by Rick Mofina
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“Yes.”
The needles swept across the paper.
“Did you know Sister Anne Braxton, who worked at the shelter?”
“Yes.”
“Are you involved in any way in her murder?”
“No.”
“Do you possess knives?”
“Yes.”
“Do any of them come from the shelter?”
“No.”
“Do you possess tennis shoes?”
“You mean do I own—”
“Yes or no, please. Next question: Is today Sunday?”
“No.”
“Did you know Sister Anne Braxton?”
“Yes.”
“Did you harm her in any way?”
“No.”
“Do you possess tennis shoes similar to the tennis shoes in the photographs shown to you today?”
“Yes.”
“Did you wear them?”
“No.”
“Did you kill Sister Anne Braxton?”
“No.”
“Did you see a stranger at the shelter whom you saw argue with Sister Anne and cause her to be upset?”
“Yes.”
“Did you witness this stranger take a knife?”
“Yes.”
“Was it similar to the knife in the photograph shown to you today by the detectives?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever have any romantic feelings toward Sister Anne Braxton?”
“No.”
“Did Sister Anne Braxton ever make you angry, upset?”
“No.”
“Did you see Sister Anne in the hours before she was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Did she speak with you?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever had reason to be in her town house near Yesler Terrace?”
“Yes.”
“Were you present in her building the night she was killed?”
“No.”
“Were you present in the alley behind the town house the night she was killed?”
“No.”
“Were you present in her neighborhood the night she was killed?”
“No.”
“Are you being truthful?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever have sexual fantasies about Sister Anne?”
“No.”
“Do you feel remorse about the deaths of your crew during combat?”
“Yes.”
“Do you blame yourself?”
“Yes.”
Barbara noticed tears rolling down Cooper’s face.
“Do you often hallucinate about that time?”
“Yes.”
Yamashita adjusted his glasses as he made notes, then returned to many of the same questions, repeating them.
“Have you ever been violent toward anyone?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever wished to harm anyone?”
“Yes, during duty—”
“Yes or no, please,” Yamashita made a note. “Did you ever wear the tennis shoes shown to you in the crime- scene photograph?”
“No.”
“Are you angry that Sister Anne was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who killed her?”
Cooper hesitated for a moment.
“Do you know who killed her?”
“I think I know.”
“Answer yes or no, please. Did you ever kill a woman in combat?”
“Yes, but I—”
“Do you know the name of the person who killed Sister Anne?”
“No.”
“Do you hallucinate?”
“Yes.”
“Do you relive your combat action in which you kill those who killed your crew?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a danger to people?”
“I don’t know, please, I—”
“Did you ever threaten Sister Anne.”
“No.”
“Do you sometimes black out?”
“Yes.”
“Do you always remember your actions during a blackout?”
“No.”
“Did you kill Sister Anne?”
Cooper’s face was wet with tears.
“No. God, please no.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Damn it. Damn this rain. Damn it.
Time was running out and Jason was losing it.
Seattle Police Headquarters took up half a block of downtown real estate at Cherry and Fifth. The twelve-story complex included the city’s municipal court building with its monolithic glass facade.
Tonight it was a fortress.
Jason was pacing in the pissing rain, desperate to talk to Grace Garner. He’d been shut down at every turn. No way were they going to let him inside and up to the Homicide Unit.
Not tonight.
He craned his neck to look up at the seventh-floor lights of the building. He knew Grace was up there with Perelli, likely working on Cooper.
But she wouldn’t answer her cell phone. Neither would Perelli, or Stan Boulder. He managed to squeeze a drip of information from Lynn Mann’s people at the King County Prosecuting Attorney’s Office.
“Lynn’s definitely in Homicide with Gracie and this street guy, Cooper. It all flows from your story but you didn’t get it from me, pal.”
Damn it. That made it worse.
Were they questioning Cooper? Was he going to lead them to the killer?
Was Cooper the killer?
Maybe they were charging him?
Damn it, had he dropped the ball on the biggest story to hit the city in months?
Jason glanced at the time. If he was going to get anything in the first edition, it would have to be now. All right. An idea struck him. He reached for his cell phone to call back his source in Lynn Mann’s office.
After Cooper’s polygraph test, Barbara North stared at herself in the mirror of a seventh-floor washroom.
Exhaustion rippled through her, making her entire body tremble. Garner and Lynn Mann had hit them hard. Their physical evidence was strong but there were holes in their case. The results from the foot impression and polygraph would play a key role.
The blackouts would hurt.
And he couldn’t account for his whereabouts the night of the crime.
Cooper’s arrest before WKKR’s camera, his physical appearance, his troubled history, his cryptic claim that a stranger killed Sister Anne, all served to make him look like a deranged nun-killer.
How could she counter that?
Seeing Cooper’s tears, hearing his responses, reading his file, in her heart she didn’t believe he was guilty. But public perception was difficult to overcome.
