Killer in the Cloister

by Camille Minichino

  Apparently I made my point and Aidan changed the subject.

  “I’ll bet this class is more to your liking,” he said. He tilted his head back toward the blackboard, still full of Father Barrett’s doodling—enormous overlapping circles to encompass God and the world, sprinkled with Latin words and phrases.

  Patrem omnipotentem, factorem caeli et terrae. Filium Dei unigenitum.

  “I love it. It’s what I expected from a masters program in theology.”

  “Me, too. More like seminary.”

  A tiny sound of surprise escaped my lips. “Were you in the seminary?”

  There it was, before I could catch it. A personal question. No wonder Aidan Connors didn’t know his place. I didn’t know mine. I gave him no reason to behave himself.

  He nodded and seemed to disappear into his adolescence. “The Jesuits. I went in right from high school in spite of my parents’ advice. I lasted four years. Got my bachelor’s and left. Way too young.” Aidan turned and smiled at me. “Or maybe it was the Kadota figs.”

  I looked at him and broke into a laugh that was too loud for my liking. “Kadota figs! Did you have those awful yellow lumps, too?”

  He nodded, wrinkling his nose as if the overly sweet smell had crossed a time barrier and reached his nostrils. “I guess it’s a staple of religious life—canned figs in syrup every Friday evening for dessert.”

  “If you can call it that.”

  He laughed. “We used to transfer them to each other’s plates when the Prefect wasn’t looking.”

  We’d left the building together and stood talking at the corner of the large quadrangle known as the parade grounds. The day was warm enough to attract students to the massive lawn—they lay sprawled about in twos and threes, binders and textbooks beside them.

  “They’re tricky things,” Aidan said. “Vocations, I mean. Not figs.”

  What now? I wondered. Am I supposed to counsel this man? Or does this come under the no-discussion-of-vocation-with-defectors rule? My relationship to Aidan Connors was becoming as confusing as Mother Ignatius’ death. I had a sudden urge to tell him my suspicions about Mother Ignatius’ death, but I stifled it. We had enough interaction already. I chose a neutral tone, back on the topic.

  “I’m sure it was a difficult decision to leave the order.”

  “It was. I’d like to talk to you about it some time. You seem so sure of yourself.”

  I turned my head away in an effort to clear my mind before I responded. Another reality faced me, however, as I got a look at the enormous clock on the Administration Building tower. I gasped. “Sister Ann William’s waiting for me.”

  “Another time, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Take care of yourself, Sister Francesca.” He smiled. “Walk slowly and watch the sidewalk traffic.” Aidan’s voice was soft—both concerned and friendly. I noticed he was wearing the same or a similar sweater as every other time I’d seen him on campus—a pale blue that matched his eyes. I wondered if he’d adopted a uniform out of habit from his days in seminary.

  I brushed aside my curiosity about the rest of Aidan Connors’ personal life, as well as the overly-pleasant feeling I had whenever I interacted with him.

  <><><>

  Sister Ann William was more animated than usual on our walk home, having browsed through a book on poisons while she waited for me.

  “Did you know about half a teaspoon of nicotine can be fatal? From just three cigarettes you can extract enough to kill a person. You put the tobacco in a container, pour boiling water over it, let it steep, then strain it through cheesecloth.” In spite of an armful of books, Sister Ann William used her hands to dramatize the process. “Put it over a small flame until it evaporates into a couple of drops and . . .” She snapped her fingers. “. . . you have a lethal dose of nicotine.”

  “Then what?” I asked, unwilling to dampen her enthusiasm.

  “You can apply it so many ways. For one thing, just rub it on someone’s skin—it’s absorbed through every pore of the body. It’s very slow, however, so I doubt that’s what killed Mother Ignatius. There’d be vomiting, nausea, convulsions, a little like strychnine poisoning.”

  “That’s more than I need to know.”

  Sister Ann William finally noticed my shivers and squeamish expression.

