by J. A. Jance
Trying to shake off the unwelcome memories, she chose one of the easy chairs with access to the coffee table as well as a convenient power outlet for her computer. Then, with her computer on her lap, she logged on to the Internet. Her mailbox was full of requests for current information on the investigation—information she didn’t happen to have access to at that moment.
She pulled out her cell phone and punched in Sheriff Maxwell’s number. He answered on the second ring.
“I’m here at the hospital,” she said curtly. “I sent the reporters packing. Now what? I have a dozen requests for information sitting here in my computer and since I have no information to provide, what would you like me to do? Maybe the best thing would be to tender my resignation.”
“Look,” Maxwell said, “I can tell you’re pissed, but please don’t do that. Don’t quit on me. Donnelley had my nuts in a vise on this.”
And you threw me under the bus, Ali thought.
“How can that be?” she asked. “You’re the sheriff. It’s your department, isn’t it?”
“It may be my department, but I’ve also been given my marching orders,” he said. “Have you ever heard the term ‘Homeland Security’?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Ali asked.
“That’s the thing,” Maxwell told her. “The domestic terrorism aspect of this case trumps anything and everyone else. The feds are taking charge. They expect to have all available assets—theirs and mine—focused on the fire investigation. They also want their media guy to be in charge of disseminating any and all material that goes out on this.”
I called that shot, Ali thought. She said aloud, “Including the requests for information that I have on hand right now?”
“Yes,” Maxwell said. “Please. I’ll text you his address information in a moment.”
“From what you’re saying, I could just as well pack it in here and come home,” Ali said. “I haven’t checked into my hotel yet. Maybe I should call and cancel the reservation.”
“No,” he said hurriedly. “Don’t do that. I want you there at the hospital as much as possible for the next several days.”
“Why? You sent me here to scare away the reporters. I did that.”
“As I said, the domestic terrorism aspects of this case take precedence over everything else. Donnelley is running that show, and he’s conscripted most of my available manpower into working the investigation as he sees fit. What that means in a nutshell is that while they’re out shaking every tree to see if ELF falls out of it, our attempted homicide is taking a backseat—a back backseat.
“We need to know who that unidentified victim is,” Sheriff Maxwell continued. “If she comes around, we need to have someone there to ask her what she knows. Once her family members show up, we need to ask them what they know.”
“Wouldn’t you be better off having a detective ask those questions?”
“Yes, we would,” Maxwell conceded. “Of course we would, but I can’t send one of my sworn officers because, if they’re available, Donnelley is running them. You’re not on my official roster, Ali. Agent Donnelley was adamant that you be out of the picture so his folks could handle media issues. My sending you to Phoenix lets us both get what we want: Donnelley has the conn as far as what information is given to the media, and I have another asset in place, someone I can trust, who can keep an eye on how things are going down there.”
Ali thought about that for a minute. “What do you want me to do?”
“According to what Dave tells me, you’re a fairly respectable investigator in your own right. The first step in this investigation is to identify our victim.”
“I thought you told me earlier that Donnelley’s people were going to be doing that.”
“Maybe they are,” Maxwell allowed, “but who’s to say they’re not doing that in a half-baked way? Besides,” he added, “there’s no rule that says we can’t duplicate their effort, and maybe even go them one better. Do you know Holly, who works out in the front office?”
Unfortunately, I do, Ali thought. “Yes,” she said. “We’ve met.”
“I have her keeping an eye on all missing persons reports that are coming in on a statewide basis. If she comes across anything that looks promising, she’s to let you know.”
I wouldn’t hold my breath, Ali thought.
“That doesn’t seem right somehow,” she said. “You sent me down here to get rid of the reporters who were hanging around the hospital, trying to find out whatever they could about the victim. Now they’re gone, but you’re asking me to do the same thing—find out about the victim.”
“Yes,” Sheriff Maxwell agreed, “but there’s a big difference. They were nosing around in the hope of finding information that would fill up empty airtime and newspaper columns. You’re doing it—we’re doing it—in the hope of finding out who tried to kill that poor woman. Whether she lives or dies, it’s our responsibility to bring her attacker to justice.”
Ali thought about that, but not for long.
“I’ll do what I can,” she said.
“Excellent,” Sheriff Maxwell said. “There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I know you have a concealed weapons permit. I also know that you carry a Glock. Just don’t use it, especially not in Maricopa County. Please. That would set off another whole set of problems that I don’t have time to deal with right now.”
Before Ali could frame a suitable response, one of the doors farther down the hallway swung open and a tall, angular woman stepped into the hallway. She stood for a moment, peeling off an outer layer of protective paperlike clothing and leaving behind a pair of green scrubs. Her hair was steel gray and cut short.
Ali knew without being told that she was seeing the woman called Angel of Death. She had wanted to Google the article on Sister Anselm and read up on her before encountering the woman in person, but that wouldn’t be possible now, not with the nun walking straight toward her.
