by Rick Mofina
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.
Chapter Thirteen
D riving his Falcon from the shelter to the Mirror, Jason looked at his watch. Two hours before deadline, enough time to put a story together.
His cell phone rang. The number showed: “Restricted.”
Most Seattle police phone numbers came up that way.
“Jason, it’s Garner.”
“Grace! Hang on!” He scanned his mirrors before pulling over. “What’ve you got that I can use?”
“The name’s confirmed, Anne Louise Braxton. The press office is putting that out with a photo of her from the order, in about an hour.”
“Any next of kin?”
“Apparently not. The order was her family, her life.”
“Cause of death?”
“She was stabbed. That will be in the release and we won’t go into details.”
“Did you find the weapon? I’ve got sources saying you found a knife near the town house and I’ve got a lead that the knife may have come from the shelter, so I’m going with it.”
“How did you get all that?”
“I’m a crime reporter, or did you forget already?”
“Jason, if you publish that now, it could damage our case. We’ll be chasing down every whack job who’ll confess.”
“I don’t work for the Seattle PD. I’m going with what I have, unless you tell me right now that it’s dead wrong?”
“I’m not confirming or denying it.”
“So you do have a knife?”
“I’m not confirming that.”
“You’re not denying it. Grace, quit the BS. I think you’ve got the knife. I won’t say what kind of knife it is, I’ll qualify all my stuff as, ‘police are investigating the theory that…’ you know the tune, okay?”
“I have to go.”
“I think you owe me, Grace.”
“What? I don’t owe you squat. Grow up.”
“Then tell me my stuff is wrong.”
Silence hissed for several beats.
“Grace?”
“I don’t work for the Seattle Mirror. ”
“Give me a break.”
“You can go with the knife, if you qualify it.”
“I will. Any suspects?”
“I’m not getting into that.”
“What about something from her past, something gang related.”
“Look, you know the procedure. We’re tracing her final movements, last twenty-four hours. Like I said, the shelter, the bus ride, the hood. That’s what we do. Now, I have to go
. And you keep my name out of the paper.”
In the newsroom, Jason stepped from the elevator and glanced at the nearest clock, the one in sports above the blowup of a Seahawks touchdown. Most reporters had filed their stories and were gone. Others were putting on jackets, giving last-minute updates to copy editors, as the handoff from day side to night side had begun.
Jason had no time to talk to anyone.
At his desk, the red light on his phone was blinking with twelve messages. He logged on to the newsroom’s system and had some two dozen unanswered e-mails. Ignoring everything, he transcribed his notes, putting up his best quotes, then crafted a rough lead and four or five paragraphs.
He’d taken a good bite out of the story.
Then he went to his phone messages, advancing them in rapid fire while simultaneously checking e-mails. Nothing critical. Then Jason winced when he heard his father’s voice. “Still want to talk to you, son. Call when you can.”
Jason mentally promised to call his dad after he filed.
“Wade! Get in here!”
Eldon Reep, the metro editor, hollered from the door to his office where Mack Pedge, the deputy managing editor, and Vic Beale, the Mirror ’s night editor, were seated. Reep had loosened his tie and put his hands on his hips.
“Why in hell didn’t you call in, Wade?” Reep said.
“My cell phone died and I was on to something at the shelter.”
It was clear Pedge and Beale had no time for Reep’s drama-their faces telling him to discipline your staff on your time, not on our deadline.
“What’ve you got for us that’s strong enough for front?” Beale said.
“Homicide’s got the murder weapon, a knife, and a theory that it came from the shelter. She may have had some sort of incident with a visitor.”
“And who backs that up?” Beale said.
“People I talked to down there. I also have a source inside the investigation.”
“Can you shape your story,” Pedge said, “so it leads by saying that detectives think the nun may have been murdered by one of the very people she tried to help?”
“Yes, as long as we qualify it as a theory.”
“This is strong. Good work, Jason,” Beale said. “We’ll take twelve inches on front, then jump inside to the rest of the coverage. Go as long as you want, but we need it in under an hour.”
After Beale and Pedge left, Reep closed the door.
“Wade, don’t ever embarrass me like that again. When you’re on a story, you call me every hour and tell me what you’ve got.”
“I just got all of this now. Excuse me, but I’ve got to get writing.”
“Hold up. Cassie’s filing some material, I want you to put it into your story and give her credit. I told you to work with her, so put a double byline on top of the story.”
“What’d she get?”
“Some color.”
“I don’t need it. Maybe somebody else can use it. I’m writing news.” Translation: I do not trust her stuff.
Reep stepped close enough for Jason to know that he’d eaten something with garlic today. “You listen to me, smart-ass. You work for me and you’ll do as you’re told. Now shut up and get out of here.”
Cursing under his breath, Jason got coffee, then sat down to finish his story. Halfway through, he detected a trace of perfume.
“There you are,” Cassie Appleton stood next to his desk. “I’ve just sent you my half of our front-page story. I told Eldon that we have to be careful we have our facts straight. See you tomorrow.”
“Right. Bye.”
When he’d finished his story, he opened Cassie’s file. She had five hundred words copied directly from the Web site of the Sisters’ order. Not a single live quote. Not a single news fact. The stuff was not even rewritten into news copy.
It was useless.
