The Corporal Works of Murder (23 page)

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Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie

BOOK: The Corporal Works of Murder
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“What happened to Sister Anne? she asked.
“She went back to the Refuge,” she explained. “It isn't wise for both of us to be outside.”
Now you start being wise,
Kate thought. “I suppose you stayed and she went because you are the one who discovered the body?” she asked.
Mary Helen brightened. “Exactly right. I came down to see Officer Moran.”
“And what was it that you wanted to see him about?”
To Kate's surprise, the old nun hesitated. She noticed that Mary Helen seemed to be struggling with her answer. That wasn't like her at all. Obviously, whatever she was about to say was difficult for her.
“Would you like to sit down somewhere?” Kate asked. “You must be getting tired standing.”
“That would be nice,” Mary Helen looked relieved. “These old legs are beginning to feel numb.”
The two women slipped into the front seat of the unmarked police car. “Much better,” Mary Helen said rubbing her thighs. “Much better, indeed.” Again she paused as though she were struggling with how to tell Kate what was on her mind.
“This is very difficult for me to say,” Mary Helen admitted at last, “but I learned long ago that the best way to tell someone something difficult is quickly.”
Where in the world is she going with this?
Kate's scalp was beginning to prickle again.
Resolutely pushing her bifocals up the bridge of her nose, Mary Helen's hazel eyes leveled at Kate's face. “Some women at the Refuge have hinted that the police know about a house of prostitution in the area but that they do not shut it down.” She took another breath and plunged ahead. “And that Junior Johnson's death is somehow involved. It is as if the women believe that the police are responsible for his murder.” By now Mary Helen's eyes were wide with indignation. “Imagine!”
Kate couldn't believe that the old nun had named her own fear.
“So I was coming down to talk to Officer Moran about it,” Mary Helen said. “If there is any truth in what they are saying, as an undercover policeman he should know. And if it is true, then, again as an undercover policeman, he should put a stop
to it. There you have it.” Looking relieved, she turned to Kate and waited for her to speak.
The image of Tim Moran's blood-soaked body flashed through Kate's mind. Her mouth felt furry and, all at once, she was at a loss for words. In the silence, the roar of the commuter traffic seemed louder; the blare of car horns more strident; Mary Helen's frank stare more piercing. It couldn't be one of us, Kate thought. She felt sick. Mind reeling, she was relieved to hear the front door of the tattoo parlor swing open and to see Dennis Gallagher emerge from the building. She would leave the whole thing to him.
Gallagher, too, was blinded as he came out of the storefront into the sunlight. His bald crown was shining with perspiration and his tie hung like a noose down his shirt front where he had been tugging at it.
Kate held her breath waiting for the explosion when he saw Sister Mary Helen. To her amazement, none came. In fact, he acted as if he scarcely noticed the old nun. His blue eyes were watery and distracted. At this moment he looked every bit his age.
Mary Helen must have expected a barrage from the Inspector, too, because at the sight of him Kate noticed the old nun's back stiffen and her chin jut forward.
Gallagher came over to the car and leaned in. “Why don't you go back to your place, Sister?” He sounded as if his mind was far away. “I take it from what the patrolman says that you discovered the body.”
“Yes, Inspector,” Mary Helen looked as though she was about to say more, but he cut her off.
Opening the car door, he offered her a hand that she reluctantly took. “If we need you, we know where to find you,” he
said climbing into the seat she'd vacated. “Kate, you drive.”
Quickly Kate pulled away from the curb leaving a tired and confused looking Sister Mary Helen standing on the sidewalk. She looked so forlorn that Kate almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
“What was that all about?” she asked. “But first, where to?”
“Back to the Hall,” Gallagher said. “And what was what all about?”
“Under ordinary circumstances, you'd have a fit when you finally had a chance to talk to Sister Mary Helen.”
“These aren't ordinary circumstances,” Gallagher said grimly. Kate sensed the fury he was struggling to control. “Another police officer has just been brutally murdered and my gut tells me that something more than a coincidence is involved here.
“Too many unanswered questions,” he said. “I got a real bad feeling about this one, Katie-girl.” He drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “Real bad.”
Still reeling from Mary Helen's revelation, Kate stopped for a red light on Brannon Street, and turned toward her partner. She shared his uneasiness. “What do you think?” she asked, not sure she wanted to know.
“First of all, it looks like the same person killed all three victims.”
As much as Kate would have liked to blame Junior's death on an isolated dispute between drug dealers or pimps, she, too, felt certain there was a connection with the deaths of the two police officers. The three homicides were too similar. Each was killed by a single bullet—her stomach knotted as the image of Tim Moran lying in a pool of his own blood flashed through her mind; she took a deep breath wondering how long the scene would haunt her—and no shell casings were left at any of the scenes. Their perp was a very careful killer. He—or she, Kate thought. It could have been a she. No real strength was needed to shoot a person in the head, only good aim.
Kate pulled into the parking lot of the Hall of Justice and
turned off the ignition. “Did Mary Helen tell you why she happened to stumble on the body?” Gallagher asked.
Cracking the car window to let in a little air, Kate faced her partner. “Her story is that she came to see Tim Moran to clarify some very unsettling rumors that she had heard from the women who drop in to the Refuge.”
Gallagher waited.
“The women are saying that the Department is somehow involved in a cover-up of a house of prostitution.”
“Even if the cover-up means murdering one of our own?”
Kate nodded.
