The Corporal Works of Murder (24 page)

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Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie

BOOK: The Corporal Works of Murder
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“Thanks,” Inspector Dennis Gallagher said, his face like a thundercloud. Kate Murphy followed close on his heels.
“What's up, guys?” Wong asked as the elevator door slid shut behind them.
“We just found Tim Moran,” Kate said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Someone shot him.”
For a minute Wong wasn't sure he had heard correctly. “Tim Moran?” he asked in disbelief.
When Kate nodded, Wong felt as though someone had sucked all the air from the elevator. He was stifling. “Where?” he asked, running his finger around his shirt collar.
“At the tattoo parlor on Eighth Street,” she said.
The elevator door opened and Wong welcomed the rush of cold air.
“You okay?” Kate asked and he nodded.
“I just can't believe it. When did it happen?”
“We haven't got the coroner's report yet,” Kate said, “but from what you told us it has to have happened between the time you and Brian saw him and early this afternoon, when an elderly nun who works in the homeless shelter a few buildings down found him.”
“Does Lieutenant Donaldson know?” Wong asked, when he realized that Gallagher and Murphy were headed for the same Detail as he was.
“The way stuff gets around in this building, I'm sure he has been informed by now.” Gallagher spoke for the first time. “I'll talk to Donaldson,” he said to Kate.
When the three entered the Vice Squad room, Wong was grateful to find it nearly empty. He was in no frame of mind to do a lot of talking or even a little talking to a lot of people. To be honest, he felt sick to his stomach. He watched Gallagher
head for Lieutenant Donaldson's office, thankful that he'd only have to deal with Kate.
Barely acknowledging the two or three officers who were getting ready to leave, Wong motioned Kate to take a seat in the far corner where they had the best chance of being left alone. “We need to talk,” he said in a low voice.
“What's bothering you?” Kate asked.
Mark Wong could feel his face redden. He detested sounding like a gossip.
Why did I ever get into this?
he thought, shifting uneasily in the chair. “I don't know how much this has to do with anything,” he said, wishing he could think of a way to eel out.
“I understand,” Kate's candid blue eyes studied him. “Anything you offer could be helpful,” she sighed, “and, God knows, we need all the help we can get.”
For the first time since she had stepped into the elevator, Wong really looked at Kate Murphy. “Worn out,” was the first word that popped into his mind. “Frustrated,” was the second. And why not? Two police officers had been murdered and there were no solid leads.
Without further hesitation, he told her about Donaldson approaching Susie Chang and asking her to play a joke on Moran.
“Odd,” Kate said. “Although it's not against the law to have a weird sense of humor.”
“Poor Tim,” Wong was having trouble getting enough air. “God, Kate, I wish Brian and I had taken him home or something.”
Kate looked as if she was about to comment when her partner came out of Donaldson's office. Wong was relieved. He didn't want to hear how it wasn't his fault or that he'd done what anyone else would have done. Whether or not it was true, it didn't stop him from feeling like hell.
“He's gone,” Gallagher said, leaving no doubt who “he” was.
“To notify the family?” Kate asked.
Gallagher nodded. “I guess. I just hung up from Lieutenant Sweeney. He says for us to go home, get a good night's sleep, and we'll go full speed ahead in the morning.”
“Sounds like good advice,” Kate said, closing her notebook.
From the tone of her voice, Wong suspected that she didn't believe it.
“It's been a long day,” she said, as if she were trying to convince herself to go. “See you, Mark,” she called, following Gallagher out the door.
Officer Mark Wong sat silently, trying to realize what had happened even if he could not yet figure out the why.
“Howdy, partner.” Brian Dineen's deep voice filled the nearly empty room. “What's wrong?” he asked the moment he had a clear look at Wong's face.
“I'll tell you in the car,” Wong said. “I hope we can make some sense of this mess, even if we don't do anything else all night.”
Contrary to Sister Mary Helen's fear, when she and Anne arrived at the convent no one at all seemed to be worried about them. In fact, the entire community was glued to the television set in the Sisters' Room.
“Another unsolved police murder,” she heard the anchorman say in grave tones.
“What is this city coming to?” the young, blonde co-anchor lamented in a high, childlike voice.
“What, indeed?” Sister Therese said, echoing the blonde's sentiments. “What, indeed?”
Only old Donata noticed Anne and Mary Helen slip into the room. She winked at Mary Helen, but said nothing. Apparently the segment on Officer Moran's murder was just starting.
Sliding into a vacant chair near the door, Mary Helen closed
her eyes and hoped fervently that no reference would be made to her discovering a body.
She may as well have hoped that the sun wouldn't rise. There was about as much chance.
“Although at this time the San Francisco Police Department is not commenting, we have learned from the reliable source that there has been another undercover police officer shot to death,” the high voice proclaimed. “The officer's name is being withheld until his next-of-kin is notified.”
The Sisters' Room was unnaturally still.
“We go now to Cindy Sasaki who is on the scene.”
The quick intake of breath in the room, plus a couple of “Oh, no's” told Mary Helen that the camera must have switched to downtown San Francisco, somewhere near the Refuge. Reluctantly she opened her eyes.
Sure enough, the reporter, her collar pulled up around her ears, was standing right in front of the place. All eyes were on the television screen except the ones that were on her.
Cindy Sasaki, who up to this point Mary Helen had liked, confided conspiratorially, “Reliable sources tell us that late this afternoon, one of the nuns who ministers at a homeless shelter in the area discovered the body. We have been unable to contact her for comment. We have, however, spoken with several women who frequent the homeless shelter. One has agreed to talk with us.”
