Read The Corporal Works of Murder Online
Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie
The Corporal Works of Murder (22 page)
“You didn't happen to see where Sister Mary Helen went, did you?” Anne asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“You be looking for her?” Miss Bobbie asked, studying Anne for any signs of concern.
Anne nodded, feeling herself growing impatient. She clenched her jaw hoping she didn't show it. She should have known better than to think she'd get a straight answer right away.
Miss Bobbie paused, her scar twitching. Then, acting as though she was imparting a carefully guarded secret, she said,
“She be an old woman, you know. You all should keep an eye on her. Make sure she be all right.”
“She be an old woman, you know. You all should keep an eye on her. Make sure she be all right.”
At the moment, Anne did not need a lecture on the care of Mary Helen. What she needed was to find the woman.
Calm down!
she reminded herself. Mary Helen probably just stepped out for a minute to walk. Fighting down her frustration, Anne felt her fingernails pressing into the palms of her hands. She should have guessed that her clenched fists were not lost on Miss Bobbie.
Calm down!
she reminded herself. Mary Helen probably just stepped out for a minute to walk. Fighting down her frustration, Anne felt her fingernails pressing into the palms of her hands. She should have guessed that her clenched fists were not lost on Miss Bobbie.
“She gone missing?” the older woman asked. “Like Junior Johnson?”
At the thought of Junior, Anne's stomach roiled. She refused to even dignify the remark with a response. “She was just here,” Anne tried to keep her voice steady.
“Who you be looking for?” Peanuts asked.
Anne whirled to see the tiny woman behind her.
“I scare you?” Peanuts asked, looking somewhat pleased.
“âStartled' is a better word.” Anne forcea a smile. “I didn't hear you come up behind me.”
“Well here I is!” Peanuts's bright eyes sparkled. “Who you be looking for?”
“Sister Mary Helen.” Anne grinned nervously and shrugged. “She has to be here someplace.”
“No, she don't,” Peanuts said.
“What?” Anne wasn't sure that she'd heard her correctly.
“No, she don't,” Peanuts repeated.
“What do you mean?”
Peanuts shook her head in exasperation. “I means she don't got to be here, because I saw her leaving.”
“Where did she go?”
This time Peanuts shrugged. “Outside someplace. She went out just after Geraldine got running out of here like she had the devil on her tail.”
“And Mary Helen ran out after her?”
Peanuts nodded and Anne felt fear run down her spine. Could she have followed Geraldine to God-knows-where? Surely she wouldn't go too far without telling someone.
“How long ago?” Anne asked, but she didn't wait for an answer. She didn't want to waste another minute. Pushing open the front door of the Refuge, she burst into the sunlight. Its brightness bouncing off the glass windowpanes was almost blinding.
She stood for a moment blinking, trying to decide which direction to go. There was no guarantee that either would be the right one.
Glancing down the street, her heart stopped. Was that ⦠? Relief washed over her as she realized that the person leaning against the building was Sister Mary Helen. There was no mistaking that short stocky frame, the close-cropped gray hair, and the Aran sweater.
But what was wrong? Why wasn't she moving? Why was she just leaning against the building? Without another thought, Sister Anne half-walked, half-ran down the block. “Are you all right?” she called when she was close enough to be sure that the old nun heard her.
Mary Helen stared at her blankly from a face pinched with pain.
“What is it? What happened?” Anne's own heart pounded. “Are you all right?”
Mary Helen nodded. Her hazel eyes flooded with tears. “It's Tim Moran,” she said. “He's ⦔ She stopped, struggling for breath.
In the distance Anne heard the wail of the police siren. Mary Helen didn't need to explain any further.
His adrenaline still pumping, he circled the blockâonce, twice, wondering whether anyone would walk into the tattoo parlor.
Chances were pretty good that Tim Moran could lie there for hours, even overnight, before anyone stumbled on him.
Chances were pretty good that Tim Moran could lie there for hours, even overnight, before anyone stumbled on him.
Tim had been the toughest of the lot, he thought, his palm still slippery with perspiration. Hell, they'd known each other for years. Although he had to admit that it was getting easier. Funny how anything, even homicide, gets easier with practice. He had walked up on Tim who was clearing his things out of the office. He had kept his hand in his windbreaker pocket. He wasn't even sure if Tim realized he had a gun in it.
