Perfect Grave

Chapter Twelve

W as he closer to the murderer?

The line for dinner at the Compassionate Heart of Mercy Shelter began forming after 5:30 P.M. When the doors opened at six for the one-hour evening meal, it had grown to several dozen people.

Defeated old men in worn, stained clothes, teenagers with pierced faces, young mothers with small children, ex-cons, addicts, and drifters.

Was Sister Anne’s killer here, among them?

Jason Wade adjusted his Mariners ball cap, pulled up the collar of his jacket, thrust his hands into his pockets, joined the line, and waited. The smell of hot food wafted from the window.

He’d missed getting down here for lunch, but was thankful that he was able to ditch Cassie at the paper. It gave him time to chase the story his way, alone, while dodging the messages Cassie had left on his cell, like the latest: “ Where are you, Jason? I want to meet up with you, call me. ”

He’d spent the afternoon digging in Sister Anne’s neighborhood. He’d door-knocked in the eastern fringes of Yesler Terrace and Jefferson Terrace and tried to bring Tango’s tip about a possible link to gang payback into play.

But he got nothing.

He also burned up minutes on his cell phone working cop sources.

Again, nothing. And he couldn’t reach Grace.

All Jason had was Sister Anne’s name, a lead that a knife had been used, and about three hours to deadline for the first print edition. He didn’t have a strong angle to advance the story and his stomach tensed when he spotted a TV news crew down the block going live. Jason envisioned Eldon Reep watching the report in the Mirror newsroom then demanding: “ What’s Wade got? Have we heard from Wade? ”

The clock was ticking on him.

An emergency siren wailing in the distance pulled Jason’s attention back to the line as it began filing into the shelter. It was evident from murmured conversations that most everyone now knew that a nun with the shelter had been murdered.

“Good to see you.” A white-haired woman wearing a print top, with a silver cross around her neck, greeted each visitor by grasping their hand.

Jason held hers, leaned closer, then dropped his voice. “Sister, I’m a reporter with the Seattle Mirror and I am terribly sorry about the news.”

“Thank you.”

“I’d like to spend a moment here to get a sense of the mood. It’s inspiring that you’ve kept the doors open, considering.”

“God helps us persevere.”

“Did you know the Sister?”

Sadness flitted across the woman’s face, and her body language indicated that she’d prefer to see to the other visitors who were flowing around them. Jason moved on, coming next to a table with a jar for donations. He put a folded ten into the slot.

At the serving table he selected a tray, then a fork, spoon, and knife, letting his thoughts linger on the blade until he found himself looking over a food table at a large man wearing a full-length apron preparing a plate for him.

“Welcome friend. We have meatloaf, chicken, mashed potatoes, beans, some soup, and salad. How does a bit of everything sound?”

“A small bit of everything, please. I’ll pass on the soup and salad, thank you.”

After the chink of serving spoons against Jason’s plate, he scanned the tables of the hall for a seat. Some people had collected into small groups and seemed to know each other, some were smiling, catching up. Others were far off, alone, hunched over their food and eating slowly in quiet desperation.

Jason took an empty spot between two large groups. To his far left there was a group of men. To his right were several young families with babies. As he ate, he listened to their conversations.

“I’ve been divorced for two years,” a woman, who had a nose ring and appeared to be in her late teens, told the bald young man across from her. The man sitting next to the woman was holding a baby bundled in a yellow jumper. The man with the baby was wearing jeans and a vest and called to a man at the end of the table, “Yo, Dickie, heard what happened?”

“What?”

“One of the nuns here got murdered last night.” The baby-holder took a mouthful of beans and bounced the baby on his knee.

Dickie had heard. “Cops were in here at breakfast and lunch asking questions.”

“Which one was it who got killed?” the baby holder said.

“Dunno,” Dickie said. “Hey Lex? You know which Sister got murdered?”

An obese man wearing glasses and sitting at the next table shook his head slowly.

At the far end of Jason’s table, an unshaven man in his sixties with a mean scar down his cheek was sitting with six or seven quiet men. Scar man asked, “What did the cops want to know?”

The man with the baby shrugged. “Dickie, what did the cops ask you?”

“Where I was the night she got killed and if I had a record?”

A gentle rumble of laughter rose from the group of quiet men.

“Excuse me,” Jason said, “but does anyone know if the police said anything about the homicide being gang related, or payback for something?”

Scar man eyed Jason coldly. “Who are you?”

“Jason Wade, a reporter with the Seattle Mirror. ”

“A reporter?”

The air tightened and Jason realized that he’d crossed a line. The way the men sat, arms defensively around their plates, their tattoos, their icy, hardened faces, he should’ve pegged them for ex-convicts, or parolees, before opening his mouth.

