by Rick Mofina
Other ghosts were still out there pulling him back to that day.
The day they got the call.
They’d come upon the suspect fleeing with a weapon in his hand. They had him dead to rights right there on the street. It’s happening so fast.
Too damn fast.
Henry’s heart is pounding a blood rush in his ears. He can’t think. They draw on him, screaming.
Drop your weapon! Drop your goddamn weapon!
Henry blinks and now the guy’s got a hostage.
Oh Jesus, Vern, he’s got a goddamn hostage.
Eyes wide with fear are locked on his.
Are pleading with him.
Don’t let me die!
This is everything in a heartbeat.
This is all you are and all you will be.
This is your life.
Right here. Right now.
Henry’s finger is on the trigger.
Shoot. Don’t shoot.
Don’t let me die!
Chapter Twenty-Nine
S ister Denise’s anguish intensified after they’d returned to Seattle and were immersed in the large reception at the shelter.
It was noisy and chaotic. So many people had donated food, had volunteered to help, and so many offered their condolences. Strangers, like this woman and boy who’d approached her.
“I’m Rhonda Boland,” the woman took Denise’s hand. “This is my son Brady.”
“I met Sister Anne at my school,” Brady said.
“Hello, dear. Sister Anne just loved going to the schools.” Denise smiled.
“We wanted to come to pay our respects. She was so kind to Brady. He’d lost his dad a while ago.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. We will pray for you.”
“Thank you,” Rhonda said, “but since then, Brady has-”
Rhonda was uncertain how, or if, she should tell this nun standing before her, this complete stranger, that she was terrified for her son and thought that maybe it was selfish at a time like this to even raise his situation. While Rhonda grappled with her emotions, Brady just came out and said it.
“I’m real sick and I need a major operation and we’re kind of scared about it.”
“Oh, no, sweetheart,” Sister Denise said. “We’ll say many prayers for you and include you in the masses in the Archdiocese.”
“Thank you, Sister,” Rhonda said.
“Thanks,” Brady said.
“Well, it’s exactly what Sister Anne would’ve done. Thank you both for coming.”
Those warm condolences from strangers were like balm for Denise.
Still, she remained conflicted until she found a moment and the courage to pull Sister Vivian aside.
“Sister, I think we should tell the police about Anne’s journal.”
“This is not the time, Denise.”
“The other sisters have a right to know who she was. That she also made mistakes in her youth, whatever they were.”
“Sister, I remind you to keep this information confidential. It is private and the journal is property of the Order.”
“We should share it with the police. They’ve asked for our help about her past.”
“You don’t understand. We must do all we can to take care of her memory.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“I had my hands in her blood, Vivian! I understand!”
“Lower your voice.” Vivian saw Sister Ruth coming. “This discussion is over. I’ll consider your concerns.”
After Denise left, Sister Ruth touched Vivian’s arm, then pointed to two uniformed cops who were talking to people taking notes.
“The officers want to talk to you.”
Vivian nodded. “First, I need to talk to Father Mercer in the office. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
On her way back to her post at the serving table, Denise was approached by a small group of kindly parishioners who placed envelopes in her hand containing cash donations.
“Thank you. God bless you.”
Denise headed for the office, to put the donations in a safe place. She saw the door was open a crack and overheard Vivian talking to Father Mercer.
“Jeb, any luck on finding out who screened her? She wrote here…” Denise couldn’t believe her eyes. Vivian was showing Mercer the journal. “…she wrote Sister M.”
“May I see that and the date?” After consulting it, Mercer said, “That would be Marie when she was in Paris.”
“Is she still living?”
“I believe so. In Montana, or Canada, the western part, Calgary, I think. I’ll keep going through my personal files and make some calls.”
“I want to know more about Anne’s past and if it has anything to do with these cryptic writings in her journal, her agonizing over sins she’d committed. Was there something that was missed when she was screened?”
“Oh Viv, when young women want to enter the Order, they often overdramatize their lives, you know that.”
“In Anne’s case we don’t know what she confided to her screener.”
“Do you think it’s a factor in her death?”
“Only God knows.”
“And the person who killed her,” Father Mercer said. “Such a cold-blooded, vile act. May I take Anne’s journal with me to read tonight? I’ll return it to you before I fly back to Maine tomorrow morning.”
“Absolutely.”
Mercer flipped the pages.
“I vaguely recall Marie telling me that there was something a little disconcerting about Anne Braxton’s history prior to her taking her vows.”
“Jeb, it’s my duty to find out as much information as we can, so I can determine what we should do.”
Denise jumped when a hand grabbed her shoulder. She turned to see Paula and caught her breath. Paula passed her a copy of the Mirror. The nuns had been so busy, none of them had seen the papers this morning.
“Look at this,” Paula said.
“Goodness.” Denise devoured the article and said, “My Lord.”
“There’s a rumor going around that police arrested Cooper just as the service was ending,” Paula said.
“To talk to him, probably. He likely saw something.”
“No. People who saw him get arrested are saying the police were acting like Coop was a suspect.”