  “Sorry, Sister. I forgot not everyone’s used to this sort of thing. I guess you were never a candy-striper?”

  I shook my head. “My sisters Kate and Patty did. But I stuffed envelopes and answered phones in the rectory. Nice clean work.” I relaxed my shoulders, hoping our graphic discussion was over. I almost wished she’d forgotten about the pending issue—how we could get an autopsy performed on Mother Ignatius’ body.

  Sister Ann William cleared her throat, and I knew my wish for a non-clinical topic was not to be granted.

  “I talked to my Uncle Jeb, back home? He’s a doctor?” Sister Ann William’s accent was back in full force, I noted, apparently brought on by the allusion to her kin. “I didn’t tell him the details, of course. I made it sound like I needed information for class.” I gulped. We were both getting too good at white lies and mental reservations. “He said in the absence of family, anyone closely connected to the deceased can request an autopsy.”

  “I wouldn’t say we were closely connected to Mother Ignatius.”

  Sister Ann William held up her hand. “Or someone of prominence who has an interest in the results.”

  I gave her a questioning look, wondering whom she had in mind. The Bishop? I wasn’t ready to answer to Mother Julia for a spontaneous trip to the New York City Chancery Office. Even if he could have been persuaded, we didn’t have access to him. Sister Felix? I’d already fallen from her list of favorites.

  “Mr. Driscoll,” she said, ending my mental quiz.

  “Jake Driscoll? Your idea is that we ask Jake Driscoll to request an autopsy?”

  “You said he offered your brother a job, so he must like you. Therefore, he’s predisposed to help.”

  “We’re to ask a suspect in a murder case to request an autopsy on his victim so we can determine if he’s the killer?”

  “When you put it that way it doesn’t sound like such a good idea.”

  I blew out my breath. “Not hardly.”

  <><><>

  For the rest of the walk home Sister Ann William and I discussed elements of Mother Ignatius’ death. We might have been two partners in the Bronx Police Department, Homicide Division. Or two logicians arguing the merits of a syllogism.

  “Assume we persuade Mr. Driscoll to request an autopsy. I see at least two problems,” I said, preparing my fingers for the count. “One— he may not get approval, and two—even if there is an autopsy, it may not help us. You said the standard screens for poisons are limited.”

  Sister Ann William nodded. “Uncle Jeb says they typically look for so-called normal drugs—alcohol, barbiturates, opiates, marijuana. But I’ve thought of a way to expand the tests.” I gave her a questioning look. “We could make a list of the likely sources of poison—what someone around here could obtain easily—and ask for those specific tests.”

  I remembered the shed in what was left of St. Lucy’s grounds. “Gardening supplies!” I said.

  Sister Ann William gave me an approving smile. “Or the plants themselves. I suspect the rhododendron and azalea. There would have been evidence of vomiting and . . .” I gave Sister Ann William a look that prompted her to cut short her description. She ended with, “. . . and other external signs of abdominal upset.”

  “We don’t really know what condition her body was in when Sister Felix found her,” I said, reminding myself how ill-equipped we were to discuss the forensics of the case.

  “That would be good to know. Say she was in a convulsed positio
n, with early rigor mortis. A clear indication of strychnine poisoning. With cyanide, on the other hand, asphyxiation is very slow. The victim thrashes about as if she’s struggling with herself. The bed would have been a mess and someone might have heard screams or sobs while she was choking.”

  I cleared my throat. Sister Ann William’s clinical manner—like that of a doctor coaching a freshman in medical school—was getting to me. “You seem to know a great deal about this.”

  “Uncle Jeb,” she said, with a laugh. “He really wanted me to go medical school. He’s adjusting well to my being at least in a related field.”

  My family’s wishes for me seemed much simpler than that—that I be an exemplary Sister of Mary Immaculate—but lately I wasn’t so sure I measured up.

  Handicapped as Sister Ann William and I were, with no information on the condition of Mother Ignatius body, and no Uncle Jeb nearby, we managed to release a litany of possibilities, picking up the pace of our walk in our enthusiasm.