For a minute Tim had even looked happy to see him. Undercover work can get lonely. When his eyes had fastened on the gun, when he realized it had a silencer, a look of understanding had come into them.
“You!” Tim had said, not so much in fear as in disbelief. “You!” he had repeated and started to laugh. “Of course, it had to be you. Who else could get hold of the surveillance log?”
Poor Tim really never knew what hit him. He had hurried from the office leaving the crumpled body on the linoleum. Somehow, he knew he'd never forget the sound of that dry, humorless laugh. But wasn't there something about, “He who laughs last, laughs best”? For sure, he'd have the final laugh.
He was just about to congratulate himself on the job well done, when he saw the old nun approaching the building. Damn it! He hit the butt of his hand against his steering wheel. The bitch turned in!
He couldn't wait around to see what happened. He felt his whole body grow sweaty. He needed to be the hell out of the area. Where would he go? Back to work? Sure. Why not be where lots of people could see him? As soon as he'd stopped shaking, he'd head back to work. His absence would be easy to explain if anyone bothered to ask him where he had beenâwhich he doubted they would.
The whole thing was picking up speed. A couple of weeks ago he was just a guy doing a little work on the side, making a
couple of extra bucks. Hell, he needed it for alimony and child support. Now he was damn near a serial killer.
Did three homicides make a serial killer?
he wondered. He'd be afraid to ask anyone.
couple of extra bucks. Hell, he needed it for alimony and child support. Now he was damn near a serial killer.
Did three homicides make a serial killer?
he wondered. He'd be afraid to ask anyone.
These days he hated to pick up his telephone for fear that that familiar voice would be on the other end of the line asking, “What about our cover? Is it secure?”
Hell, the department wasn't stupid. Someone would start putting two and two together soon.
Maybe he'd be just as glad when it was all over. A pain shot through his chest. What would his family say if this ever came out? Thank God his father was dead and his ex-wife and kids had moved to Oregon. Maybe the story wouldn't hit the papers in Oregon. He could see the look in his mother's eyes.
He'd tried to shake off the feeling of impending doom. Maybe he'd get lucky and after a few weeks the whole thing would go into a dead file somewhere with all the other unsolved homicides.
He stopped at the red light and watched the pedestrians cross Bryant Street. Was it his imagination or were they all staring at him through the windshield? Their eyes almost burning him with their intensity.
I had to do it,
he wanted to shout at them. He covered his face so they couldn't see him.
I had to do it.
His head throbbed and his throat tightened until he felt as if he might choke.
If anyone had found out it would have ruined my life.
Why didn't Sarah understand that?
I had to do it,
he wanted to shout at them. He covered his face so they couldn't see him.
I had to do it.
His head throbbed and his throat tightened until he felt as if he might choke.
If anyone had found out it would have ruined my life.
Why didn't Sarah understand that?
How much more of this can I take?
he wondered, his body soaking wet. If she didn't stop looking at him, everywhere he turned, he would surely go crazy.
he wondered, his body soaking wet. If she didn't stop looking at him, everywhere he turned, he would surely go crazy.
Inspectors Dennis Gallagher and Kate Murphy were quieter than usual on the drive from Colma to downtown San Francisco. Although neither mentioned the missing surveillance log or
what it could mean, Kate guessed that both of them were thinking about it. One look at Gallagher's grim profile and granite jaw left no doubt in her mind that she had guessed correctly.
what it could mean, Kate guessed that both of them were thinking about it. One look at Gallagher's grim profile and granite jaw left no doubt in her mind that she had guessed correctly.
For her part the speculation was making her a little sick to her stomach. Stumbling on a crooked cop was the last thing she wanted to do, although she would forge ahead if it meant solving Sarah Spencer's murder. In the entire history of the San Francisco Police Department only one officer's homicide had gone unsolved. She surely didn't want Sarah's to be the second.
When they drove up in front of the New You Tattoo Parlor on Eighth Street, Kate was surprised to see two black-and-whites parked in front.
“What the hell?” she heard her partner mutter as he jumped out of the car.
“Hi, Inspector,” a young patrolman, his face solemn, opened her door. “Looks like we got another homicide,” he said, slapping it shut.