Tension filled the car like heavy air as the partners stared at one another. Softly Gallagher began to swear. For some inexplicable reason, it made Kate feel better.
“What now?” she asked when she was sure he'd said his final “damn.”
“First,” he opened the car door, “we need to find out who's going to notify Moran's next-of-kin,” he said.
Ever practical, Kate thought. “I think he's divorced,” she said, following him across the parking lot. “That will be in his personnel file, which Lieutenant Donaldson should have.”
“Which will lead us to our next move. Lieutenant Donaldson. There are some unanswered questions we need to ask that guy about.”
“And what if the old Pits decides he doesn't want to answer our questions?” Kate had a sinking feeling.
“He'll answer, all right. Mark my words, Katie-girl, he'll answer,” Gallagher said with a fierceness she had rarely heard before.
Slowly Sister Mary Helen made her way down the block toward the Refuge. She was scarcely aware of the police officers busy
about the crime scene or the cars streaming along Eighth Street on their way to the freeway, or even the people pushing past her on the sidewalk. It was as if she were sleepwalking. Could she really have stumbled on the gruesome scene at the tattoo parlor or was it all nothing more than a bad dream? Would she wake up soon, cozy and safe in her own bed?
In a fog, she pushed open the door of the Refuge and was surprised to find the place empty. She checked her wristwatch. Of course it was empty! It was nearly four o'clock—way past time for everyone to have gone in search of a night shelter.
“Where have you been?” Anne asked, stepping out of the sleep room. Her voice was as close to a whine as Mary Helen could stand. “I was just about to go after you,” she said, her forehead wrinkled in a worried frown.
“No need,” Mary Helen said, trying to sound nonchalant, but not so nonchalant as to be insulting, “I was with the police. I couldn't have been safer.”
“Police?” Anne's voice rose an octave. After studying Mary Helen's face, she pulled out a chair. “You look exhausted,” she said. “Sit down.” Her own worry apparently forgotten, she said, “Now tell me what happened. Were you with Inspector Gallagher and was he terribly upset?” Mary Helen noticed the color drain from Anne's face while she waited for the answer.
Poor child is terrified of Gallagher's bark, Mary Helen thought, while she herself much preferred it to the cold, unspoken fury she had just witnessed in his demeanor.
“The Inspector isn't upset with us,” she said, reaching over and patting Anne's cold hand. “Understandably, he is very upset about Officer Moran's murder.”
Although Mary Helen hadn't thought it possible, she noticed that the young nun's face became even paler. In fact, to recoin an old phrase, she looked like death warmed over.
“Murder!” Anne's voice was so soft that Mary Helen scarcely heard the word. “Was he shot like Junior Johnson?” Anne shivered
and for a moment, Mary Helen was afraid that she might get sick all over again.
“He was shot like Junior,” she said. “One bullet to his head. That part is the same.” She stopped. Best not to go into any more detail. “One thing, however, was very different,” Mary Helen said. Anne seemed genuinely relieved to get onto another subject.
“What was that?” she asked, some color returning to her face.
“Officer Moran managed …” Mary Helen hesitated. How could she tell Anne about the scrawl without mentioning the bloody floor? Very carefully, she decided. Measuring her words, Mary Helen began. “He managed,” she repeated, “to write down some letters or symbols—I'm not sure which—before he died.”
“On a paper?” Anne asked.
“No, on the floor,” Mary Helen said.
“On the floor?” Anne repeated sounding astonished.
Mary Helen nodded. “Above his head,” she said. “It was as if he was conscious enough to reach out with his last bit of strength and try to tell us who his killer was.”
Anne's eyes glistened with tears. “Good for him,” she said, her words thick with admiration. “What did he write?” she asked anxiously.
Mary Helen sighed. “I'm not sure exactly,” she said. “Please hand me a piece of paper so I can write down what I saw while it is still fresh in my mind. Maybe two of us can figure something out.”
Slowly she traced the symbols as accurately as she could remember—the “d,” the “I” or was it “1?” The upside down “T” or was it an “L” with a long leg? And finally, the stick figure. Extending the paper, she showed it to Anne who stared, but said nothing, only sucked in her breath.
“What do you think?” Mary Helen asked when she'd coped with all the silence she could handle.
Anne turned the paper upside down, then sideways. She
cocked her head. “I don't know,” she said at last, “but it must be very important if he used his last bit of life to write it.”
“I'm sure you're right about that,” Mary Helen said.
Unexpectedly Anne looked up. “What did he write it with,” she asked quietly, “a pencil? Doesn't it seem odd to you that he had a pencil handy?”
Staring over Anne's head at the clock on the far wall, Mary Helen pretended not to hear her question. Sometimes being a little deaf came in very, very handy.
“My, my,” she fretted. “Look at the time. Dear me! We'd better get going on home before anyone starts to worry about us.”
Officer Mark Wong walked into the Hall of Justice a few minutes early for his shift. When he had finally arrived home after Sarah Spencer's funeral and his lunch with Susie Chan, as hard as he'd tried he hadn't been able to sleep. By all rights, he should be exhausted. Instead he was wired.
He couldn't get Susie's innocent story about Lieutenant Donaldson off his mind. Not that cops don't play practical jokes on other cops. They do. They almost have to in order to stay sane on the job. But why would old Pits ask her to call Moran and pretend she was from the Chinese restaurant? What was the joke? Maybe it was one of those things where you had to have been there.
Wong pushed the elevator button. Why did it sit wrong with him, he wondered. Donaldson was not the most congenial guy in the world, but he was a good cop. Why was his little gag making Wong so uneasy? Did it have something to do with Susie? He did not want to see her get into any hot water with the Chief. Maybe he was just being overprotective.
“Hold the door,” Wong heard a familiar voice shout. Catching
it just in time, he steadied it for the two homicide detectives who were hurrying across the entrance.

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