A Perfect Grave by Rick Mofina Page B

Wade.”
    “For what?”
    “I understand you were in a bar last night when the nun murder broke.”
    “My father is a recovering alcoholic. He was struggling with a personal issue, and called for me from a bar, which was a family emergency. I was at the murder scene, on top of the Yesler story from the get-go.”
    “You can prove it?”
    “It’s all in my overnight note I’d sent to you. Did you read it?”
    “If you were on the story, why did you miss the name?”
    “I didn’t. The victim is Sister Anne Braxton. Not Sister Florence Roy. Florence is the nun who found her. Why are you so quick to crap on the work of your own staff?”
    “You listen to me, Wade. Our penetration in the metro market is eroding. If we keep losing circulation we’ll have to cut staff. This is about our survival. It’s crucial for us to be first.”
    “First to get it wrong? What kind of award do you win for that?”
    Reep ignored Wade’s last salvo, rolling up his sleeves, consulting his notes from the meeting.
    “This is how we’re hitting the story. Jenkins will do a metro column on good and evil in the city—innocence lost kinda crap. Anita Chavez is trying to pull information on the nun from the Mother House.”
    Jason took notes as Reep continued.
    “Chad Osterman is on his way over to the Archdiocese. And Mirabella Talli will give us a feature on the history of nuns, the order, and its works. Wade, you will work on the investigation and profile the victim. And you damn well better give me exclusive breaking news that ensures that the Mirror owns this story. This is your chance to redeem yourself.”
    “Redeem myself for what?”
    “The fiasco with Pillar.”
    “I resent this.”
    “Cassie Appleton has asked me to put her on the story. I’m assigning you to work with her.”
    “What! No thanks. I work alone.”
    “You work with her, or you don’t work at the Mirror. ”
    “Why are you doing this?”
    “Cassie’s had a rough time since Pillar. She needs to regain her confidence as a reporter in this city and build some street cred at this paper.”
    “You’re making a big mistake.”
    Jason walked out of Reep’s office, grabbed his jacket, and left the newsroom to pursue the story. As he stepped into the elevator, the red message light on his office phone began flashing.

Chapter Ten
    L ess than twenty-four hours after Sister Anne had offered hope to those who had lost it, her naked corpse lay under a sheet on a stainless tray.
    Her spiritual journey had carried her to the white cinder-block walls of the autopsy room of the King County Medical Examiner’s Office, in the Harborview Medical Center, downtown near the bay.
    Her life had been reduced to this summary:
Anne Louise Braxton, Caucasian female, age 49 years, weight 131 pounds, height five feet six inches. Cause of death — hemorrhaging attributed to a fatal, deep force incise wound transecting the internal jugular and carotid arteries, consistent with a sharp, or serrated blade, of four to six inches in length. Decedent’s identity confirmed through dental records and direct visual identification.
    In a small office beyond the autopsy room, Detective Garner watched Sister Vivian Lansing as she paused from reading the documents the medical examiner’s staff had set before her and removed her glasses. Earlier that day she’d arrived from Chicago and was a bit jet-lagged. The sixty-year-old nun, who was a senior council member of the Compassionate Heart of Mercy, gently clasped the bridge of her nose.
    “I need a moment,” she said.
    During the drive to the center, Sister Vivian had told Grace that she had known Anne Braxton since the younger nun had entered the order, some twenty-five years ago. That fact had stirred a whirlwind of emotions and memories of working alongside her in Ethiopia, Senegal, Haiti, the South Bronx, and Cabrini Green.
    “You know what she told me, detective? She said that we face risks to deliver love, it’s what God has in