police said anything about the homicide being gang related, or payback for something?”

Scar man eyed Jason coldly. “Who are you?”

“Jason Wade, a reporter with the
Seattle Mirror.
”

“A reporter?”

The air tightened and Jason realized that he’d crossed a line. The way the men sat, arms defensively around their plates, their tattoos, their icy, hardened faces, he should’ve pegged them for ex-convicts, or parolees, before opening his mouth.

“I’m writing about the Sister’s homicide.”

“And how long were you going to sit there invading our privacy before you identified yourself, asshole?”

Jason felt everyone’s eyes on him.

“Because you know what we do to assholes?”

Better back off,
he thought,
back off and check out these guys later.

“I haven’t had much sleep. That was rude of me. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

He picked up his tray and prepared to leave. The quiet men resumed eating with soft chuckling. As Jason moved off to find a new spot, someone touched his arm.

“What sort of story are you writing?” one of the young mothers asked.

“I need to get a sense of what kind of difference the Sister made down here and if anyone in particular was close to her, or knows what might’ve happened.”

“You’re talking about Sister Anne, right? Word is, it was her. She’s been absent all day and she never misses, so we figured.”

Jason nodded, noticing some of the young women had tears in their eyes.

“Sister Anne was an angel to us and our kids,” the mother said, prompting nods from the others. “She was always getting doctors to look at them.”

“And she was trying to help us finish school, or find a job,” one mother said.

“Why would anyone want to hurt her?” one mother said. “Why?”

“I’d like to take your comments down, for my story. Please. It will let readers know what Seattle has lost. And it could help somebody to remember something that could lead to her killer.”

The women agreed to let Jason quote them, except one who’d just come from Spokane, where she’d left her abusive husband. After talking for several minutes and passing his card around, Jason asked if they could direct him to any regulars at the shelter who were close to Sister Anne. The women considered a few people, but warned him that shelter people generally weren’t much for talking.

“I got that.” He glanced at the hard cases watching him.

After thanking the women, Jason left them to help himself to a coffee in a ceramic mug donated by a local bank. Then he went to a far-off corner and reviewed his notes, flipping through pages, flagging the best quotes to go into his story. It wasn’t great, but he had something. More important, he had just over two hours to deadline. Gulping the last of his coffee, he was set to return to the newsroom to start writing.

Someone stopped at his table.

“They say you’re not a cop, is that true?” asked a man with black ball bearings for eyes.

“I’m a reporter with the
Mirror.
”

Jason displayed his photo ID and put a business card on the table for the stranger. The man was heavyset, in his forties, maybe. Hard to tell under his long hair and beard, flecked with crumbs.
A war vet?
He was wearing a dirty, tattered field jacket with desert camouflage pattern and military pants.

“I never talk to cops and they were here all day asking things about Sister Anne.”

“You knew her?” Jason asked.

“She’s the reason I’m still alive, know what I’m saying?”

No, Jason didn’t know, but the man’s intensity made him curious. The guy obviously had some problems.

“Can we talk about her?” Jason asked.

“No, I’m too upset, but there’s something I want you to pass to police.”

“What’s your name?”

“Forget that, listen up and write this down.”

Jason opened his notebook but wondered if the old soldier was going to be a nut job and a waste of time. Might as well humor him.

“A couple of weeks ago, this guy, a stranger, started showing up. He kept to himself and talked to no one but Sister Anne.”

“What’d they talk about?”

“She never said. They always went off alone to a corner. It was weird. I watched them, see, because the thing was, she always came away sorta sad, like whatever they were talking about was her problem, not his. It was like they were arguing.”

“Did it get physical? Did he threaten her?”

“Couldn’t say. It didn’t look that way.”

“You ever ask her about it?”

“I mind my own business. We all do in here.”

“Has the guy been around today?”

“Haven’t seen him for a few days. But somebody’s got to look into this guy.”

“You know much about him, like his name, or what he looked like?”

“Not really, the one thing I do remember is that I saw him take a knife from here.”

“A knife? Really?”

“A wooden-handled steak knife.”

Jason made careful notes. As he struggled to absorb the implication of the new information, his cell phone rang. His caller ID displayed the number for Eldon Reep.

“Sorry, I gotta take this.” He answered, “Wade,
Mirror.
”

“You better haul your butt in here now, Jason,” Cassie Appleton said.

What the hell was this? Cassie calling from Reep’s line, giving him orders.

“Where’s Eldon? I should be talking to him.”

“Why did you ditch me? We’re supposed to be working together.”

“You don’t need me to hold your hand.”

“Eldon’s in a meeting and since you’re not answering my calls, he told me to call you on his line and give you this message, which is to tell you you’ve got a deadline and you’d better damn well get in here now with a story.”

“I don’t take orders from other reporters.”

“You better listen to what I’m telling you, Jason, he’s really ticked at you.”

Jason ended the call and turned to resume his conversation with the old soldier.

But the man was gone.