Jason didn’t use a single word. He gritted his teeth and his stomach heaved as he typed her name next to his. It was ten minutes before deadline when he filed. Then he reviewed his e-mails and messages to be sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.
His old man.
Fifteen minutes later, Jason was listening to Van Morrison and staring at Seattle’s skyline and the bay as he headed south to the neighborhood where he grew up, at the fringe of South Park.
Driving through it gave him mixed feelings. He knew every building, every weather-worn tree, and every landmark that had been there since he was a kid.
His old man’s truck, the Ford Ranger pickup, was in the driveway. Jason parked his Falcon behind it. There was no response when he knocked on the door but the lights were on inside.
Strange.
Jason found his key and went inside.
“Dad?”
Nothing.
At the kitchen table he found a family photo album. A few ancient snapshots were fanned out on the table, one of Jason, about seven years old with his new red bike. His mom had her arms around him. Their faces were radiant.
There was one of his old man smiling in the uniform of the Seattle Police Department. That was a rare picture. Must’ve been before “the incident” that led him to quit the force after only a few years.
Would Jason ever really know why?
His dad never talked about it
Whatever happened back then had to be the reason his mother walked out on both of them. His old man worked hard to hold on to what was left of his life and in the last few years after he got on with Don Krofton’s private investigation agency, he’d been doing well.
Until now.
He was battling something and he seemed to be losing.
What the hell was it?
Among the items on the table, Jason saw an empty envelope with Krofton’s letterhead. It was recent, according to the postmark.
What was this all about?
Dad, I’m sorry I got tied up.
Jason started calling bars looking for his old man.
Chapter Fourteen
T he next morning Henry Wade held the suspect in the sights of his handgun.
Finger on the trigger.
Life and death in a heartbeat. He couldn’t do this. Not again
He had to do it.
All in a heartbeat.
Steady your grip. Focus. Look at the suspect. Is the threat real? The gun is death in your hand. You are going to kill someone.
Don’t shoot or shoot? Is the threat real?
Decide now.
All in a heartbeat you are going to kill someone.
The air exploded.
Henry fired six rounds from his Glock, pressed the release button with his right thumb, ejected the magazine, inserted another one, securing it smoothly with the heel of his left hand before firing six more rounds.
Twelve rounds in under fifteen seconds. The threat was gone.
But his fear wasn’t.
“Outstanding, Henry.” Earl Webb, the firearms instructor, hit the button that retrieved the target. A B-27 silhouette. A man’s upper torso. He assessed the scoring ring. “Nice clustering.” Webb noted Henry’s high score for the speed-loading segment of his firearm’s qualification course.
“Let’s go to the last one we talked about.” Webb affixed the new target, hit the button for the clothesline chain to set it in position at the required distance, then instructed Henry to proceed.
Henry didn’t move.
“Ready, Henry? Same steps. Go any time.”
Henry stared at the target. It was a B-29 silhouette. A man’s upper torso, reduced in size. Fifty feet away. Confronting him at fifty feet. Pulling him back in time, reminding him that the suspect was approximately fifty feet away.
The victim was…
Henry’s scalp tingled.
“Go ahead.” Webb’s thumb was poised on the timer.
He was being tested.
Again.
God help me.
Henry fired six rounds, ejected the magazine, inserted another one, and fired six more, all in less than ten seconds. Webb ret
rieved the target. Henry’s clustering was even tighter than with the B-27.
As if he was determined to kill something.
“Impressive.” Webb noted the scoring. “That’s it, you’ve completed everything and because of your background and the fact you’re already a licensed PI, I expect you’ll be getting your firearms ticket real soon. Nice work.”
Webb extended his hand. Henry hesitated. What the hell did he have to be happy about? But Webb didn’t know.
No one really did.
Wheeling his pickup from the Washington State Criminal Justice Training Commission, near SeaTac International, Henry could hear the whine of a jet on its landing approach. As it drew closer, its engines screamed overhead like the truth descending upon him. He would be licensed to carry a gun again.
Authorized to take another person’s life.
Are you able to live with that the rest of your life?
In the seat next to him, the pages of his study guide lifted in the breeze.
His nightmare had been resurrected.
Bile surged up the back of his throat. He pulled to the shoulder, slammed on his brakes, got out, doubled over, and vomited. He stayed there until the jet passed and the sky was quiet again.
Back behind the wheel, heading to where he needed to go, Henry dragged his forearm across his mouth. He ached for a drink. He battled the craving. He had to face this head-on and he had to face it sober.
It was that simple.
He’d gone more than two years now without touching alcohol, ever since he almost lost Jason and took early retirement from the brewery. That’s when Don Krofton, an old ex-cop pal, had hired him for his private investigative agency to work as an unarmed private detective.
Unarmed.
That suited Henry just fine.
Jason and Krofton had pulled him from the hell where he’d been trapped for some twenty-five years. Since he started working as a PI, Henry and Jason had grown closer. Sometimes Henry helped him on his stories, sometimes Jason helped him on his cases.
Partners.
Henry cherished what they had but now he feared he could lose it all.
Recently, a couple of the agency’s files involved some unexpected violence, so Krofton ordered all of his investigators to become licensed by the state to carry and use firearms. “No exceptions, Henry,” Krofton told him. “Unless you want to pack it in, and I don’t think you want to do that.”