  “You can buy arsenic in any mineral store,” Sister Ann William said.

  “And there’s insulin. Maybe Mother Ignatius was diabetic.”

  “Or what if she had a heart condition? There’s foxglove in our garden—the pharmaceutical source of digitalis. Poisonous in overdose, of course.”

  “Rust remover, cleaners, antifreeze. Things you can buy in a hardware store.” My contributions were the less technical candidates.

  “And we need to think seriously of the Pharmacy Department supply room. Everything we’ve mentioned is in there in several forms . . . from pure grade to complicated mixtures.”

  “Aren’t they locked up?”

  Sister Ann William nodded. “But so many people have keys, it’s almost a joke.” I shuddered as my companion gave me a list of possible offenders. Janitorial staff, undergraduates, graduate students, professors, administrators, clerical personnel.

  “Oh, dear,” was my only response.

  <><><>

  By the time we reached St. Lucy’s front door we’d come up with more murder weapons and suspects than we needed. All that remained was to find Jake Driscoll and ask him to request an autopsy on Mother Ignatius’ quietly waked body.

  The first part—locating our murder suspect/co-investigator—was easier than we thought.

  Jake Driscoll stood at the door of our residence, rocking on his heels, one hand in the pocket of his neat navy trousers, the other carrying a thin brown attaché case. He looked as if he’d been waiting to keep a scheduled appointment with us.

  “Good afternoon, Sisters,” he said. “Glad to say you beat the rain home.”

  Sister Ann William seemed to recover before I did, addressing him while I was still checking the overcast sky. “Yes, we did.” She cleared her throat. “Mr. Driscoll, do you suppose we could have a word with you?” she asked.

  He gave us a little bow and extended his arm toward the small parlor off the foyer. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  When Sister Ann William tipped her head slightly toward me, I took it to mean she was abandoning her short-lived leadership role. I straightened my shoulders and mustered as much formality as I could in the presence of Jake Driscoll’s unruly white hair and cavalier smile.

  “Mr. Driscoll, Sister Ann William and I have been discussing the circumstances of Mother Ignatius’ death, and . . .” I paused, hoping for internal guidance, but received external help instead.

  “You’d like to see an autopsy on the good Mother’s body.”

  Sister Ann William and I leaned forward, our eyes wide, our heads bobbing like surprised schoolgirls.

  “Done.” He pulled a long manila envelope from his briefcase. “I have the preliminary report right here.”

  “You do?” I attempted a detached, professional attitude. “Is there any sign of . . .?” I lost my poise and my nerve before I could complete my question.

  Jake Driscoll shook his head briskly, causing a spray of fine hair to cross his brow. He made no attempt to repair his grooming, but instead leaned his whole body toward us. “No poison.”

  A tingling sensation traveled up my spine. I looked at the image of the Sacred Heart over the doorway. For a moment I thought the case was over, and I half-expected to see the sad eyes of Our Savior replaced by a smile and wink.

  Sister Ann William shifted in her seat. “How did you know we were interested in an autopsy?” she asked him.

  Jake Driscoll sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “I wanted one. There’s a lot of money at stake here, and you’re not the only people who think something funny might be going on. Frankly, I felt I had to cover my . . . investments. So, I persuaded her Mother Superior in Reedville to authorize an autopsy.”

  “And that’s the real reason the funeral was delayed,” I said. “Not to allow travel time from her Motherhouse.” I suddenly realized Reedville was closer to the Bronx than Potterstown, not a long trip at all.

  He nodded, a self-satisfied smile spread across his face.

  I searched my soul for the relief that should come at the end of a long investigation. But a little corner of my mind suggested it was closer to the beginning.

  CHAPTER 19

  Jake Driscoll watched as I pulled page one of the autopsy report from its envelope. Sister Ann William and I held opposite corners and read silently. Case Number 65-994. I wondered if Mother Ignatius’ was 994th death of 1965. Numbers seemed easier to focus on than the medical details. Regarding the circumstances involved in the demise of the decedent . . .

