Rick Mofina - Perfect Grave

“What do you mean?”

Jason saw Beale reach for the remote for the TV near his desk.

“Here we go,” Beale said.

The sound carried a few ominous bass notes then the graphic: BREAKING NEWS WKKR EXCLUSIVE: ARREST IN NUN MURDER filled the screen, then shrank to be placed below the news anchor’s desk.

“I’m Carol Carter. We’re interrupting our programming to bring you this live report. Seattle Police have made an arrest in the murder of Sister Anne Braxton and our WKKR camera was there.”

Dramatic footage showed the lightning-fast arrest. Jason’s stomach knotted. He recognized the unidentified man as Cooper while it played in slo-mo. After a few seconds Carol Carter returned to say, “WKKR’s David Troy has the story. David, what do we know so far?” Carol Carter said to the white teeth and tanned, chiseled face of David Troy, WKKR’s veteran crime reporter, standing in front of the shelter.

“Carol, in a bizarre twist to this tragic case, police arrested the man during a moving funeral service for the murdered nun, whom the mayor called the Saint of Seattle.”

“Any details on the identity of the man arrested, or why?”

“Not much, but my sources indicate the man is John Randolph Cooper, a troubled war veteran who, after seeing action in Iraq, was a regular at the shelter and very close to Sister Anne-”

“Sounds like he’s reading your story, Wade,” Beale said.

“We should’ve got Cooper’s picture last night,” Reep said.

“He would have refused,” Jason said, “believe me.”

“We’ve got photo and the library trying to get unit albums and something from his military records,” Beale said.

“And his high school yearbook,” Cassie added.

Reep studied the WKKR’s report. “Is it Cooper there, Wade?”

Jason nodded.

“David,” Carol Carter asked, “have your sources told you if Cooper’s a suspect?”

“Not on the record. As you know, police are playing their cards close to their vest on this one. But I’ll speculate that he possesses information vital to the case, Carol.”

“Thank you, David,” Carol Carter said. “Just to recap, WKKR’s David Troy brought us the breaking news that police arrested a man during today’s funeral service for Sister Anne Braxton, whom the mayor called the Saint of Seattle. That man is believed to be John Randolph Cooper. We now return-”

Beale muted the TV.

“That just kills us,” Beale said.

“How could you let this happen, Wade?” Reep said.

“Excuse me?”

“You and Cassie break the story that the murder weapon is a knife from the shelter-”

“Cassie had nothing to do with that story.”

“Then you find this Cooper living in a hellhole under the Interstate, a troubled war vet who goes to the shelter and knew the nun.”

Jason nodded.

“And he tells you about some stranger he saw who argued with her and took the knife.”

“Right”

“And you just saw what happened?”

Beale shot Jason a glare. He couldn’t hold his tongue.

“TV just used your story to kick us between the legs and break things wide open, pal.”

Jason’s mouth went dry with the awful realization.

“That’s right, Wade,” Reep said. “Now the lights are coming on, now he gets it. Cooper was likely talking about himself. You were likely interviewing the nun’s murderer, Wade! We’ve got no pictures, no confirmation. We’ve got squat. You should have allowed Cassie to go with you to find Cooper.”

“I did. She backed off!”

“You refused to wait up for me. You left me behind.”

“Bull!”

“Wade,” Reep said, “you dropped the ball!”

Jason swallowed hard, ran his hand over his face, glanced at the time.

“Now listen to me, Wade!” Reep’s voice stopped conversations throughout the newsroom. “You get your ass to Homicide, because that’s likely who’s got him, and you get it confirmed that they believe he’s the killer, and you do it before deadline, or you don’t come back.”

T he Seattle Homicide Unit’s interview room reeked of lies.

Its oppressive fluorescent lighting burned on the pale cinder-block walls holding the mirrored window that reflected Cooper, waiting alone in a metal chair at the bare table.

Staff Sergeant John Randolph Taylor Cooper.

Age: 45. Born in Kent, Washington, according to his military records.

They’d just been faxed from St. Louis, and Grace Garner was studying them from the other side of the mirrored window.

Cooper was commander of an M1 Abrams tank when his patrol came under attack during operations in western Iraq. Three members of his crew died. For his brave action under fire, Cooper was recommended for several medals and awards.

But after the tragedy, he’d suffered severe mental trauma and was sent to a psychiatric ward of a military hospital, where he’d experienced several episodes. In one violent outburst, he’d threatened to plunge his toothbrush into a nurse’s throat if she didn’t tell him where they were keeping, “Yordan, Bricker, and Rose.” Other incidents were hallucinatory, or related to medication.

After eleven months, Cooper was discharged but he couldn’t find a steady job and had no family to support him. Haunted by his ordeal, Cooper succumbed to addictions and life on the street. He became a regular at the shelter. And while Sister Anne seemed to be the only person able to reach him, he had been seen arguing with her several times, according to statements from the shelter’s staff.

“Grace?” Perelli repeated, “are you ready to go at him?”

She closed Cooper’s file and nodded, recalling the advice Lynn Mann gave her over the phone from the King County Prosecuting Attorney’s office. “Play it by the book, Grace, by the book.”

Grace inhaled. Every time they stepped into the interview room to work on a suspect, the lying game started.

“It wasn’t me. I wasn’t there, that’s not my gun, knife, club, whatever. I wasn’t there, ask my sister brother mother father daughter son friend or the dude who left town yesterday. I saw this guy running away. He was a tall, short, fat, skinny Hispanic Asian, black, white guy-like eighteen to fifty years old, man. Find him.”

But if Grace was lucky, physical evidence, solid physical evidence, could help her leverage a confession.

Upon entering the small room, Perelli set the Seattle Mirror on the table, spun it round so Cooper could see today’s article.

“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?”