“Another homicide, Officer ⦠?” Kate knew the face but waited for him to supply his name.
“O'Reilly,” he said, “John O'Reilly.”
“Another homicide?” she repeated. Her scalp prickling, she hesitated, reluctant to ask him if the body had been identified for fear of the answer she was sure would come.
“Yes, ma'am,” he said, nodding his head. “My partner is in there securing the scene and I was just about to call it in.” He gave a curious smile. “How did you manage to get here so soon?”
“Coincidence,” Gallagher said, coming around the car. “Who was it called you, Officer?” he asked.
Smiling, O'Reilly pointed toward the wall. “That old nun,” he said, a note of sympathy in his voice. “Poor lady is really shook up.”
“Yeah, right,” Kate heard Gallagher grumble. From his tone of voice, she knew without looking that the old nun must be Sister Mary Helen.
“Don't waste too much sympathy on that old bird,” Gallagher mumbled walking toward the entrance. “She's as tough as they come.”
Officer O'Reilly looked shocked but prudently said nothing.
Kate followed her partner, but not before she noticed that Sister Anne was standing beside Mary Helen.
One isn't bad enough,
she thought, entering the brightly lit tattoo parlor, there
has to be two of them.
One isn't bad enough,
she thought, entering the brightly lit tattoo parlor, there
has to be two of them.
Cautiously Gallagher and she made their way to the back room. Even as they approached the door the odor was sickening. Kate, her stomach jumping, tried to hold her breath until she was able to pull a handkerchief from her pocket and cover her nose.
They stopped at the doorway where O'Reilly's partner had strung the yellow tape. Looking inside at the blood-covered linoleum, Kate felt lightheaded, as though the room was moving around her. She leaned against the doorjamb to keep her balance.
Beside her she heard Gallagher swearing softly. “Have you ever seen so goddamn much blood?” he asked.
Kate did not trust herself to do anything but shake her head. Once she was sure she was steady, she followed her partner into the room. Just as she had feared, the crumpled body of Officer Tim Moran lay on the floor, one arm stretched out as though he were reaching for something.
Careful not to step in any of the blood, she trailed Gallagher, the two of them staying as close to the wall as possible.
Gallagher pointed to a footprint in the blood. “Maybe we got lucky,” he said.
“Maybe,” Kate agreed looking closer at the print. The small size, the flat heel, the plain sole looked suspiciously as if it might belong to one of the nuns standing outside. For the present Kate thought it more prudent to keep this opinion to herself.
“No shell casing,” Gallagher said, “at least, that I can see.”
He pointed to some scrawl, on a small relatively clean spot of linoleum. “What's that?” he said. “Looks like the poor guy reached up and tried to draw something.”
He pointed to some scrawl, on a small relatively clean spot of linoleum. “What's that?” he said. “Looks like the poor guy reached up and tried to draw something.”
“In his own blood?” Kate asked weakly.
“What does it look like to you?” Gallagher asked.
Kate squinted and studied the scrawl. “I'd say it looks like an “L” with a long foot, the number “1” or an “I,” a small case “D,” and an upside down “Y.” Lidy? Who or what is lidy? Or maybe the “Y” isn't a “Y.” Maybe it's the beginning of a stick figure. Lid fellow? Lid man?”
“We'll have forensics take pictures of that from every angle,” Gallagher said. “If the guy spent his last moments on earth doing it, it's got to be important.”
Kate agreed and was glad to hear the forensic team and the coroner arriving. She wasn't sure how much longer she'd be able to stay in the room with Moran. It was bad enough when you didn't know the victim. But when you did ⦠She pushed past Officer O'Reilly and out onto Eighth Street.
Blinking, she was surprised to see that the street was bathed in sunshine. Somehow in the blood-spattered, foul-smelling room she hadn't remembered that the sun was shining.
Cars slowed as they passed the tattoo parlor, their drivers curious about the police vehicles and all the commotion. Angry horns and screeching brakes added to the confusion.
“You-hoo, Kate.” She heard the familiar voice of Sister Mary Helen. Speaking of confusion, she thought. Kate had nearly forgotten about the two nuns leaning against the building. Now there was only one.
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