Rick Mofina - Perfect Grave

“I destroyed lives.”

“Destroyed lives? What do you mean? Did you break a young man’s heart?”

Anne looked off.

“God knows what I did. God, and one other living person. Please, Denise. I’ve said more about this than I’ve ever told anyone. Please, you must keep my confidence. Promise me.”

“Of course, Anne. But I don’t understand.”

“If we’re patient, God will reveal all mysteries. After all, He does work in mysterious ways.” Anne hugged her and never spoke of the subject again.

It was so cryptic. “I destroyed lives.” What did she mean?

A sudden knock on her door, and Denise’s heart leapt.

“Are you almost ready, Denise?”

“See you downstairs in a couple more minutes, Flo.”

Denise was coming to a decision. The journal was not her property. Being aware of it, and given all of the tragic circumstances, she must give it to Vivian. Perhaps Denise had hesitated earlier because she’d been upset with Vivian.

She’d reached a decision.

Closing the journal, putting it in the box, she took it with her down the hall, where she knocked softly on the door to Anne’s, well, Vivian’s room. It was weird how she insisted on staying there. The others had whispered how they thought it was macabre, but no one dared question Vivian.

“Who is it?”

“Denise.”

“I’ll be downstairs in a minute.”

“I’d like to talk to you privately.”

“Can it wait?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come in then, for a moment.”

The room still smelled of ammonia, which Denise would now and forever associate with Anne’s murder. Vivian was a portrait of the imposing leader, writing notes for the memorial service.

“What is it? I have to hurry ahead to meet Father Mercer, he’ll be celebrating the mass today and is going directly to the shelter.”

“I need to show you what I discovered when I was cleaning.”

Denise went to the closet, pried out the floorboards, revealed the hole, then passed the box to Vivian, who was perplexed.

“Anne had hidden this under the floor. It’s her journal.”

“Journal?”

Vivian started flipping through it. Slowly at first, then faster as she absorbed its contents.

“Did you know she’d kept a journal?” Denise asked.

Vivian shook her head without lifting it from the book.

“You knew her longer than the rest of us. Do you know what she’s talking about when she says she regrets the mistakes she made in the past?”

“No, what?” Vivian’s head remained in the book, reading. “No. But what human being doesn’t regret past mistakes?” Finally she lifted her head, her eyes boring into Denise. “Did you tell anyone about this?”

“No.”

“Show it to anyone?”

“No, just you. I thought maybe we might use some of her words at the memorial, then maybe pass it to the detectives.”

“Perhaps later, but not at this time. And you will tell no one, absolutely no one, about this book. Is that understood?”

“But why?”

“This is a very private journal and I’ll need time to study it more carefully before we decide on how to proceed. Is that understood?”

Denise said nothing, watching Vivian slide Anne’s journal into her valise among the files she was taking with her to the shelter.

“Is that clear, Sister Denise?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“HE’S THE ONE.”

On the Trail of Sister Anne’s Killer: M IRROR Exclusive

T he headline above Jason Wade’s byline stretched six columns across the Mirror ’s front page above the fold. After reading his article for the third time, Grace Garner jabbed Jason’s number on her cell.

“Grace,” Perelli cautioned her as he drove their unmarked Malibu toward the shelter for Sister Anne’s funeral. “Let it go.”

She waved him off as Jason’s line was answered.

“Jason Wade, Seattle Mirror. ”

“Nice story.”

“Grace?”

“Is it bull, or is Cooper’s information solid?”

“Judge for yourself. It’s all there in the paper.”

“We want to find him so we can chat.”

“Why? Have you got something on the guy he’s talking about? Why call me?”

“Seems Cooper wanders a bit. Thought you might point me in the right direction. Save me time.”

“Will you give me a jump if something breaks?”

“Like you did for me on your story today?”

“Hey, I don’t work for you. Everything I know about Cooper’s brush with the mystery man is in my story.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I don’t believe this.” She searched the traffic for the right words. “It would’ve been nice if you’d told me this was coming out today, Jason.”

“And it would’ve been nice if you’d returned my calls,” he said. “But, as usual, Grace, you didn’t.”

“So this is how it’s going to be?”

“This is how it is.”

She hung up, shaking her head. He was still hurt. That’s what this was all about. Maybe she was wrong to have ever started up with him. Well, that’s his problem, not hers, she ruminated until Perelli interrupted her.

“I don’t know why you called him. He’s always in our face for help but it’s never quid pro quo with him. It’s a one-way street.”

She stared at the buildings rolling by.

Maybe she was wrong to end it with him.

“Focus, Grace,” Perelli said. “You don’t need Wade. We’ve got people looking for Cooper in the International District. We’ve got word out on the street. It’s just a matter of time before we find him. Focus on what you’ve got because it’s good.”

Perelli was right. Piece by piece she was building her case. As he wheeled into Pioneer Square, Grace reviewed the pictures on her camera phone. First, the knife. The murder weapon. It came from the shelter. Then a foot impression that was consistent with the type of sneaker issued only by the Washington Department of Corrections.

The Seattle PD was set up at the memorial service. The undercover surveillance unit was in the white panel van parked near the shelter entrance, secretly videotaping every person filing into the shelter for Sister Anne’s funeral. Maybe, just maybe, they would find someone wearing state-issued shoes.

And maybe they would find the killer attached to them.

Inside the shelter, Sister Anne’s garlanded pine casket rested at one end of the dining room. An enlarged photograph of her laughing among the day care’s children was raised on a tripod next to it. Nearby, one of the plastic-covered bingo tables had been draped with a white sheet to serve as a makeshift altar. It stood before several hundred mourners in hard-back chairs that had been neatly arranged into pewlike rows.

Dignitaries representing the state, the county, the city, the Vatican, and the Archdiocese were not afforded any special seating. Conscious of the news cameras and reporters at the back, they did their best to look at ease among the homeless, the poor, and their children-the people Sister Anne helped and loved. The children were hushed during the service.

Father Jeb Mercer, a retired priest and old friend of Sister Vivian’s, had flown in from the east that morning, arriving just in time to celebrate the funeral mass. Between hymns and psalms, a stream of officials delivered eulogies from the podium near her casket.

In a prepared tribute read by a local senator, the governor called Sister Anne, “An angel of mercy who eased pain.” Then the mayor said she was, “the Saint of Seattle,” and promised that the council would name a park in her honor.

The cardinal compared her compassion and devotion to that of Jesus Christ, then read condolences from the Vatican. “She inspired us because her love was blind to race, blind to social standing, blind to human failings. She restored dignity and worth to their rightful owners. She was Heaven’s grace.”