“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?”
“No, John,” Grace leaned closer, “we’re not charging you with anything. We need your help and we’re required to follow procedure and advise you of your constitutional right to refuse to help us find the truth about Sister Anne’s murder.”
“You’re ex-military, Coop,” Perelli said. “You know regs.”
Coop knew a lot of things. He weighed his situation for several moments. Then he shrugged, inviting Grace to resume advising him.
“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him present while you are being questioned. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning, if you wish one. Do you understand each of these rights as I have explained them to you?”
“I understand.”
“Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to us now?”
“I’m good. I don’t need a lawyer. I get it. You brought me here because you need my help to find this guy?” Coop tapped Jason’s article in the Mirror.
“We need your help,” Grace said, “to learn the truth about what happened.”
“Want me to look at a sketch or something?”
“This.” She opened her folder and slid an eight-by-ten full-size color photo of the knife. The murder weapon. “Ever see one like that before? It’s fairly unique with the maple leaf symbol.”
“Sure, it’s like the one I saw that guy take from the shelter.”
Grace slid a second photo, a series of enlargements showing shoe impressions in blood, and the alley behind the town house near the bush where the knife was found.
“These impressions are like fingerprints and they were made by Sister Anne’s killer. And see this,” Grace slid another photo, a file photo of a standard pair of tennis shoes standard-issue only by the Washington Department of Corrections. “These are the kind of shoes the killer wore. Guess where we found shoes like these?”
Cooper’s face whitened. He’s eyes moved along every photograph Grace had set before him and suddenly realization rolled over him.
“Now the lights are coming on, aren’t they, Coop?” Perelli eyeballed him, then slammed his hand down on the counter. “We got them from your little penthouse under I-5. Shoes just like the ones her killer wore, Sergeant!”
Cooper shook his head.
“Somebody put them in my cart a long time ago. I don’t even wear ‘em. I’ve got a lot of gear there.”
Perelli’s metal chair scraped and tumbled as he stood to lean into Cooper, drawing his face to within an inch of his.
“Don’t lie to us,” he whispered. “Make it easy on yourself. Be a man and tell us exactly what happened.”
Cooper’s eyes widened as he stared at the pictures.
Perelli righted his chair and sat in it.
“John,” Grace’s voice was almost soothing, “was it a sexual thing, or an argument? Did you follow her to the town house to talk to her? Maybe something was troubling you and she said something that triggered all the bad things that happened to you? John, it’ll help you to tell us now. So you can get help, John.”
“You owe it to your buddies,” Perelli said, “to their memory, to do the honorable thing, here.”
Cooper shot Perelli a look. Grace sensed something was seething just under Cooper’s skin.
“John, look at me,” she said. “Just tell us what happened.”
Cooper went back to the pictures. It seemed as if a monumental sadness washed over him. Tears welled in his eyes as he shook his head.
“I loved her.”
Grace nodded encouragement.
“I would never hurt her.”
“We know, John,” Grace said. “Was it an accident?”
“I don’t know. I mean,” he swallowed, “sometimes, I black out.”
Grace exchanged a quick glance with Perelli.
“We know. It’s in your records,” Grace said.
“I didn’t hurt her. I couldn’t hurt her. I don’t think I hurt her. ”
Cooper thrust his face into his weathered hands and released a deafening cry of anguish.
“I want a lawyer.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
C ooper’s call for a lawyer took it all to the next level.
Grace alerted Lynn Mann at the King County Prosecuting Attorney’s office. Lynn called the Office of the Public Defender on the fourth floor of the Walthew Building.
The OPD scrolled through its network of public defense agencies contracted to provide legal services. Most had conflicts, so the staff sped through the list of assigned attorneys. Next up for a felony: Barbara North, a criminal defense lawyer with Acheson, Kwang, and Myer.
The call caught her on her cell, driving from court to her son’s soccer game.
“The nun murder?” Barbara repeated into her phone while at a red light. It had started raining and she switched on her wipers. “Sorry, I didn’t get that? He’s an indigent street person? Lives under I-5. You mean the guy in today’s paper?” She scrawled notes, willing the light to stay red. “Sure. I’ll take it but I have to make a few calls. Tell Lynn I’ll meet her and Detective Garner at Homicide just as soon as I can get there.”
The rain would cancel soccer.
Barbara called her older sister, Mary, and asked her to pick up her son. He wouldn’t complain about hanging out at his aunt Mary’s. She was a better cook.
“Could be a sleepover, Mary.”
“Catch a big case?”
“The biggest.”
As Barbara drove, she probed her briefcase for today’s Mirror. It took four red lights to absorb every detail on the Cooper story. She was a quick-thinking Harvard grad whose passion for law had not waned, despite the disillusioning realities of everyday jurisprudence. She’d handled a number of homicide cases, domestics, drug murders, but never one that had played out on the front pages.
Within forty-five minutes, Barbara found herself in a secured room, contending with the smells of fried chicken, potatoes, Italian salad dressing, and Cooper. As he ate behind the bars of a holding cell, she worked at the small table asking him questions, writing notes on a yellow legal pad, consulting copies of files, reports, and statements she’d requested from Lynn and the Seattle PD.
“So, do you think they’re going to charge me with something?”
“We’ll know soon enough. Just try to take it easy.”
Barbara left the room to meet with the detectives, their sergeant, and Lynn Mann, a deputy prosecuting attorney. Lynn was a veteran of DOP, King County’s homicide response team. Lynn was beautiful. She also had fifteen years’ more experience than Barbara.
“Here it is,” Lynn said. “Your client has a troubled history, with a few violent incidents. He has been known to argue with the victim in front of witnesses at the shelter. Your client had access to the murder weapon, a knife from the shelter. Your client is in possession of shoes consistent with impressions found in the victim’s blood and at the
