Doug Allyn - The Best American Mystery Stories 2015

I could not have explained any of this. Not even to my father. It seemed the “right” thing to do, at the time. It would be my secret forever.

“Dorothy Milgrum” had left no will, it would be revealed. And so the deceased woman’s modest estate would be appropriated by the State of Wisconsin.

How much did “Dorothy Milgrum” accumulate, in her years as chief administrator of Craigmillnar? It could not have been much. It was whispered among the staff that there was barely enough money for a decent headstone in the St. Simon’s churchyard at Craigmillnar, where Sister Mary Alphonsus had secured a plot for herself years before.

I was the orderly charged with emptying, cleaning, and preparing the room for the next resident.

In the bureau in Sister Mary Alphonsus’s room, amid her old-woman undergarments, stockings, and woolen socks, there was a packet of letters. I appropriated these, for there was no one to prevent me. It was a surprise to see so many handwritten letters, dated 1950s. Who’d written to the mother superior at Craigmillnar so often? And why had the mother superior kept these letters? The return address was Cincinnati, Ohio. The stationery was a pale rose color. The salutation was Dear Dotty. The signature was faded maroon ink — it looked like Irene. I tried to read a few lines, but could not decipher the curlicue handwriting. Another nun? A dear friend? There was also a packet of snapshots, yellow and curling. In these, Sister Mary Alphonsus was a young woman in her thirties — with sharp shining eyes, bulldog face, wide glistening smile. She wore her nun’s dark robes with a certain swagger, as a young priest might wear such attire. The wimple was tight around her face, dazzling white. Her face looked cruelly and yet sensuously pinched, as in a vise.

In several snapshots the youthful Sister Mary Alphonsus was standing close beside another nun, a stocky broad-shouldered middle-aged woman with a moon face and very white skin. Both women smiled radiantly at the camera. The older woman had flung off her nun’s hood, her hair was close-cropped, gray. The older woman was taller than Sister Mary Alphonsus by an inch or so.

In the background was a lakeside scene — a rowboat at shore, fishing poles.

In the last of the snapshots the women were again standing close together, now both bareheaded, arms around each other’s waist. These were thick arms and thick waists — these were husky women. Then I saw — it was a shock to see — that both women were barefoot in the grass, at the edge of a pebbly lakeside shore.

I thought — They took these pictures with a time exposure. It was a new idea then.

The snapshots and the letters covered in faded-maroon ink I burnt as I’d burnt the pillowcase soaked with a dead woman’s saliva. If it had been in my power I would have burnt all trace of Sister Mary Alphonsus on this earth, but the truth is, some smudge of the woman’s sick soul will endure, multiplied how many hundreds of times, in the memories of others.

I would say nothing — not ever — to my father or to my uncle Denis, but a certain long level look passed between us, a look of understanding, yet a look too of yearning, for what was concealed, that could not be revealed. When I next saw them, and the subject of the nun’s death arose. My father had kept a newspaper to show me, the front-page headlines, though I didn’t need to see the headlines, knowing what they were. In a hoarse voice Dad said — Good riddance to bad rubbage.

By which Dad meant rubbish. But I would not correct him.

Now that months have passed there is not much likelihood of a formal inquiry into the death of Sister Mary Alphonsus aka “Dorothy Milgrum.” The Oybwa County medical examiner has never contacted us. Dr. Godai has left Eau Claire to return to Minneapolis, it has been announced. (Many, including me, were disappointed to hear that Dr. Godai is leaving us so soon, though it isn’t surprising that a vigorous young doctor like Dr. Godai would prefer to live and work in Minneapolis, and not Eau Claire.) Yet, I have prepared my statement for the medical examiner. I have not written out this statement, for such a statement might seem incriminating if written out, but I have memorized the opening.

Early shift is 6:30 A.M. which was when I arrived at the elder care facility at Eau Claire where I have been an orderly for two years. Maybe thirty minutes after that, when the elderly nun’s body was discovered in her bed.

Barbara paused with her hand on the doorknob, clearing her head. Sometimes she could learn something from her first glimpse of a patient. On the other hand, it was all too easy to project onto them preconceived notions she already had. Not that she truly had patients in this job. A patient was someone you saw more than once. Most of the people she dealt with here were suspects who’d been arrested and the people they’d victimized — that is, allegedly victimized. In an odd sort of way the members of the police department were more like real patients, or they would be if she wound up working here a few years.

She opened the door to the waiting room. He was sitting in the chair by the far wall, legs crossed, not reading anything. He might have been staring at her receptionist, Maggie, the moment before, but somehow she doubted it. He looked too at ease, content just to sit there thinking his own thoughts. His eyes met hers and in them she saw no trace of uncertainty or dread, which did indeed tell her something about him.

She smiled and said, “Officer O’Donnell? I’m Dr. Neal.”

He smiled faintly. “Hello.”

“Come in.”

As he stood up and crossed to her, she studied him without seeming to. In his gait she saw calm self-assurance. A man whose career was on the line wasn’t supposed to walk that way.

She stepped out of the doorway to let him into her office, then closed the door behind him. “Please sit down,” she said, gesturing to the patient’s chair.

He took it. She took the one opposite, noting how he looked the room over. She’d already learned that police officers seemed to notice everything. If she asked him, he could probably tell her how many framed diplomas were hanging on the wall behind him. From the way his eyes lingered on the box of tissues sitting on the cabinet beside his chair, she surmised he’d never visited a psychologist before.

She said, “Is it all right if I call you Keith?”

“Yes.”

“My name’s Barbara.” When he nodded once, she added, “I don’t think we’ve actually spoken before. I haven’t been with the department that long.”

“No, we haven’t.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

There was a second’s pause. During it Barbara thought, So this is a police sniper. Captain Smith had said they were a different breed. Her first impression of Keith was that he was quite a bit more restrained than the average person. No, restrained was the wrong word. That implied he was keeping his emotions in check. He didn’t seem to be. He just seemed... cool.

She said, “Do you understand why you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I don’t want you to worry. I’m not here to judge you. I just want to find out what happened. See if we can figure out where the trouble started.”

“I know just when it started.”

“Really? When?”

“Back in March. The hostage situation on Seventh Avenue.”

Barbara remembered it. She would have even if she hadn’t read the official reports of that incident earlier this morning in preparation for this session. Hostage crises didn’t happen every day in Miami.