J. Jance - Trial By Fire

From the quick flash of interest that crossed the nun’s weathered face, Ali knew she had scored a hit.

“How do you propose to do that?” Sister Anselm asked.

“By monitoring any information that may be reported concerning recently reported missing persons cases. One of those may match up with the woman down the hall.”

“You can do that from here?”

Ali sat down in front of her computer and patted it. “Yes, I can,” she said. “I have a portable broadband connection.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Sister Anselm sank down in the chair opposite Ali. “I suppose having access to official information could prove to be very helpful. There have been instances in the past where law enforcement personnel were, shall we say, less than interested.”

She pulled an electronic device of some kind out of her pocket, studied it for a moment, and then slipped it back away. Leaning back in her chair, she studied Ali’s face for some time before she spoke again, and Ali did the same.

Sister Anselm’s countenance was kind and totally devoid of makeup. She wore two pieces of jewelry with her green scrubs-a small gold cross on a chain around her neck and a simple wedding band on the ring finger of her left hand.

“You mentioned that you had heard about me,” Sister Anselm said. “From whom? One of the reporters downstairs?”

Ali nodded and Sister Anselm sighed.

“I suppose it was more of that Angel of Death nonsense,” she said gloomily. “I do wish they’d stop citing that article. I didn’t want to do that interview to begin with, but the bishop insisted. When it came out, Reverend Mother was not amused. She thought it gave the order a bad name. But you know how newspapers are-if it bleeds, it leads.”

Ali smiled at the unexpected comment. “That’s journalism for you,” she said. “But I don’t understand the bad-name part. The woman who mentioned you to me said that you specialize in caring for unidentified and critically injured folks, and that you often work to reunite them with their families.”

“That’s exactly what I do,” Sister Anselm said. “Unfortunately, many of the patients I work with do die. Modern medicine can do miracles, but only with the patient’s full participation. When seriously injured people are isolated and alone, they often can’t find any reason to fight back.”

“Because they have no one to get well for and, as a consequence, no reason to live?” Ali asked.

Sister Anselm nodded. “Without the will to live it’s not surprising that many of them die.”

“That makes sense to me,” Ali said.

“Not to Ms. Hazelett,” Sister Anselm said. “According to her, once a hospital requests my participation, it’s a sign that they’ve given up on the patient and that he or she is on his or her way out.”

“Hence the Angel of Death moniker?” Ali asked.

“Yes,” Sister Anselm said. “Unfortunately, that name stuck. I doubt most people remember anything else about the article other than that. Ms. Hazelett didn’t come right out and blame me, of course. She didn’t imply that I was somehow responsible for the deaths that occurred, but she made it clear that once I showed up on the scene, death was sure to follow.”

“Wait a minute,” Ali objected. “Even when a patient dies, if you manage to locate the victim’s missing family members, you’re at least giving the family someone to bury. You’re also giving them closure and answers. I should think the family members would be most appreciative.”

“Most of the time they are,” Sister Anselm agreed. “Unfortunately that wasn’t the focus of the article. But your reasoning is understandable since you don’t appear to be a Goth.”

“A Goth?” Ali asked. “Who’s a Goth?”

“That’s how Nadine Hazelett refers to herself in her Facebook entry. From the looks of her photos she wears all black clothing, and even black lipstick. I should have checked her entry prior to doing the interview. Once the article came out, however, it was too late.”

Ali liked the fact that Sister Anselm was computer literate and that she noticed things like lipstick colors.

“Having a Goth interview a nun doesn’t sound like a good fit to me,” Ali said. “Who came up with that brilliant idea?”

“I don’t know, but I’m quite sure the article that was published wasn’t what Bishop Gillespie had in mind.”

“He was looking for some positive publicity?” Ali asked.

Sister Anselm nodded. “He ended up with something else entirely. I thought we should seek legal recourse, but Reverend Mother’s take on the situation was that we should let it go. No one wrote irate letters to the editor or anything like that, but the sisters at the convent pray for Ms. Hazelett every day.”

“They pray for her soul?” Ali asked.

“No,” Sister Anselm said with a smile. “We pray that she’ll find enlightenment. It’s not quite turning the other cheek, but it’s close.”

There was a small buzzing sound, an electronic alert of some kind. Sister Anselm pulled the small device from her pocket again. She did something to it, and the sound was silenced.

“Duty calls,” she said, rising to her feet. “I enjoyed chatting with you, Ms. Reynolds. If you come up with any information on the identity of my patient, I would be most grateful.”

“Of course,” Ali said. “I’ll let you know. Immediately.”

Sister Anselm started to walk away. Then she stopped and turned back. “If you have a chance, you might want to stop by the nurses’ station. Tell them you need to sign into my logbook. They’ll know what you mean.”

For a time after the nun disappeared behind the closed door, Ali sat staring after her. It seemed that she and Sister Anselm were working opposite sides of the same coin. The people from the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department wanted to identify the victim to track down the woman’s would-be killer.

Sister Anselm wanted to the same thing-to save the woman’s immortal soul.

Very different goals, Ali told herself. But maybe we can work the problem together.

Sheriff Maxwell’s text message came through, giving Ali the name and contact information for the ATF media relations officer in Phoenix. Still provoked by the sheriff’s parting comment about Ali and her Glock, she could easily have delayed passing along the media requests she had collected, but she didn’t. She sat there for some time, dutifully forwarding the information. Only when she finished did she step over to the nurses’ station.

“Excuse me,” she said, when the attendant looked up from a phone call. “Sister Anselm says I need to sign the logbook.”

Nodding, the attendant handed over a small spiral notebook. The cover was blank other than a self-adhesive tag with the number 814 handwritten in ink. When she opened it, the first page had marked spaces that called for name, date, phone number, and message. Ali looked up from the page and aimed a questioning look at the attendant.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Ali asked.

“Just fill it out,” the woman said with a shrug. “Sister Anselm likes to keep a record of visitors for the patients and their families. That way they have some idea of who came by to visit, and why.”

“What’s the reason for doing that?” Ali asked.

“For many family members it’s a comfort to know that someone cared-that at the very least their loved one wasn’t all alone here in the hospital, alone and forgotten.”

Returning to her chair, Ali opened the notebook to the first page and jotted down her name, department, and contact information. Writing those snippets of official information was the easy part. After that she spent several minutes staring off into space and trying to decide what else to write.