Barbara splashed water over her face. It felt good. As she descended the elevator at police headquarters, she decided that she was too tired to make herself dinner. She’d grab something on the way home.
Stepping into the lobby, she rummaged through her bag for her umbrella, then headed for the street, nearly bumping into somebody speaking her name.
“Excuse me, Barbara North? Would you be Barbara North?”
“Yes,” she tilted her umbrella up. “And you are?”
“Jason Wade, Seattle Mirror. Do you have a minute?”
“Not really, I’m late. How did you—?”
“I’ve been calling around since John Cooper was taken in earlier today. I understand you’re his lawyer, from the Public Defender’s Office, is that correct?”
Adjusting her grip on her umbrella, Barbara stared at Jason, contemplating his face, deciding whether or not he was worth her time.
“Let’s get out of the rain and go over there,” she nodded to a coffee shop down on the corner.
They found a booth and ordered coffee.
“Look, I truly am up against my deadline, right up on it, so forgive me in advance if I’m curt, rude, and rushed.”
“Sounds like the name of
a law firm. What’re you after?”
“So, Cooper’s your client?”
“Yes.”
“Has he been charged with Sister Anne’s murder?”
“No.”
“Do you mind?” Jason set a small recorder between them.
“That’s fine. I won’t be telling you much.”
“Where’s your client now?”
“In a holding cell.”
“Why are they holding him?”
“They can hold him for seventy-two hours before pressing charges. They’re attempting to rule him out as a suspect.”
“Or rule him in?”
When their coffees came, Barbara decided she might be able to counter the negative image Seattle would have of Cooper.
“If they had a strong case, they would have charged him. I can tell you he’s cooperating fully. He just agreed to a polygraph test.”
“Really? I can use that?”
Jason had just nailed his exclusive.
“Yes,” Barbara sipped her coffee. “He also gave samples of evidence that I will not disclose.”
“Samples, like what? DNA? Was Sister Anne sexually assaulted?”
Barbara shook her head.
“Not that type of sample.”
“Well, what then?”
“I believe you’ve written something about shoes? Let’s say, relating to footwear.”
“Really, that’s interesting. What’s the result of the polygraph?”
“Won’t know until tomorrow. Check with me then.”
“Did Cooper kill Sister Anne?”
“Come on.”
“Well?”
“No, I don’t think he did.”
“But he has these spells and when I found him under the Interstate, he was hallucinating and stabbing the air with a knife.”
“Yes, all in your story. I read that. Very vivid writing.”
“You think I made that up?”
“No, I’m not suggesting that. I acknowledge John Cooper’s a troubled man, but I don’t believe he’s Sister Anne’s killer. I believe he’s a convenient suspect.”
Boom. Jason had his lead and the Mirror had a headline.
Jason’s cell phone rang.
“Excuse me, I have to take this.”
Then Barbara’s phone rang and she took her call, from her son. As she talked lovingly, wishing him a good night, Jason talked to Eldon Reep.
“I think you better hold me space on front, Eldon.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The morning after Sister Anne’s funeral, Sister Denise was the first to rise in the town house.
Seattle’s skyline glowed in the predawn light as she padded to the front door for the morning paper, her heart still aching.
Anne had come to her in a dream, standing at the foot of her bed, resplendent in the light of grace and the fragrance of roses.
Oh Anne, why did your blood point me to your journal? What should I do?
Ease your worried heart, for you will know.
Was that a dream? Or an apparition? A message? Or was it grief? Denise wondered, for she’d asked the same questions during her private morning prayers.
But no answers came.
Maybe they would come during morning prayer with the others, she thought, setting the paper on the kitchen table and starting the kettle. Denise made tea, squeezing in a bit of lemon and a few drips of milk. She took solace in the quiet as the Seattle Mirror’s front-page headlines blared at her.
Homeless Man Held in Nun’s Murder: Arrested at Funeral Sister Anne Braxton Remembered As the Saint of Seattle
The papers used that lovely picture of Anne laughing among the children, and there were photos of the crowds entering the shelter. There was also a photograph, an old one of John Cooper, looking much younger, clean-cut. Looked like his military service picture.
The story on Cooper said detectives had subjected him to a lie-detector test and collected forensic evidence. His lawyer said police were treating him as a “convenient suspect.”
Denise shook her head in disbelief. Not Cooper. No, they were wrong to think that he might have hurt her. Denise studied every word of every article about Sister Anne. Nothing about her past. Police don’t know about her journal and they should know.
What should I do?
Denise heard a gentle knock at the door. Through the front window, she saw the Seattle police car parked out front. The officer was talking to the driver of a taxi that had stopped.
Denise recognized Father Mercer at the door, and opened it. He was leaning on his cane and offered her a kind smile.
