Perfect Grave

Chapter Thirty-One

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?”

“I understand.”

“Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to us now?”

“I’m good. I don’t need a lawyer. I get it. You brought me here because you need my help to find this guy?” Coop tapped Jason’s article in the Mirror.

“We need your help,” Grace said, “to learn the truth about what happened.”

“Want me to look at a sketch or something?”

“This.” She opened her folder and slid an eight-by-ten full-size color photo of the knife. The murder weapon. “Ever see one like that before? It’s fairly unique with the maple leaf symbol.”

“Sure, it’s like the one I saw that guy take from the shelter.”

Grace slid a second photo, a series of enlargements showing shoe impressions in blood, and the alley behind the town house near the bush where the knife was found.

“These impressions are like fingerprints and they were made by Sister Anne’s killer. And see this,” Grace slid another photo, a file photo of a standard pair of tennis shoes standard-issue only by the Washington Department of Corrections. “These are the kind of shoes the killer wore. Guess where we found shoes like these?”

Cooper’s face whitened. He’s eyes moved along every photograph Grace had set before him and suddenly realization rolled over him.

“Now the lights are coming on, aren’t they, Coop?” Perelli eyeballed him, then slammed his hand down on the counter. “We got them from your little penthouse under I-5. Shoes just like the ones her killer wore, Sergeant!”

Cooper shook his head.

“Somebody put them in my cart a long time ago. I don’t even wear ‘em. I’ve got a lot of gear there.”

Perelli’s metal chair scraped and tumbled as he stood to lean into Cooper, drawing his face to within an inch of his.

“Don’t lie to us,” he whispered. “Make it easy on yourself. Be a man and tell us exactly what happened.”

Cooper’s eyes widened as he stared at the pictures.

Perelli righted his chair and sat in it.

“John,” Grace’s voice was almost soothing, “was it a sexual thing, or an argument? Did you follow her to the town house to talk to her? Maybe something was troubling you and she said something that triggered all the bad things that happened to you? John, it’ll help you to tell us now. So you can get help, John.”

“You owe it to your buddies,” Perelli said, “to their memory, to do the honorable thing, here.”

Cooper shot Perelli a look. Grace sensed something was seething just under Cooper’s skin.

“John, look at me,” she said. “Just tell us what happened.”

Cooper went back to the pictures. It seemed as if a monumental sadness washed over him. Tears welled in his eyes as he shook his head.

“I loved her.”

Grace nodded encouragement.

“I would never hurt her.”

“We know, John,” Grace said. “Was it an accident?”

“I don’t know. I mean,” he swallowed, “sometimes, I black out.”

Grace exchanged a quick glance with Perelli.

“We know. It’s in your records,” Grace said.

“I didn’t hurt her. I couldn’t hurt her. I don’t think I hurt her. ”

Cooper thrust his face into his weathered hands and released a deafening cry of anguish.

“I want a lawyer.”