Rick Mofina - Perfect Grave

Guilt pricked at Jason’s conscience and he glanced at the time. Why had he been called away just when his father needed him? He’d have to try him later. Man, he prayed it wasn’t too late, that his old man had been able to hang on.

Jason rubbed his hands over his face, took in a long breath, then slowly let it out before picking up the printouts of the old stories he’d retrieved on the nuns with the Compassionate Heart of Mercy. He found Sister Anne’s face in a group shot that accompanied one of the stories.

He stared at it.

She was smiling, but her eyes seemed to hold a measure of sadness.

J ason woke from a deep sleep and didn’t know why.

Then his phone rang again. He cursed and grabbed it.

“You up, Wade?”

“No, what time is it?”

Eldon Reep’s voice kick-started Jason’s brain and he braced for trouble.

“Did we have the murdered nun’s name last night, Wade?”

“It was never confirmed when I filed for our web edition-besides they usually wait to notify family.”

“Her name is Sister Florence Roy, according to everybody but the Mirror. ”

“Florence Roy?”

“That’s right, twenty-nine years old. Arrived at the order from Quebec. Our competition’s got her damn picture online already. We’ve got squat. We look stupid. I don’t like looking stupid, Wade.”

“Listen, that name can’t be right. Who confirmed it?”

“Did you even go to the scene?”

“Yes, I went to the scene. Who confirmed her name last night?”

“Neighbors, friends. Apparently, people all over this city.”

“What about the Seattle PD or the ME? They complete an autopsy?”

“Get your ass in here, now.”

“I’m on nights, I’ve hardly slept.”

“Get in here now.”

Tension knotted Jason’s stomach as he showered. After shaving, he tried reaching Grace Garner for confirmation of the name. No luck. Dressing, he fired up his laptop, scanning Web sites of Seattle news outlets, where he met the face of Sister Florence Roy and a wave of self-doubt.

How could he have been so far off the mark?

While driving to the Mirror, Jason ate two apples for breakfast. As he listened to Led Zeppelin’s “Fool in the Rain,” he reflected on his competition’s stories, finding some comfort in the fact nobody- nobody so far -had the angle that the homicide may be linked directly to something in the nun’s past.

Whoever she was. Sister Florence. Sister Anne. Was his angle dead now?

Where would he take the story from here? He had to get a handle on it. But how? As he searched Seattle’s skyline for answers, he remembered something important.

His old man.

Jason seized his cell phone, called his father but got his machine.

“It’s me, I’m sorry, I’m jammed up with the story on the nun’s murder. I want to talk about what’s troubling you. Hang in there, okay?”

The metro editor’s office was empty when Jason got to the newsroom, so he headed straight to his own desk and began working the phones, relieved when he connected with a trusted sergeant he knew.

“Man, I need help,” Jason said, “Is Florence Roy the victim?”

“No. And this bull that’s getting around about it is causing us grief. Good thing you held off, Wade, or you’d be off my Christmas card list.”

“Great, I’m thrilled, can you tell me-wait, hold on, that’s my cell. Got to take it.”

Answering the call, Jason saw Eldon Reep far across the newsroom, emerging from a news meeting an unhappy man.

“Jason it’s Grace returning your calls-all six of them.”

“Thanks, I’ve got a lot of questions.”

“You’ve got about thirty seconds.”

“Who’s Florence Roy?”

Grace took a moment to decide on the shape of the conversation, knowing that Jason often received information that could help, or hurt, an investigation. It was a delicate dance. “I’m off the record, got it,” she said.

“Anything I use, I’ll put to ‘sources.’”

“Fine.”

“Who’s Florence?”

“She’s the nun who found the victim. Some loudmouth TV reporter had called into the town house, got Florence’s name from a distraught nun, got confused-got the story wrong-and now we have this mess. We’re going to issue a statement clarifying things after the preliminary autopsy’s done and ID’s confirmed.”

“When?”

“Should be later today.”

“So is it Anne Braxton?”

“Don’t publish Sister Braxton’s name yet, Jason, until we put it out. But yes, you’ve got it right. The victim is Anne Louise Braxton.”

“Have you notified her family yet? I’m going to start talking to people about her.”

“We’re sorting that out today with the sisters. Go ahead, but stay low-key.”

“What was the last thing Sister Anne did before arriving at her apartment last night?”

“She’d worked at the shelter overseeing meals for street people. We’re canvassing there and the driver of her bus route. You could put out that we’re looking for people who took that bus. I’ll text you the route and time.”

Jason saw Reep standing at the doorway to his office.

“Wade! Get in my office, now!”

Jason held up his hand, indicating that he was nearly done on the phone.

“Grace, do you have any suspects?”

“I’ve got to go, Jason.”

“Me, too, but you do have a weapon-a knife, right?”

“I can’t talk about those things. I’m getting another call.”

“What about a link to her past? I’ve heard this is tied to something in her past. Maybe even gang related, something about payback?”

“We’re hearing a lot of rumors. It’s too soon to rule anything in or out. Sorry, I have to go.”

When the call ended, Jason buried his face in his hands, thinking that at least he had something to build on. Then his office line rang.

“You’ve got five seconds to haul your ass in here!” Reep said.

One wall in Eldon Reep’s office was a theme park of “damn-I’m-good” displays of framed photographs and front pages. Jason stood before Reep’s desk. Reep glared at him, then held a quarter-inch of air between his right thumb and forefinger before his eyes.

“I’m this close to suspending you, Wade.”

“For what?”

“I understand you were in a bar last night when the nun murder broke.”

“My father is a recovering alcoholic. He was struggling with a personal issue, and called for me from a bar, which was a family emergency. I was at the murder scene, on top of the Yesler story from the get-go.”

“You can prove it?”

“It’s all in my overnight note I’d sent to you. Did you read it?”

“If you were on the story, why did you miss the name?”

“I didn’t. The victim is Sister Anne Braxton. Not Sister Florence Roy. Florence is the nun who found her. Why are you so quick to crap on the work of your own staff?”

“You listen to me, Wade. Our penetration in the metro market is eroding. If we keep losing circulation we’ll have to cut staff. This is about our survival. It’s crucial for us to be first.”

“First to get it wrong? What kind of award do you win for that?”

Reep ignored Wade’s last salvo, rolling up his sleeves, consulting his notes from the meeting.

“This is how we’re hitting the story. Jenkins will do a metro column on good and evil in the city-innocence lost kinda crap. Anita Chavez is trying to pull information on the nun from the Mother House.”

Jason took notes as Reep continued.

“Chad Osterman is on his way over to the Archdiocese. And Mirabella Talli will give us a feature on the history of nuns, the order, and its works. Wade, you will work on the investigation and profile the victim. And you damn well better give me exclusive breaking news that ensures that the Mirror owns this story. This is your chance to redeem yourself.”