“Good morning Sister. My apologies for calling at this hour. I’m on my way to catch an early flight. I have to get back to Maine. Our bishop’s not doing too well, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, Father.”
“I don’t imagine Sister Vivian is up?”
“No, Father.” Denise saw that he had a large envelope in his hand.
“Could you please ensure she receives this confidentially? Advise her it contains some information sent to me last night by fax, care of the Archdiocese.”
He passed the plain brown padded envelope to Denise.
“Is this Sister Anne’s material?”
His eyebrows rose.
“How did you know? This is a confidential matter for the Order.”
“I’m the one who discovered her journal, Father. While cleaning her—” Denise couldn’t speak the words. “While cleaning.”
He leaned on his cane and raised his chin slowly.
“Ahh. Then I trust it will remain confidential until Sister Vivian decides how best to proceed?”
“Of course.”
“You’ll give me your word that will hand-deliver this to her personally.”
“My word, Father.”
Satisfied, Father Mercer closed his eyes momentarily and smiled.
“God be with you, Sister.”
“And with you, Father. Have a safe trip.”
After watching Father Mercer’s cab disappear around the corner, Sister Denise went to the small office of the town house. Locking the door behind her, she put the envelope on the desk, thrust her face into her hands, and stared at it.
She listened for any noises of anyone stirring.
All remained silent.
The envelope was not sealed with a moistened or sticky adhesive. It had a flap with string tie and button closure. Denise knew exactly what she was going to do next, for she believed that morally she was part owner of this material.
God forgive me, but I feel in my heart this is what Anne wants.
Denise opened the envelope to the original journal. Affixed to it was a short note, handwritten with a fountain pen, from Father Mercer.
“Sister Marie Clermont was the nun who oversaw Sister Anne Braxton’s screening when she first approached the Order as a candidate in Europe. Although Sister Marie was thought to have passed away in Brazil, we have now confirmed that she is alive. The information is attached.”
The second page was a fax from St. Helen of Mercies Catholic Church in Cardston, Alberta, Canada.
Denise read the information, which was in response to Father Mercer’s request, which had been channeled through various levels of church bureaucracy.
“…We can confirm Sister Marie Clermont is living in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies near Pincher Creek in Southern Alberta. Only last month she reached her 92nd birthday. She is very alert and lucid. A parishioner in the oil industry donated a small cabin where she lives alone, passing her days gardening, painting, and communing with God. Directions are provided below.”
A hermit nun.
Denise had read of retired sisters who retreated into a spiritual life of solitude. But would Sister Marie recall anything of Sister Anne as a young candidate and postulant? Would she know what moved her to join the Order as a young woman traveling through Europe? Would she know about her past life?
Age 92. Alert and lucid.
Maybe.
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Denise looked at the journal and the documents. Then she looked at the photocopier next to the desk. Reflecting on how everything had unfolded, she was convinced that she’d received the guidance she had sought. She pressed a button and the photocopier began humming. Once it was ready she began making a copy of everything.
Next to the machine, she’d noticed several copies of earlier editions of the Seattle Times and the Seattle Mirror. Her attention went to the reporter’s name, the one she saw most frequently. Jason Wade. The same reporter who’d come here, looking for information. He’d left his card.
At that moment, Denise heard the sounds of movement from the room directly above the office. It was Sister Anne’s room. Sister Vivian was coming.
Hurry, please hurry, Denise told the photocopier.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jason positioned his Falcon in the early morning line at a twenty-four-hour donut shop drive-thru in Fremont. As he eased up to the order board, his cell phone rang.
It was Eldon Reep.
“This is what we’re doing today, we’re going big on how the Mirror first tracked him after breaking the story on the murder weapon, etcetera. You give me a first-person on ‘the killer’s lair under the Interstate,’ and use every ounce of color that didn’t go into your news story.”
“Eldon, they’ve got to charge him first,” Jason said. “Two grape jelly donuts and a jumbo coffee, please. Thanks.”
“Wade? Where the hell are you?”
“Getting my breakfast.”
“Where are you headed? I’ll send Cassie to hook up with you.”
Jason fished a five-dollar bill from his jeans at the window and exchanged it for his order.
“No need to send her. That’s good, keep the change,” Jason said, checking traffic as he exited the shop. “I’m good by myself. I’ll call you.”
“We have to stay out front on this story, you got that, Wade?”
“You bet. Bye.”
Jason slid a Norman Greenbaum CD into his sound system. He put this morning’s Mirror, with his two page-one bylines, on his lap to use as a napkin. He tore into his donuts, dripping jelly on the faces of Cooper and Sister Anne as “Spirit in the Sky” flowed through his speakers.
After the song and his breakfast were done, he pulled over and called Cooper’s lawyer, Barbara North, on her cell phone and at home, leaving messages at both places. By the time he hit the Aurora Avenue Bridge spanning Lake Union, she’d got back to him.
