After Cooper’s polygraph test, Barbara North stared at herself in the mirror of a seventh-floor washroom.
Exhaustion rippled through her, making her entire body tremble. Garner and Lynn Mann had hit them hard. Their physical evidence was strong but there were holes in their case. The results from the foot impression and polygraph would play a key role.
The blackouts would hurt.
And he couldn’t account for his whereabouts the night of the crime.
Cooper’s arrest before WKKR’s camera, his physical appearance, his troubled history, his cryptic claim that a stranger killed Sister Anne, all served to make him look like a deranged nun-killer.
How could she counter that?
Seeing Cooper’s tears, hearing his responses, reading his file, in her heart she didn’t believe he was guilty. But public perception was difficult to overcome.
Barbara splashed water over her face. It felt good. As she descended the elevator at police headquarters, she decided that she was too tired to make herself dinner. She’d grab something on the way home.
Stepping into the lobby, she rummaged through her bag for her umbrella, then headed for the street, nearly bumping into somebody speaking her name.
“Excuse me, Barbara North? Would you be Barbara North?”
“Yes,” she tilted her umbrella up. “And you are?”
“Jason Wade, Seattle Mirror. Do you have a minute?”
“Not really, I’m late. How did you-?”
“I’ve been calling around since John Cooper was taken in earlier today. I understand you’re his lawyer, from the Public Defender’s Office, is that correct?”
Adjusting her grip on her umbrella, Barbara stared at Jason, contemplating his face, deciding whether or not he was worth her time.
“Let’s get out of the rain and go over there,” she nodded to a coffee shop down on the corner.
They found a booth and ordered coffee.
“Look, I truly am up against my deadline, right up on it, so forgive me in advance if I’m curt, rude, and rushed.”
“Sounds like the name of a law firm. What’re you after?”
“So, Cooper’s your client?”
“Yes.”
“Has he been charged with Sister Anne’s murder?”
“No.”
“Do you mind?” Jason set a small recorder between them.
“That’s fine. I won’t be telling you much.”
“Where’s your client now?”
“In a holding cell.”
“Why are they holding him?”
“They can hold him for seventy-two hours before pressing charges. They’re attempting to rule him out as a suspect.”
“Or rule him in?”
When their coffees came, Barbara decided she might be able to counter the negative image Seattle would have of Cooper.
“If they had a strong case, they would have charged him. I can tell you he’s cooperating fully. He just agreed to a polygraph test.”
“ Really? I can use that?”
Jason had just nailed his exclusive.
“Yes,” Barbara sipped her coffee. “He also gave samples of evidence that I will not disclose.”
“Samples, like what? DNA? Was Sister Anne sexually assaulted?”
Barbara shook her head.
“Not that type of sample.”
“Well, what then?”
“I believe you’ve written something about shoes? Let’s say, relating to footwear.”
“Really, that’s interesting. What’s the result of the polygraph?”
“Won’t know until tomorrow. Check with me then.”
“Did Cooper kill Sister Anne?”
“Come on.”
“Well?”
“No, I don’t think he did.”
“But he has these spells and when I found him under the Interstate, he was hallucinating and stabbing the air with a knife.”
“Yes, all in your story. I read that. Very vivid writing.”
“You think I made that up?”
“No, I’m not suggesting that. I acknowledge John Cooper’s a troubled man, but I don’t believe he’s Sister Anne’s killer. I believe he’s a convenient suspect.”
Boom. Jason had his lead and the Mirror had a headline.
Jason’s cell phone rang.
“Excuse me, I have to take this.”
Then Barbara’s phone rang and she took her call, from her son. As she talked lovingly, wishing him a good night, Jason talked to Eldon Reep.
“I think you better hold me space on front, Eldon.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
T he morning after Sister Anne’s funeral, Sister Denise was the first to rise in the town house.
Seattle’s skyline glowed in the predawn light as she padded to the front door for the morning paper, her heart still aching.
Anne had come to her in a dream, standing at the foot of her bed, resplendent in the light of grace and the fragrance of roses.
Oh Anne, why did your blood point me to your journal? What should I do?
Ease your worried heart, for you will know.
Was that a dream? Or an apparition? A message? Or was it grief? Denise wondered, for she’d asked the same questions during her private morning prayers.
But no answers came.
Maybe they would come during morning prayer with the others, she thought, setting the paper on the kitchen table and starting the kettle. Denise made tea, squeezing in a bit of lemon and a few drips of milk. She took solace in the quiet as the Seattle Mirror ’s front-page headlines blared at her.
Homeless Man Held in Nun’s Murder: Arrested at Funeral Sister Anne Braxton Remembered As the Saint of Seattle
The papers used that lovely picture of Anne laughing among the children, and there were photos of the crowds entering the shelter. There was also a photograph, an old one of John Cooper, looking much younger, clean-cut. Looked like his military service picture.
The story on Cooper said detectives had subjected him to a lie-detector test and collected forensic evidence. His lawyer said police were treating him as a “convenient suspect.”
Denise shook her head in disbelief. Not Cooper. No, they were wrong to think that he might have hurt her. Denise studied every word of every article about Sister Anne. Nothing about her past. Police don’t know about her journal and they should know.
What should I do?
Denise heard a gentle knock at the door. Through the front window, she saw the Seattle police car parked out front. The officer was talking to the driver of a taxi that had stopped.
Denise recognized Father Mercer at the door, and opened it. He was leaning on his cane and offered her a kind smile.
“Good morning Sister. My apologies for calling at this hour. I’m on my way to catch an early flight. I have to get back to Maine. Our bishop’s not doing too well, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, Father.”
“I don’t imagine Sister Vivian is up?”
“No, Father.” Denise saw that he had a large envelope in his hand.
“Could you please ensure she receives this confidentially? Advise her it contains some information sent to me last night by fax, care of the Archdiocese.”
He passed the plain brown padded envelope to Denise.
“Is this Sister Anne’s material?”
His eyebrows rose.
“How did you know? This is a confidential matter for the Order.”
“I’m the one who discovered her journal, Father. While cleaning her-” Denise couldn’t speak the words. “While cleaning.”
He leaned on his cane and raised his chin slowly.
“Ahh. Then I trust it will remain confidential until Sister Vivian decides how best to proceed?”
“Of course.”
“You’ll give me your word that will hand-deliver this to her personally.”
“My word, Father.”
Satisfied, Father Mercer closed his eyes momentarily and smiled.
“God be with you, Sister.”
“And with you, Father. Have a safe trip.”
After watching Father Mercer’s cab disappear around the corner, Sister Denise went to the small office of the town house. Locking the door behind her, she put the envelope on the desk, thrust her face into her hands, and stared at it.