  I found it hard to understand language I hadn’t seen since high school biology with Sister Perpetua. Neatly typed paragraphs described the condition of Mother Ignatius’ vital organs and the systems that had sustained her earthly life—gastrointestinal, pulmonary, endocrine, hematopoietic, cardiovascular. I was glad I was in our cozy parlor at two o’clock in the afternoon, and not in a dark coroner’s laboratory at midnight.

  Sister Ann William picked up the photographs, but I skipped that section and moved on to the more manageable, if useless, description of Mother Ignatius’ clothing. Her attire had been logged in, in great detail—white terrycloth slippers, Grant’s brand, size five and a half, medium wear. 100% cotton nightcap and long nightdress, both white, no pattern, no label, probably not commercial products.

  The sleepwear was handmade by the convent seamstress, I was sure. I caught sight of more graphic language about Mother Ignatius’ body fluids, organs, and genito-urinary system and longed for my theology texts—clean, crisp concepts like hermeneutics and the Hypostatic Union.

  I studied Jake Driscoll’s face, wishing I had better powers of discernment. I was vaguely distrustful of his boyish charm and overly cooperative manner. But neither could I imagine why he’d poison Mother Ignatius, then take it upon himself to request an autopsy.

  Unless it was the perfect cover-up. For all I knew the New York state medical examiner was his brother.

  In another scenario, I pictured Jake Driscoll using strychnine or arsenic to do away with Mother Ignatius, then ordering screens for everything else.

  I gave a start when he appeared to be reading my mind.

  “See, right there,” he said, pointing to a long list titled Toxicological Screens. “They did tests for strychnine and arsenic, and a host of other toxins. Even phosgene gas, in case someone mixed some incompatible household cleaners under her nose.”

  My look must have told him I didn’t appreciate his flip attitude. “Sorry, Sisters,” he said. “I’m overreacting to what I see as good news.” He pointed to the important line at the end of the autopsy report, the medical examiner’s opinion. “Death by natural causes.”

  We handed the sheaf of pages back to him, and nodded as if we’d understood it completely.

  “I hope this puts your minds at rest, Sisters. Remember what
Our Lord said— ‘Let the dead bury their own dead, but you go and proclaim the kingdom of God’.”

  “Even the devil can quote scripture, Mr. Driscoll.”

  He gave me a sideways look that I suspected could turn angry at a moment’s notice. Either he’s guilty as the devil, I thought, or he thinks I’m crazy.

  <><><>

  Sister Ann William and I walked up the stairs in silence, as if the benign autopsy report had taken away our only topic of conversation. Before we parted to go to our separate rooms, I heard her heavy sigh.

  “There’s still the wake and funeral,” she said. “The second night of Mother Ignatius’ wake is tonight and burial services are tomorrow. Remember?”

  I let out a deep breath. “We go to ceremonies only for parents, but I plan to make a special novena for Mother Ignatius.”

  Sister Ann William looked around the empty hallway, and lowered her voice. “They say the killer always shows up at wakes and funerals.”

  “Sister!” My voice came out in a hiss, but not enough to keep her from pursuing her thoughts.

  She frowned, creasing her otherwise smooth, fair-skinned forehead. “Don’t tell me you’re satisfied with that one little autopsy report?”

  I shook my head. I wished I could tell her I had no more doubts, but by now Sister Ann William was tuned into me enough to know better. “I guess not. I suppose there are other ways to murder people besides poisoning.”

  She nodded vigorously. “There certainly are. She could have been smothered, for example. Perhaps a tiny, untraceable bit of a toxic substance in her tea, just enough to weaken her, and then . . .” I grimaced as Sister Ann William brushed one palm across the other in a rapid motion, causing the books under her arm to fall to the floor with a thud.

  We scanned the corridor, expecting doors to fly open, but no one seemed curious about the rumpus.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this out here,” I said in a whisper.