Denise began shaking her head.
“No, no way. Cooper adored her, he would never touch a hair on her head.”
“Our people say police are calling him a prime suspect.”
“No, not Cooper. Oh no!”
Chapter Thirty
J ason’s stomach churned with the sick feeling every reporter dreads.
He was missing the story.
They’d arrested somebody at Sister Anne’s funeral but he didn’t know who and he didn’t know why. Was it Cooper? Were they questioning him about the stranger he’d seen arguing with Sister Anne, the guy who stole the knife from the shelter?
Jason didn’t know.
No one would tell him anything and not knowing was killing him. He glanced at the clock in the Mirror ’s cafeteria, resisting the aroma of frying bacon, burgers, and fries. Grabbing only a coffee for his dinner, to go with a plate of adrenaline and fear, he apologized to the early night crews inching their trays toward the cash register.
He jumped the queue and left two crumpled bills without waiting for change.
He had no time.
He had to find out what happened at the funeral. He’d called every source he had, except Detective Grace Garner. He’d burned a bridge there. At this point, his best hope was his old man.
He took a hit of coffee and felt a pang of guilt.
His dad had enough crap on his mind. Having to carry a gun again had resurrected the pain of seeing his partner’s suicide. Blowing his brains out before his eyes. It explained all the turmoil in their lives and why his mother walked out on them all those years ago.
Man oh man.
Jason made a
mental promise to talk about it all with his dad. But later, after he had his story under control. Until then, he needed his father to pump his old friends inside the Seattle PD for information.
Jason stepped aside, reached for his cell phone and made the call.
“Hey Dad. You get anything?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
“Damn.”
“You know that earlier they’d developed a list of ex-cons, parolees who are regulars at the shelter.”
“Yeah.”
“Creeps with violent pasts.”
“Yeah, yeah, like the usual suspects.”
“All of them have been eliminated, cleared.”
“So what happened at the funeral today?”
“I wish I knew. I asked about that.”
“Did you push hard?”
“I’ve got to be careful, Jay, I can’t risk my license.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“Of course I pushed, but none of my guys would breathe a word.”
“Which means that whatever happened is huge. I don’t like this.”
“I’ll do my best, son.”
“Dad, it’s fine, thanks. How’re you doing? With everything, I mean?”
“I’m doing the best I can. Look, I’d like to talk to you just as soon as you can manage it, son.”
“Absolutely. We’ll talk once I get a handle on this story. I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go. Call me if you get something, okay, Dad?”
Jason headed for the stairs. They would get him to the newsroom faster. He still had some time. Glimpsing a copy of today’s front page with his exclusive story on Cooper, Jason thought that this was starting to be a replay of last night. Find a story. Pull it out of the fire. Eldon was pleased with his Cooper story, but it was dead news now.
What you got for tomorrow’s paper?
Concentrating on what he could try next, Jason made a beeline for his desk, hoping to avoid Eldon Reep. He failed. Reep was at Vic Beale’s desk, where they were huddled with Cassie Appleton, when he spotted Jason.
“Wade! Get over here!”
Cassie had her notebook open, flipping pages filled with her notes. Jason didn’t like the air here. Beale and Reep looked pissed off. His stomach tightened.
“Enlighten us,” Reep said. “What happened at the funeral today?”
“They arrested somebody.”
“Who?”
“I’m trying to confirm it.”
“Oh you’re trying to confirm it? Well, did you think about maybe getting your ass on the street? Maybe visiting your buddy Cooper, see if he’s home under I-5?”
“I’ve been doing a lot of things.”
“So has Cassie here. Inform our all-star here what you’ve learned.”
“After you left, I talked to people. Seems all the street people had a sudden memory loss. Nobody knew who was arrested, or saw much. It happened fast. I just got off the phone with Butch Ettersly. He’s a camera- man with WKKR. Turns out I know his sister from my hometown. Apparently it all went down right in front of Butch. He says KKR is the only news team to get it all.”
“What do you mean?”
Jason saw Beale reach for the remote for the TV near his desk.
“Here we go,” Beale said.
The sound carried a few ominous bass notes then the graphic: BREAKING NEWS WKKR EXCLUSIVE: ARREST IN NUN MURDER filled the screen, then shrank to be placed below the news anchor’s desk.
“I’m Carol Carter. We’re interrupting our programming to bring you this live report. Seattle Police have made an arrest in the murder of Sister Anne Braxton and our WKKR camera was there.”
Dramatic footage showed the lightning-fast arrest. Jason’s stomach knotted. He recognized the unidentified man as Cooper while it played in slo-mo. After a few seconds Carol Carter returned to say, “WKKR’s David Troy has the story. David, what do we know so far?” Carol Carter said to the white teeth and tanned, chiseled face of David Troy, WKKR’s veteran crime reporter, standing in front of the shelter.
“Carol, in a bizarre twist to this tragic case, police arrested the man during a moving funeral service for the murdered nun, whom the mayor called the Saint of Seattle.”
“Any details on the identity of the man arrested, or why?”