“I’ve got to go,” Ali told the sheriff abruptly. Closing her phone, she stood up and walked down the hall. “Sister Anselm?” she asked.
The woman frowned and peered at Ali through gold-rimmed glasses. “Yes,” she said. “Do I know you?”
“No, you don’t, but someone told me about you and about your ‘mission,’ I believe she called it.” Ali handed over one of her newly printed business cards. “My name is Alison Reynolds. I’m the media relations consultant for the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department. Yavapai is the next county north of here.”
“I’m familiar with Yavapai County,” Sister Anselm said firmly. “My home convent happens to be in Jerome. What are you doing here in the burn unit? I thought I made it quite clear to Mr. Whitman that no reporters were to be allowed access to this floor.”
“I’m not a reporter,” Ali said quickly. “Please don’t be misled by what it says on the card. In my case it’s more like a case of media nonrelations. It turns out I was dispatched by both Mr. Whitman and my department to break up the gaggle of reporters who were gathered downstairs in the lobby. Which I did. I sent them all packing.”
“Thank you for that, and good riddance,” Sister Anselm said, glancing briefly at the card and then slipping it into her pocket. “Then I suppose you’ll be leaving as well?”
“Not exactly,” Ali said. “Sheriff Maxwell wants me to stay around and make sure none of the reporters comes prowling around up here.”
“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Sister Anselm said. “I don’t have any say about lobby issues, but here on the unit my wishes do carry some weight, especially as far as the welfare of my patients is concerned. If any of those reporters turns up here, I’m perfectly capable of giving him or her the boot myself.”
Ali was thinking about what she’d been told earlier, that the so-called Angel of Death was often involved in trying to reconnect unidentified victims with their missing loved ones.
“Sheriff Maxwell is hoping I may be able to off
er you some assistance in identifying the victim.”
From the quick flash of interest that crossed the nun’s weathered face, Ali knew she had scored a hit.
“How do you propose to do that?” Sister Anselm asked.
“By monitoring any information that may be reported concerning recently reported missing persons cases. One of those may match up with the woman down the hall.”
“You can do that from here?”
Ali sat down in front of her computer and patted it. “Yes, I can,” she said. “I have a portable broadband connection.”
Nodding thoughtfully, Sister Anselm sank down in the chair opposite Ali. “I suppose having access to official information could prove to be very helpful. There have been instances in the past where law enforcement personnel were, shall we say, less than interested.”
She pulled an electronic device of some kind out of her pocket, studied it for a moment, and then slipped it back away. Leaning back in her chair, she studied Ali’s face for some time before she spoke again, and Ali did the same.
Sister Anselm’s countenance was kind and totally devoid of makeup. She wore two pieces of jewelry with her green scrubs—a small gold cross on a chain around her neck and a simple wedding band on the ring finger of her left hand.
“You mentioned that you had heard about me,” Sister Anselm said. “From whom? One of the reporters downstairs?”
Ali nodded and Sister Anselm sighed.
“I suppose it was more of that Angel of Death nonsense,” she said gloomily. “I do wish they’d stop citing that article. I didn’t want to do that interview to begin with, but the bishop insisted. When it came out, Reverend Mother was not amused. She thought it gave the order a bad name. But you know how newspapers are—if it bleeds, it leads.”
Ali smiled at the unexpected comment. “That’s journalism for you,” she said. “But I don’t understand the bad-name part. The woman who mentioned you to me said that you specialize in caring for unidentified and critically injured folks, and that you often work to reunite them with their families.”
“That’s exactly what I do,” Sister Anselm said. “Unfortunately, many of the patients I work with do die. Modern medicine can do miracles, but only with the patient’s full participation. When seriously injured people are isolated and alone, they often can’t find any reason to fight back.”
“Because they have no one to get well for and, as a consequence, no reason to live?” Ali asked.
Sister Anselm nodded. “Without the will to live it’s not surprising that many of them die.”
“That makes sense to me,” Ali said.
“Not to Ms. Hazelett,” Sister Anselm said. “According to her, once a hospital requests my participation, it’s a sign that they’ve given up on the patient and that he or she is on his or her way out.”
“Hence the Angel of Death moniker?” Ali asked.
“Yes,” Sister Anselm said. “Unfortunately, that name stuck. I doubt most people remember anything else about the article other than that. Ms. Hazelett didn’t come right out and blame me, of course. She didn’t imply that I was somehow responsible for the deaths that occurred, but she made it clear that once I showed up on the scene, death was sure to follow.”
“Wait a minute,” Ali objected. “Even when a patient dies, if you manage to locate the victim’s missing family members, you’re at least giving the family someone to bury. You’re also giving them closure and answers. I should think the family members would be most appreciative.”
