Sister Monique printed the e-mail and hurried from the computer to read it to Sister Vivian: “The cardinal conveys personal condolences from the Supreme Pontiff, who has dispatched an Emissary from the Holy See in Washington, D.C., to represent the Holy Father at the funeral, or for any requirements of the order at this difficult time.”
Sister Vivian did not share Sister Monique’s awe. As she removed her glasses to weigh matters, she said, “It appears the boys, who’ve always been wary of progressive nuns, now want to ride in the slipstream of Sister Anne’s good work.”
The younger nun’s face flushed.
“Monique, surely you’re aware that most men in the upper ranks of the old guard want us to remain socially isolated in convents, making jams and candles.”
Sister Monique didn’t speak and Vivian suddenly cut herself off and waved her hand to silence the subject.
She was exhausted.
The night before, she’d slept on a couch in the living room. Well, she lay there, at least, grieving and looking at Anne’s file and photos of her, remembering her friend’s overwhelming capacity for forgiveness.
Through the years, they’d worked together in so many places around the world. But when it came to Anne Braxton’s family background and her life before she became a nun, Vivian knew nothing. Unfortunately, it was exactly as Detective Garner had said, it was like Anne had “just dropped out of the sky.”
It saddened Vivian.
No family to contact. No mother, father, brothers, or sisters. No one listed in her personal file. Nothing. Information on her biography was arriving in small pieces from the missions where she’d served, and the former mother houses in Paris and Washington, D.C. But nothing that preceded her call to a religious life.
Vivian was trying to locate the nun who’d first advised Anne when she was accepted as a postulant. And there was belief in some circles that the old nun was responsible for screening Anne in Paris, and had retired somewhere in Africa or Canada.
One thing Vivian knew for certain about Anne was that in life she was happiest in her sweatshirts and jeans, helping those who felt they were beyond it, offering grace to those who felt undeserving of it.
Anne Braxton would abhor any pomp imposed upon her in death.
“Excuse me, Sister Vivian?” Sister Ruth appeared and pulled her from her thoughts. “What should I tell the Archdiocese? They require an answer. It seems a number of weddings are also taking place in the next few days.”
“Tell them no thank you. We’ll have her funeral-a celebration of her life-in the shelter she helped found. In the very dining room where she gave so much of herself.” Vivian slipped on her glasses “Let the Vatican’s emissary pull up to it in his luxury sedan. Should be a nice juxtaposition for the news cameras.”
Vivian tapped the printout of the Vatican e-mail to her chin, returning to her pondering about the old nun who had screened Anne, wondering if she was still alive and considering ways to locate her.
“Where’s Denise? Is she done with the room yet? I’d like to lay down for a bit and I’ve got another job for her.”
Upstairs, Sister Denise was alone again and almost finished cleaning Sister Anne’s apartment.
Upon making a final inspection, she noticed that some blood had spilled into the hall closet next to the bathroom. A slender thread had meandered along the floor, like a tributary on a map, pointing to a secret destination. Denise freshened her bucket with cold water and ammonia, then used a soft-headed tooth-brush to scrub dried blood from the seams between the floor boards.
That’s strange.
The gap between two boards-as thin as the edge of a credit card-had widened ever so slightly. A loose board. It appeared that with the proper manipulation, the board could be completely lifted from the row covering the closet floor.
Curious, Denise found a pair of manicure scissors in the bathroom, opened them, and used a blade to pry the loose board out. Two adjacent boards were also loose. Denise pried them out as well.
Something was under the floor.
Something rectangular.
Denise opened the closet door wider to allow more light on the hole before she reached in to get the mysterious object hidden under the floor.
It was a cardboard box.
Chapter Seventeen
I n the twilight hour before dawn, Grace Garner sat alone in the empty homicide squad room, feeling the crushing weight of the case on her shoulders.
It increased with every word of the morning’s headlines.
The Seattle Times had NUN’S MURDER CONCERNS VATICAN – HOLY SEE ASKS CHIEF FOR UPDATE. While the Post-Intelligencer had SISTERS PLAN SHELTER SERVICE FOR SLAIN ‘ ANGEL OF MERCY,’ and the Seattle Mirror had lined POLICE FOCUS ON WEAPON – A KNIFE FROM NUN’S SHELTER on page one above the fold.
Each of the headlines hit Grace like a blow to her stomach. After digesting every article, she set the papers aside to work. As she reached for a re-canvass report, her cell phone rang. It was her sergeant.
“It’s Stan, you see today’s papers yet?”
“Yes.”
“The heat’s on us to clear this one fast, Grace. My predawn wake-up call came from the chief. He said the commissioner, the mayor, even the governor, have ‘expressed deep interest’ in Sister Anne’s case.”
“I’m writing that down.”
“Grace.”
“And what’s their interest in the murder of a seventeen-year-old hooker? Or, a homeless down-and-out loser-”
“Grace.”
“This kind of political crap sickens me. We go flat out, Stan. We don’t need to be told the obvious.”
“It’s in my job description to tell you the obvious. By the way, we’re bringing in detectives from Robbery to help. Case status meeting’s at 7:30 A.M. ”
After the call, Grace noticed a message that had come last night from Cynthia Fairchild, with the King County Prosecuting Attorney’s Office, requesting an update. Came in about midnight. They were leaning on Cindy, too.
The pressure was coming from all fronts.
Grace had a stack of messages and shuffled them into priority. First things first. She brewed herself some fresh coffee, then began working on her candidates for suspects, so far.
The full autopsy report and observations by the King County Medical Examiner’s Office on the angle and force of the wound suggested that Sister Anne’s killer was strong, likely over six feet tall and weighing more than two hundred pounds. Reviews of the shelter’s staff and client lists had, so far, yielded the following subjects who fell into that category:
Haines Stenten Smith, Caucasian male, age 37, weight 235 pounds, height six feet, six inches. Recently released from Washington Corrections Center after serving time for choking a woman in a Tacoma park. Witnesses said he held a knife to the face of a volunteer at the shelter five months ago but was intoxicated at the time. Smith could not account for his whereabouts the night Sister Anne was murdered.
Louis Justice Topper, African American male, age 33, weight 220 pounds, height six feet, three inches. Recently released from Coyote Ridge. A crack dealer who’d stabbed female crack addicts for nonpayment. Three weeks ago he’d flown into a rage at the shelter and threatened a client with his fists. A friend said Topper had “gone off his medication.”
Johnny Lee Frickson, Caucasian male, age 43, weight 280 pounds, height six feet, two inches. A Level 2 Sex Offender who’d attacked women aged 40-60, in their apartments in Seattle. After undergoing treatment, Frickson qualified for a work-release addiction recovery program. One night, last month, after dessert at the shelter, Frickson
