J. Jance - Long Time Gone

“Winkler,” Sister Mary Katherine mused. “Isn’t that the name of the detective on Mimi’s case?”

“That’s right. I talked to him yesterday afternoon, about the same time you were talking to Elvira. Now she’s dead, and he’s missing. The nursing home said he left in a cab shortly after I did.”

“A cab?” Sister Mary Katherine asked suddenly. “What kind of cab?”

“I don’t know. Detective Jackson didn’t say. Why?”

“There was a yellow cab parked right behind my van when I left Elvira Marchbank’s home. I noticed it because it was parked so close to my bumper that I had to work to get out of the parking place without hitting the cab or the car in front of me.”

I picked my phone back up and dialed Detective Jackson. “Check with Yellow Cab,” I told him. “Find out whether or not they’re the ones who picked Wink Winkler up. If they did, find out where and when they took him.”

“Will do,” Jackson said.

When I glanced back in Sister Mary Katherine’s direction, I found that my phone call had left her shaken. “What if he’s dead, too?” she asked.

Sister Mary Katherine had dealt with the news of Elvira’s death with far more equanimity than she showed at hearing that Wink Winkler had gone missing. Where Elvira was concerned, Sister Mary Katherine was operating with the firm conviction that the woman had gone to her death with her soul saved. If Wink was dead now, too, she couldn’t be so certain.

“He may have just wandered off,” I suggested, trying to make us both feel better.

“No,” Sister Mary Katherine insisted. “All of this is happening because of me-because I turned up after all these years and brought Mimi’s death back to the forefront.”

“That may be true,” I agreed. “But the real problem is that there are still people around here who, even after all this time, don’t want Mimi’s homicide solved.”

“But why?” Sister Mary Katherine asked.

“Once we know that,” I told her, “we may know everything.”

When we reached Seattle PD we had to go through the routine of collecting our visitor’s badges before we were met by Detective Jackson and escorted upstairs. I thought we’d be going into one of the interview rooms. Wrong. We were taken directly to Homicide and crammed, cheek by jowl, into Kramer’s new glass-lined office. In the old building, we’d have been inside the glass-lined Fish-bowl with everything done there coming under the scrutiny of the entire squad room. In his new office with glass walls opening on a window-lined corridor, only passing seagulls and pigeons had a bird’s eye view. Dealing with Paul Kramer in relative privacy didn’t make it any easier.

Kramer is one of those negative people who go through life spreading ill will and divisiveness in their wake. I had been hoping to establish a good working relationship with Detective Jackson and the other investigators assigned to the two Marchbank cases, but Kramer’s MO was to lop cooperation off at the knees. He’s also one of the enforcers of that old saw “No good deed goes unpunished.” Most homicide cops would have been happy to have a leg up in an investigation. Not Kramer. His opening question to me, asked without benefit of introductions, made his lack of gratitude perfectly clear.

“How is it you happen to know that Wink Winkler left Home Sweet Home yesterday afternoon in a yellow cab?” he demanded.

“I didn’t actually know anything of the kind,” I said. “I merely asked the question. Are you saying that checked out?”

I glanced at Detective Jackson. He nodded slightly in my direction but said nothing while Captain Kramer glowered at both of us.

“Yes, it did,” he answered. “According to Yellow Cab’s log, they dropped him off-”

“In front of the Marchbank Foundation,” Sister Mary Katherine interjected.

I shot her a look that was meant to say “Stifle,” but my warning came too late. It was as though everyone and everything in that seventh-floor room went into a state of suspended animation. No one spoke or moved except for the hands on the clock on the credenza behind Kramer’s desk.

“And who exactly are you?” Kramer demanded.

I answered first. “This is Sister Mary Katherine, mother superior of Saint Benedict’s Convent on Whidbey Island.”

“All right. Fine. Glad to make your acquaintance.” Then he turned back to me. “But what the hell is she doing here?”

“Excuse me, Captain Kramer, is it?” Sister Mary Katherine asked. “I’m perfectly capable of answering questions on my own without requiring Mr. Beaumont’s help. Years ago I was an eyewitness to Mimi Marchbank’s murder. It’s been suggested that you or someone like you might want to talk to me about it.”

Kramer’s eyes narrowed. His forehead bulged. “An eyewitness?” he asked. “To a homicide that happened more than half a century ago?”

“I was quite young at the time.”

“And where have you been since then? What kept you from coming forward until now?” Kramer asked.

I had Freddy Mac’s videotapes in my briefcase and was prepared to show them. I started to say as much, but Sister Mary Katherine silenced me with a wave of her hand.

“It was a brutal murder,” she said evenly. “Seeing it was traumatic enough that I repressed the memories completely. Only recently, with the help of a hypnotherapist, have I been able to bring them to the surface.”

Kramer looked shocked-like a little old lady who has suddenly encountered the unexpected use of the F -word in public. “A hypnotherapist?” he repeated, but he was looking at me. “You set up this meeting with four of my top homicide detectives-pulled them off the streets-to discuss the findings of a hypnotherapist!”

It was a statement, not a question. I simply nodded.

Kramer stood up. “I always knew you were a crackpot, Beaumont. If this is where your yellow cab information came from, it just about takes the cake. Good-bye. Get out of here, and don’t be wasting any more of my detectives’ and my valuable time.”

I was more than ready to take the man at his word. I stood up to go. Sister Mary Katherine didn’t budge.

“I understand Elvira Marchbank died yesterday,” the nun said. “I believe I was one of the last people to see her alive. I should think you would want your detectives to speak with me even if you’re too busy.”

“My dear lady,” Kramer said in his most condescending fashion, “you being a nun and all, you might not be aware of this, but whenever news of an unexpected death happens, there are always plenty of people who line up outside waiting to tell us what they know.” He used his fingers to create imaginary quotation marks around the word “know.” “If what you have to tell us is what some quack was able to dredge up while you were under his suggestive spell, I doubt it’s going to be of much help. Now, if you don’t mind, we have work to do.”

I had sidled over to the door. Now Sister Mary Katherine stood, but she leveled a reproving look at Captain Kramer through her wire-framed glasses. “There are people in this world, Mr. Kramer…” His use of the word “lady” may have deprived Sister Mary Katherine of her rightful title, but at least none of her subordinates had been in the room to hear it. Kramer wasn’t so lucky. His demotion from captain to mister fell on the ears of four of his top detectives. Sister Mary Katherine knew it, he knew it, and so did everyone else in the room. None of his rapt detectives cracked a smile. Neither did I.

“…people,” Sister Mary Katherine continued firmly, “who pray to God for help in their hour of need and then refuse to accept that help when it’s offered. If the answer doesn’t arrive in exactly the guise they expect, they assume no answer was given. I regret to say, Mr. Kramer, that you may very well be one of those unfortunate people. For a man in your position, that’s not only surprising, it’s also quite unfortunate. Good day to you, Mr. Kramer. And good luck. You’ll most likely need it.”