With a satisfied smile, Cindy pushed the microphone toward a homeless woman. “Can you tell us what you saw or heard here this afternoon?” she asked. The woman turned and faced the camera. Mary Helen couldn't believe her eyes. Of all the women on all the streets in downtown San Francisco, the reporter had picked Crazy Alice.
Crazy Alice smiled wisely into the camera. Then she paused as if she were weighing her words. Cindy Sasaki waited anxiously,
anticipating an in-depth assessment of the situation. “This afternoon?” she prompted.
Mary Helen shifted in her seat, wondering just what Alice would come out with.
Staring into space, Alice stiffened, then without warning, she turned her burning hazel eyes toward the camera. “Murder may pass unpunish'd for a time,” she announced solemnly, “But tardy justice will o'ertake the crime.” Wheeling on her heel, she disappeared quickly into the crowd.
For a few seconds, even Cindy Sasaki was speechless. “And we hope that she is right,” she finally managed. “Now back to you in our studio.”
“Dryden,” Sister Therese said in a stage whisper.
“What's dry?” Donata asked.
“Dryden. That's a quote from John Dryden,” Therese said distinctly.
I hope the murderer knows that, Mary Helen thought, a strange fear creeping over her. Poor Alice may have sounded too knowledgeable for her own good. From what she said, the killer might surmise that she knows who he is. Or who she is—it could be a she, she reminded herself. On the other hand, what were the chances of someone killing another human being then sitting down to watch the six o'clock news?
Suddenly she was aware of a strange silence in the room. Glancing furtively around, she realized that she had become the center of attention.
“Well?” Old Donata asked.
“Well, what?” Mary Helen stalled, although she was perfectly sure she knew what they wanted.
“Tell us what happened.” Old Donata left nothing to chance.
After taking some deep breaths, Mary Helen told the Sisters that, quite by accident, she had discovered Officer Moran's body in the tattoo parlor. Noticing a few faces pale, she decided to
leave out as much as possible about finding him in the raggededged, sticky pool of blood on the linoleum floor.
“He did manage before he died to draw some lines—lines that looked as though he was trying to print letters,” she said, deliberately omitting the
with what
. The grimaces on some faces let her know that they had guessed.
“What word did the letters spell?” Ursula asked.
“Unfortunately, they didn't spell anything,” she admitted. “At least nothing I could figure out.”
“Draw them for us,” old Donata demanded. “Maybe one of us can.”
Obligingly Mary Helen wrote down on a piece of scratch paper what she'd seen.
Wouldn't Inspector Gallagher have a fit if he knew what we were doing,
she thought, watching the paper go around the room.
“It has to mean something,” Therese said, turning the paper every which way. And they all agreed, although no one could come up with exactly what.
Mary Helen noticed that Sister Patricia, the college president, didn't even try. “What I'd suggest,” she said sitting up stiffly, “is that you two close down that place for a couple of days and we let the police do their work. It seems dangerous to me for you to go back down there until the killer is caught.”
“Dangerous?” Anne protested, a little starch in her voice. “What makes you think that we are in any danger?”
“Really, Anne,” Patricia's blue eyes sparked. “Officer Moran finds Officer Spencer's body, then he is killed. Sister Mary Helen finds Officer Moran's body, not to mention the both of you finding that criminal's body. And then …” she let the sentence trail off.
“That doesn't necessarily follow,” Anne said, not giving an inch, Mary Helen noticed.
“Right,” Patricia conceded, “but doesn't it makes sense not to take the chance?”
“Not that sense has ever been your strong suit,” Therese snapped.
Mary Helen felt her blood pressure rising at the same time as she felt old Donata's hand on her arm. Obviously, Donata had missed most of the exchange. Lucky for her, Mary Helen thought, leaning toward her to hear what she was saying.
“I found the reference for “topsy-turvy” today,” Donata said, her eyes twinkling. “On the Web.”
With all the goings-on, Mary Helen had completely forgotten about Donata's research project.
“It's from “top” plus the obsolete “terven” meaning in Middle English to overturn. Usually means upside down, in a state of disorder or confusion.” That said, she closed her eyes and, to those who didn't know better, she seemed to be taking a cat nap.
“What do you think, Mary Helen?” Patricia asked.
It took Mary Helen several seconds to realize that they were still discussing closing the Refuge for a few days. In fact, both Patricia and Anne had managed to dig in their heels and the room was quickly dividing. She was being called on to be the voice of reason. Each one, of course, thinking reason was on her side.
“For safety's sake,” Patricia repeated, making her point.
“We are not in any real danger,” Anne countered, just as persistently.
Mary Helen cleared her throat. All eyes were on her.
Lord, how did I get in this mess?
she wondered.
And more to the point, how will I get out of it
? “I think,” she said slowly without looking at either Patricia or Anne, “the decision whether or not to close the Refuge is Anne's. She is the director.” She paused. “However, Patricia has a valid concern. We may well be in danger. But danger or no danger, in my opinion, after this week we both could use a break.” She smiled and waited.
“You're right about that,” Anne agreed quickly. Too quickly,
to Mary Helen's way of thinking. Maybe she was frightened and just didn't want to admit it.
She has every reason to be,
Mary Helen thought, watching the relief wash over Patricia's face.
Without any further discussion, the decision was made for the whole community to sleep in later in morning. After all, a little rest would be good for them all.

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