“Not much, but my sources indicate the man is John Randolph Cooper, a troubled war veteran who, after seeing action in Iraq, was a regular at the shelter and very close to Sister Anne-”
“Sounds like he’s reading your story, Wade,” Beale said.
“We should’ve got Cooper’s picture last night,” Reep said.
“He would have refused,” Jason said, “believe me.”
“We’ve got photo and the library trying to get unit albums and something from his military records,” Beale said.
“And his high school yearbook,” Cassie added.
Reep studied the WKKR’s report. “Is it Cooper there, Wade?”
Jason nodded.
“David,” Carol Carter asked, “have your sources told you if Cooper’s a suspect?”
“Not on the record. As you know, police are playing their cards close to their vest on this one. But I’ll speculate that he possesses information vital to the case, Carol.”
“Thank you, David,” Carol Carter said. “Just to recap, WKKR’s David Troy brought us the breaking news that police arrested a man during today’s funeral service for Sister Anne Braxton, whom the mayor called the Saint of Seattle. That man is believed to be John Randolph Cooper. We now return-”
Beale muted the TV.
“That just kills us,” Beale said.
“How could you let this happen, Wade?” Reep said.
“Excuse me?”
“You and Cassie break the story that the murder weapon is a knife from the shelter-”
“Cassie had nothing to do with that story.”
“Then you find this Cooper living in a hellhole under the Interstate, a troubled war vet who goes to the shelter and knew the nun.”
Jason nodded.
“And he tells you about some stranger he saw who argued with her and took the knife.”
“Right”
“And you just saw what happened?”
Beale shot Jason a glare. He couldn’t hold his tongue.
“TV just used your story to kick us between the legs and break things wide open, pal.”
Jason’s mouth went dry with the awful realization.
“That’s right, Wade,” Reep said. “Now the lights are coming on, now he gets it. Cooper was likely talking about himself. You were likely interviewing the nun’s murderer, Wade! We’ve got no pictures, no confirmation. We’ve got squat. You should have allowed Cassie to go with you to find Cooper.”
“I did. She backed off!”
“You refused to wait up for me. You left me behind.”
“Bull!”
“Wade,” Reep said, “you dropped the ball!”
Jason swallowed hard, ran his hand over his face, glanced at the time.
“Now listen to me, Wade!” Reep’s voice stopped conversations throughout the newsroom. “You get your ass to Homicide, because that’s likely who’s got him, and you get it confirmed that they believe he’s the killer, and you do it before deadline, or you don’t come back.”
Chapter Thirty-One
T he Seattle Homicide Unit’s interview room reeked of lies.
Its oppressive fluorescent lighting burned on the pale cinder-block walls holding the mirrored window that reflected Cooper, waiting alone in a metal chair at the bare table.
Staff Sergeant John Randolph Taylor Cooper.
Age: 45. Born in Kent, Washington, according to his military records.
They’d just been faxed from St. Louis, and Grace Garner was studying them from the other side of the mirrored window.
Cooper was commander of an M1 Abrams tank when his patrol came under attack during operations in western Iraq. Three members of his crew died. For his brave action under fire
, Cooper was recommended for several medals and awards.
But after the tragedy, he’d suffered severe mental trauma and was sent to a psychiatric ward of a military hospital, where he’d experienced several episodes. In one violent outburst, he’d threatened to plunge his toothbrush into a nurse’s throat if she didn’t tell him where they were keeping, “Yordan, Bricker, and Rose.” Other incidents were hallucinatory, or related to medication.
After eleven months, Cooper was discharged but he couldn’t find a steady job and had no family to support him. Haunted by his ordeal, Cooper succumbed to addictions and life on the street. He became a regular at the shelter. And while Sister Anne seemed to be the only person able to reach him, he had been seen arguing with her several times, according to statements from the shelter’s staff.
“Grace?” Perelli repeated, “are you ready to go at him?”
She closed Cooper’s file and nodded, recalling the advice Lynn Mann gave her over the phone from the King County Prosecuting Attorney’s office. “Play it by the book, Grace, by the book.”
Grace inhaled. Every time they stepped into the interview room to work on a suspect, the lying game started.
“It wasn’t me. I wasn’t there, that’s not my gun, knife, club, whatever. I wasn’t there, ask my sister brother mother father daughter son friend or the dude who left town yesterday. I saw this guy running away. He was a tall, short, fat, skinny Hispanic Asian, black, white guy-like eighteen to fifty years old, man. Find him.”
But if Grace was lucky, physical evidence, solid physical evidence, could help her leverage a confession.
Upon entering the small room, Perelli set the Seattle Mirror on the table, spun it round so Cooper could see today’s article.
“You’re famous for what you know, Coop,” Perelli said.
Cooper didn’t respond. Clearly police made him uneasy.
“We need your help,” Grace indicated the article, “to see that the right thing is done for Sister Anne.”
Cooper considered things, then nodded.
“Good, thank you. But before we go further,” Grace said, “I have to tell you that you have the right to remain silent and anything you say can-”
“What’s this? Are you charging me with something?”