“I hope everything’s all right,” she turned back to Jason. “I gather it was some sort of robbery at Sister Anne’s apartment. Probably those drug dealers. We’ve had some burglaries recently.”
Some sort of robbery? She doesn’t know what happened but she had a name.
“I’m sorry, you said, Sister Anne? And that’s who lives in that unit with all the activity?”
“Yes, she’s got a small apartment in the town house. Lives there with the other nuns. Saints, all of them. Devoted to the neighborhood. You know, they run the Compassionate Heart shelter downtown.”
Over the woman’s shoulder, through her window to the street, Jason saw the call letters of a TV news van. He didn’t have time, he had to push this.
“Look, ma’am, that’s the kind of information I need. Would it be okay for me to take some notes?”
“I shouldn’t, I’m not sure. The police-”
“They’ll probably tell us everything eventually but this will help.”
“I guess it’d be all right. Everyone knows about our nuns, but I can’t tell you everything I told the police.”
Jason nodded as he wrote quickly.
“I understand, but did you see anything going on at Sister Anne’s?”
As the woman pulled her hands to her face to consider his question, he glimpsed a car from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer roll to a stop outside, saw a photographer and reporter step from it while his source wrestled with a decision.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
“Yes, I saw something strange.” The woman’s face intensified as the curtain rose on an insight. “It’s not a burglary, is it? Something’s happened to Sister Anne.”
Chapter Six
S ister Anne stared at the ceiling.
Blood laced her face and the graying streaks of her dark hair. It drenched her Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt and jeans. Her bathroom floor was submerged under the torrent that had hemorrhaged from her gaping neck wound. The tiny silver cross she wore had slid down into it. Her rosary was entwined around her fingers in a blood- caked death grip.
The room flared with another burst of white light as the crime-scene photographer continued recording the scene.
Her eyes registered calm, peace, even acceptance. They were not frozen in the wide-eyed disbelief that was common among homicide victims, Grace Garner thought, sketching the scene, taking notes, and wondering if, in the dying moment of her life, Sister Anne saw God.
“Grace?” Perelli called from a few feet away. Like her, he was wearing shoe covers and white latex gloves while taking careful inventory of the small, cell-like bedroom. “Look at this. What do you think?”
The sheets of her narrow, single bed had been twisted. Above it, the cross and painting of Mary had been pushed out of position. The wooden nightstand had been toppled; a King James Bible and a tattered paperback edition of The Agony and the Ecstasy were splayed on the floor, and pages torn from both books were scattered.
“I can’t believe nobody in this building heard nothing,” Perelli said.
Sister Anne’s small closet and her four-drawer dresser had been rifled, her personal papers and photographs strewn about the room. The air held the scent of soap, laundered linen, and something familiar.
“I smell cigarettes and these nuns don’t smoke,” Grace said.
“Could be from our suspect?”
Grace nodded, frustrated that they had no witnesses and no weapon. No suspect description to put out. No path of inquiry to take. They had a canvass going but so far it had yielded nothing promising. She knew that the first hours of an investigation were critical and that the chances for a break melted with each minute.
She pushed a theory at Perelli.
“So he’s in here looking for something and she comes upon him.”
“What’s the prick looking for?” Perelli pushed back. “She’s a nun. She’s got no money. There’s no apparent sexual assault. She’s got nothing. She’s taken a vow of poverty, or something, right? Hell, her furniture’s secondhand, donated stuff. So what’s he want?”
“A crackhead from the shelter, maybe? And he’s thinking, maybe there’s a collection, a donation? He follows her from the shelter? I don’t know, Dom. Maybe it’s something else? We need a break here.”
“There’s no forced entry. No sign of it, anyway. They’ve got a problem with the lock at the front door downstairs. And this apartment door’s got a simple warded lock. Hell, any child could use a toothbrush to beat it.”
Grace flipped through her notes.
“Is it random, Grace, or you think she knew him?”
“I’m thinking it’s time to talk to Sister Florence.”
A handful of nuns lived in Sister Anne’s building. The halls were adorned with pictures of saints. The main floor had a large common area with a kitchen and a dining room where the sisters ate meals together. Sister Florence was being comforted there by older women. All of them were wearing jogging pants, cotton nightgowns, or baggy pullover sweaters or T-shirts.
Their clothes were streaked brown with dried blood.
All were crying.
“I’m Detective Grace Garner and this is Detective Dominic Perelli,” Grace said. “We’re sorry for your loss. Please accept our sympathies.”
“Why would anyone do this?” Monique, one of the older sisters, asked.
“We’re going to do all we can to find out,” Perelli said. “But we’re going to need your help.”
Grace consulted her notes. “We’d like to talk to Sister Florence, privately?”
Pressing a crumpled tissue to her mouth, Sister Florence nodded, then led Garner and Perelli along the creaking hardwood floor to the far end of the building and a room that served as a chapel. It had an organ, hard- back chairs, and a large stained-glass window, a gift made by inmates the nuns had counseled in prison.
A few sisters had left the chapel moments earlier after a prayer session for Sister Anne. Votive candles flickered in red, blue, green, orange, purple, and yellow glass cups. One had gone out. As Sister Florence relit it, Grace reviewed the short statement she’d given to the first responding officer. Sister Florence had moved to Seattle last summer from Quebec, where she was serving with the order in Montreal. At age twenty-nine, she was the youngest sister who lived here.
Sister Florence had discovered Sister Anne.
Grace met her green, tear-filled eyes. Her young well-scrubbed face was a portrait of heartbreak and unshakeable faith as she recounted finding her friend.
“Tonight was our pizza and old movie night. We were watching Norma Rae and I decided to see if Sister Anne had returned and to invite her to join us.”
“Was the downstairs front door locked?”
“We’re not sure. It doesn’t lock if you don’t push it fully closed and we’re all guilty of that at times, especially when you’ve got your hands full, like with a pizza.”
“The pizza was delivered? Who received it?”
Sister Florence covered her face with her hands.
“I did.”
“Did you lock the front door completely?”
“I don’t know. I’m so sorry. I should’ve checked. Oh Lord, forgive me.”
Grace gave her a moment.
“Tell us about your apartment doors and who has keys.”
Sister Florence held out a key.
“We each have a key to our apartments and lock our doors when we’re out, or need privacy. We know these