“Most of the time they are,” Sister Anselm agreed. “Unfortunately that wasn’t the focus of the article. But your reasoning is understandable since you don’t appear to be a Goth.”
“A Goth?” Ali asked. “Who’s a Goth?”
“That’s how Nadine Hazelett refers to herself in her Facebook entry. From the looks of her photos she wears all black clothing, and even black lipstick. I should have checked her entry prior to doing the interview. Once the article came out, however, it was too late.”
Ali liked the fact that Sister Anselm was computer literate and that she noticed things like lipstick colors.
“Having a Goth interview a nun doesn’t sound like a good fit to me,” Ali said. “Who came up with that brilliant idea?”
“I don’t know, but I’m quite sure the article that was published wasn’t what Bishop Gillespie had in mind.”
“He was looking for some positive publicity?” Ali asked.
Sister Anselm nodded. “He ended up with something else entirely. I thought we should seek legal recourse, but Reverend Mother’s take on the situation was that we should let it go. No one wrote irate letters to the editor or anything like that, but the sisters at the convent pray for Ms. Hazelett every day.”
“They pray for her soul?” Ali asked.
“No,” Sister Anselm said with a smile. “We pray that she’ll find enlightenment. It’s not quite turning the other cheek, but it’s close.”
There was a small buzzing sound, an electronic alert of some kind. Sister Anselm pulled the small device from her pocket again. She did something to it, and the sound was silenced.
“Duty calls,” she said, rising to her feet. “I enjoyed chatting with you, Ms. Reynolds. If you come up with any information on the identity of my patient, I would be most grateful.”
“Of course,” Ali said. “I’ll let you know. Immediately.”
Sister Anselm started to walk away. Then she stopped and turned back. “If you have a chance, you might want to stop by the nurses’ station. Tell them you need to sign into my logbook. They’ll know what you mean.”
For a time after the nun disappeared behind the closed door, Ali sat staring after her. It seemed that she and Sister Anselm were working opposite sides of the same coin. The people from the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department wanted to identify the victim to track down the woman’s would-be killer.
Sister Anselm wanted to the same thing—to save the woman’s immortal soul.
Very different goals, Ali told herself. But maybe we can work the problem together.
CHAPTER 7
Sheriff Maxwell’s text message came through, giving Ali the name and contact information for the ATF media relations officer in Phoenix. Still provoked by the sheriff’s parting comment about Ali and her Glock, she could easily have delayed passing along the media requests she had collected, but she didn’t. She sat there for some time, dutifully forwarding the information. Only when she finished did she step over to the nurses’ station.
“Excuse me,” she said, when the attendant looked up from a phone call. “Sister Anselm says I need to sign the logbook.”
Nodding, the attendant handed over a small spiral notebook. The cover was blank other than a self-adhesive tag with the number 814 handwritten in ink. When she opened it, the first page had marked spaces that called for name, date, phone number, and message. Ali looked up from the page and aimed a questioning look at the attendant.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Ali asked.
“Just fill it out,” the woman said with a shrug. “Sister Anselm likes to keep a record of visitors for the patients and their families. That way they have some idea of who came by to visit, and why.”
“What’s the reason for doing that?” Ali asked.
“For many family members it’s a comfort to know that someone cared—that at the very least their loved one wasn’t all alone here in the hospital, alone and forgotten.”
Returning to her chair, Ali opened the notebook to the first page and jotted down her name, department, and contact information. Writing those snippets of official information was the easy part. After that she spent several minutes staring off into space and trying to decide what else to write.
If she told the actual truth, she would be obliged to say something to the effect that she was the injured woman’s sole visitor because there was a turf war brewing between the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives and the Yavapai County Sheriff’s D
epartment. Family members reading those words after the fact weren’t likely to find much comfort or solace in them. Finally, after several long moments of consideration, Ali took up her pen and continued:
I witnessed the fire the other night. It’s a miracle anyone survived. Sheriff Maxwell asked me to come here to handle any Phoenix-area media concerns regarding the unidentified patient or the hospital.
When she finished, Ali read through what she had written. It wasn’t much, but it was close enough to the truth to pass muster.
If a grieving family member read it later, she hoped they might find comfort in knowing Sheriff Maxwell had seen fit to dispatch a representative from his office, someone who was there in person. And even though Ali was in the burn unit in an official capacity, she was also a legitimate visitor.
Closing the book, Ali returned it to the nurses’ station. Then she went back to her chair and opened her laptop. While she waited for her computer to boot up, a text message came in on her cell phone from her friend and homegrown cyber-security guru, Bartholomew Simpson. Cursed with sharing his name with a cartoon character and teased mercilessly about it by his classmates, B. Simpson had abandoned his given name by the time he reached junior high. He had also dropped out of high school and thrown himself into the world of computer science. He had put his natural genius and self-taught computer skills to work in Seattle’s computer-gaming world, where he had made a name for himself as well as a fortune.