Rick Mofina - Perfect Grave

“Mr. Wade here has breached the boundary of my scene. Escort him to the street and keep all press out of this building.”

“No need for that,” Jason said. “I’m finished here.” He shot Grace a parting glare. “Believe me.”

Bernice Burnett showed Grace a cherished photograph of her husband, the late Ambrose Burnett. He was a cabinetmaker who once did some of the custom work on the president’s plane, Bernice recalled, while Lulu, her tabby, rubbed up against Grace Garner.

“You must be proud.”

“Oh, I am. We have personal letters from the presidents who admired his work. Would you like to see them?”

“Another time, perhaps. Bernice, I’d like to come back to what you saw tonight. Your big window is beautiful.”

“I like it.”

“It rises from the floor to your ceiling. You’ve got a clear view of the building next door.”

“Yes. I usually can see who comes and goes while I’m watching my usual TV shows. I like the old reruns of shows my husband enjoyed.”

“Can you mark in your television guide at each point in a show when you noticed something happening next door? It’ll help me with a time line.”

Bernice knitted her brow.

“Let’s see, the pizza man came halfway through Green Acres. After him, the second man came.”

“The second man? When was that?”

“When Love Boat started. I love that old show.”

“Did you notice if the second man rang the bell?”

“No, it seemed like he just walked in like the door was open.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“I couldn’t be sure. He’s hard to describe. Just a man, tall, I think.”

“White, black, Asian?”

“Hard to say for certain. I think white.”

“Any distinguishing clothing? Or in the way he walked?”

Bernice shook her head.

“I don’t remember. It was dark; he was more like a silhouette. It was like he had business there. I thought maybe he was a priest. I thought nothing at all of it because the sisters get a lot of visitors.”

“What came next?”

“Well, it was right near the end of Love Boat when I noticed strange lights in Sister Anne’s apartment?”

“Strange, how?”

“Like someone was going around with a lamp, or flashlight. At first I thought Sister Anne may have lit a candle, for prayers, or maybe she’d lost power.”

“Did you see Sister Anne arrive home?”

“No, I never did. I got up to get my cats some milk and I made myself a little snack, some cheese and crackers just before Fantasy Island started. Then I noticed it was all dark again.”

“And after that?”

“Some time at the start of the show, the lights in her apartment came on and through her curtains, which were closed but are sheers, I saw shadows. The usual kind when Sister Anne is there, but then, I think I saw two figures inside.”

Grace had been taking careful notes.

“And that’s all you noticed tonight? A man at the door and unusual lights and movements in Sister Anne’s apartment?”

“Well, that’s what I told the officer, and that nice reporter, but come to think of it, I remember a bit more.”

Grace looked up from her notebook.

“I saw a man leave the building. I think it was the same man who’d entered after the pizza man.”

Has to be our guy, Grace thought as Bernice continued.

“He walked between the buildings to the back alley. No one ever goes that way. He was walking fast, not running, but walking fast. I thought, gosh, what’s wrong? So I stood and watched him go that way.”

“North?”

“If that way’s north, that’s right. I saw his arm move like he was tossing something small, then he stopped for a few seconds and I saw a red glow, like a flame at his head.”

“Like he was lighting a cigarette?”

“Yes. And then he was gone.”

“Anything after that?”

“I think I fell asleep. It was the sirens and all the commotion that woke me. Then a police officer came to my door.”

Bernice took one of her cats, Lulu, into her arms and stood at her window watching the increased activity at the police tape below. More news crews and more police vehicles had arrived. Emergency lights strobed across her face.

Grace saw it reflected in the glass, saw Bernice’s concern turn to fear, dawning with the realization that just out there, a few feet beyond her windowpane, an unseen horror had visited her neighbor. Lulu jumped from her arms.

“Is Sister Anne hurt?”

Grace went to her and gently touched her shoulder.

“It’s something more serious than a burglary, isn’t it?” Bernice asked.

“Much more serious.”

Bernice could not breathe, her knees weakened. Grace steadied her, helping her into her chair, comforting her and gazing into the night, the same night that was hiding a killer.

T he Mirror ’s newsroom was empty when Jason Wade returned.

There was no way he would get the nun’s murder into any late edition, as the last staffers on the night shift had left for home. The presses had long since completed their last run. The delivery trucks were gone and all over the metro area today’s Mirror was already plopping on doorsteps.

The newsroom’s silence was punctuated by the solitary clicking of his keyboard as he wrote about the murder for the Mirror ’s online edition, to assure readers- and his editor -that he was on it. The Seattle Times and the Post-Intelligencer would be doing the same. TV and radio would be hammering on it all day today. And the Associated Press would surely move something soon.

He could not fall behind.

Jason made calls to Grace and the precinct to confirm the murdered nun’s name. And ask her what was going on out back.

No luck at the precinct. And no luck with Grace. She probably wouldn’t talk to him anyway. Well, he’d play it safe. He’d leave Sister Anne’s name out of print until he was certain it’s her, he advised himself while pounding out a tight item with bare-bones facts. And he held off using the exclusive stuff he’d gotten from Bernice Burnett. He didn’t want to help his competition. He’d offer it all up later today when the Mirror put together a fuller story for tomorrow’s paper. As he read it over, his cell phone rang.

The number was blocked.

“Wade.”

“You the reporter who was asking about the murder by Yesler tonight?”

Jason didn’t recognize the voice.

“Yes, who’s calling?”

At the scene he’d floated his card to a group of young men gathered near the tape. Most were teens in hooded sweatshirts, watching and talking quietly. He’d figured they’d be good for knowing something and suspected that one of them was on the line now.

“You hearing if police got a suspect?” the caller asked.

“Nope, nothing. I didn’t catch your name?”

“I got some information for you but first I want a deal, all right?”

“First, I want a name. Who are you?”

“Tango.”

“Tango? That a real name?”

“As real as you need. You going to take this to the next level, or do I end it?”

“What do you want?”

“We trade. I tell you what I know, you tell me what you know, and we don’t tell nobody where it’s comin’ from. Deal?”

Jason was interested, but guarded against giving up anything. “All right, but I’ve got nothing at this point.”

“Come on, man, police always give you guys the inside track.”

“All I know is what everyone knows: a woman was murdered.”

“Yeah, but you got that she was a nun, right?”

“Really? What was her name?”

“Sister Anne.”

“Sister Anne who?”

“Don’t know, but word is she was stabbed and they found the knife out back. They were taking pictures and doing their CSI thing.”