“I’m writing about the Sister’s homicide.”

“And how long were you going to sit there invading our privacy before you identified yourself, asshole?”

Jason felt everyone’s eyes on him.

“Because you know what we do to assholes?”

Better back off, he thought, back off and check out these guys later.

“I haven’t had much sleep. That was rude of me. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

He picked up his tray and prepared to leave. The quiet men resumed eating with soft chuckling. As Jason moved off to find a new spot, someone touched his arm.

“What sort of story are you writing?” one of the young mothers asked.

“I need to get a sense of what kind of difference the Sister made down here and if anyone in particular was close to her, or knows what might’ve happened.”

“You’re talking about Sister Anne, right? Word is, it was her. She’s been absent all day and she never misses, so we figured.”

Jason nodded, noticing some of the young women had tears in their eyes.

“Sister Anne was an angel to us and our kids,” the mother said, prompting nods from the others. “She was always getting doctors to look at them.”

“And she was trying to help us finish school, or find a job,” one mother said.

“Why would anyone want to hurt her?” one mother said. “Why?”

“I’d like to take your comments down, for my story. Please. It will let readers know what Seattle has lost. And it could help somebody to remember something that could lead to her killer.”

The women agreed to let Jason quote them, except one who’d just come from Spokane, where she’d left her abusive husband. After talking for several minutes and passing his card around, Jason asked if they could direct him to any regulars at the shelter who were close to Sister Anne. The women considered a few people, but warned him that shelter people generally weren’t much for talking.

“I got that.” He glanced at the hard cases watching him.

After thanking the women, Jason left them to help himself to a coffee in a ceramic mug donated by a local bank. Then he went to a far-off corner and reviewed his notes, flipping through pages, flagging the best quotes to go into his story. It wasn’t great, but he had something. More important, he had just over two hours to deadline. Gulping the last of his coffee, he was set to return to the newsroom to start writing.

Someone stopped at his table.

“They say you’re not a cop, is that true?” asked a man with black ball bearings for eyes.

“I’m a reporter with the Mirror. ”

Jason displayed his photo ID and put a business card on the table for the stranger. The man was heavyset, in his forties, maybe. Hard to tell under his long hair and beard, flecked with crumbs. A war vet? He was wearing a dirty, tattered field jacket with desert camouflage pattern and military pants.

“I never talk to cops and they were here all day asking things about Sister Anne.”

“You knew her?” Jason asked.

“She’s the reason I’m still alive, know what I’m saying?”

No, Jason didn’t know, but the man’s intensity made him curious. The guy obviously had some problems.

“Can we talk about her?” Jason asked.

“No, I’m too upset, but there’s something I want you to pass to police.”

“What’s your name?”

“Forget that, listen up and write this down.”

Jason opened his notebook but wondered if the old soldier was going to be a nut job and a waste of time. Might as well humor him.

“A couple of weeks ago, this guy, a stranger, started showing up. He kept to himself and talked to no one but Sister Anne.”

“What’d they talk about?”

“She never said. They always went off alone to a corner. It was weird. I watched them, see, because the thing was, she always came away sorta sad, like whatever they were talking about was her problem, not his. It was like they were arguing.”

“Did it get physical? Did he threaten her?”

“Couldn’t say. It didn’t look that way.”

“You ever ask her about it?”

“I mind my own business. We all do in here.”

“Has the guy been around today?”

“Haven’t seen him for a few days. But somebody’s got to look into this guy.”

“You know much about him, like his name, or what he looked like?”

“Not really, the one thing I do remember is that I saw him take a knife from here.”

“A knife? Really?”

“A wooden-handled steak knife.”

Jason made careful notes. As he struggled to absorb the implication of the new information, his cell phone rang. His caller ID displayed the number for Eldon Reep.

“Sorry, I gotta take this.” He answered, “Wade, Mirror. ”

“You better haul your butt in here now, Jason,” Cassie Appleton said.

What the hell was this? Cassie calling from Reep’s line, giving him orders.

“Where’s Eldon? I should be talking to him.”

“Why did you ditch me? We’re supposed to be working together.”

“You don’t need me to hold your hand.”

“Eldon’s in a meeting and since you’re not answering my calls, he told me to call you on his line and give you this message, which is to tell you you’ve got a deadline and you’d better damn well get in here now with a story.”

“I don’t take orders from other reporters.”

“You better listen to what I’m telling you, Jason, he’s really ticked at you.”

Jason ended the call and turned to resume his conversation with the old soldier.

But the man was gone.