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Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie

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BOOK: The Corporal Works of Murder

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“Came out to see?” Gallagher strained the words between clenched teeth. “Are you out of your mind, Sister? When you hear that something bad has happened on the streets, that someone is hurt, the best thing to do is stay inside and call the police. If you aren't careful”âhe yanked at his tie as if it were a nooseâ“you could be the one getting hurt.”

Mary Helen raised her chin. “But I didn't, did I, Inspector?” she said.

“Sister,” Kate jumped in before Gallagher had a chance to explode, “did you happen to see anyone?”

Kate was relieved when her partner moved to another group. She shifted her attention back to Mary Helen, who appeared to be thinking over her answer.

“Any cars? Anyone running down the street? Anything suspicious at all? Think.”

“No,” Mary Helen said. “When I got here she was clearly dying.”

Kate was surprised. “She was still alive?”

Mary Helen nodded. “The poor dear had just enough strength left to utter one word.”

Kate's heart raced. She knew better than to hope. That kind of thing only happens in the movies. But maybe, just maybe, the victim had named the perp. “What word?” she asked.

Mary Helen frowned. “She was difficult to hear, but I think she said
pity.”

“Pity? Like âhave pity on me'?” Kate tried not to show her disappointment. “Like praying, pity?”

She must not have succeeded. Mary Helen looked a little hurt. “Yes, Kate,” she said gently. “Like praying. And really, dear, you can't blame her. It seems to me rather like the natural thing to do when you are dying.”

Embarrassed, Kate walked over to the body, careful to avoid the sticky blood covering the sidewalk. She picked up one corner of the covering and stared down at the woman.

She felt the hot, clammy sensation she always experienced when she viewed a murder victim.
At least I don't gag anymore,
she thought, taking a deep breath.

“Are you all right?” Mary Helen sounded concerned. “You look so pale.”

“I'm fine, thank you, Sister,” Kate smiled. Mary Helen squeezed her arm and Kate turned back to the body. A white cloth wound around the woman's entire head, exposing only her face, a lovely face with fine features and prominent cheekbones. Her skin, almost translucent now, was flawless. Someone had
closed her eyes as if she were sleeping. Except for her blood-soaked chest, Sarah looked as if, at any minute, she was going to awaken, push herself up off the ground and join the crowd.

Kate couldn't take her eyes off the woman's face. There was something vaguely familiar about it. At the moment, she could not put her finger on what. Had she seen Sarah at the grocery store? The bank? Church? Had she worked at the cleaners? Used the library? It would come. Even with her mind a blank, this time Kate would gladly have bet five bucks that she knew this woman from somewhere.

Imagine anyone hearing that someone was hurt and staying inside!
Mary Helen thought, still smarting from Inspector Gallagher's remarks.
That's part of the trouble with the world today
, she fumed.
No one wants to get involved. No one is willing to help a neighbor in need.

This time he had really nettled her and she couldn't seem to let go of it. She intended to tell him so, too, once the dark scowl left his face. No sense teasing an angry bull, and that's what he'd sounded like, bellowing at her, “What are you doing here?”

What in heaven's name did he think I was doing?
She sniffed. I
was comforting a dying woman, that's what.
Mary Helen sighed. It was at a time like this that she really missed Eileen. If her friend were here, she could get this off her chest and stop stewing about it.

Standing behind the yellow plastic tape, Mary Helen bit her bottom lip and watched several automobiles pull up along the curb. Car doors slammed. Men and women began milling around the crime scene. She watched as someone uncovered the body and cameras flashed. Her heart ached at the sight of the lifeless brown mound on the pavement. Minutes before it had been a beautiful, if troubled, young woman.

Meanwhile Inspectors Gallagher and Murphy, notebooks in hand, questioned members of the small crowd still gathered on
the sidewalk. Mary Helen noted that they seemed to be writing down little. Like her, most of the onlookers probably saw or heard nothing.

When the coroner's van arrived, Mary Helen decided she'd had enough. She checked her wristwatch. Although it was only three o'clock, it was time to make her way back to the Refuge. She was tired and hot. Predictably, now that the fog had finally burned off, the summer sun was intense. The refugees, bundled in all they owned, must be melting. She'd fix a couple of pitchers of iced tea.

Inspector Gallagher, with his flushed face, looked as if he could use some, too
, she thought, softening a bit. Happily, Kate Murphy, who had been the color of cement, was beginning to get a little pinkness back.

“Yoo-hoo, Kate!” Mary Helen called.

Frowning, Kate walked toward her. “What is it, Sister?” she asked.

“I'm on my way back to the Refuge,” she said. “It's much cooler in there, I'm sure. If you're interested, I don't think Sister Anne will mind if you use that small sleep room to talk to witnesses. And,” she added with a wink, “I make a pretty mean glass of iced tea, which is yours for the taking.”

Very few women were in the Refuge when Mary Helen entered. The place had an uneasy quiet. She was surprised to find Anne at the kitchen sink emptying ice trays. From the look of things, she had already begun brewing tea. “Great minds!” Mary Helen said.

All she got in response was a sniff. When Anne finally turned to face her, it was obvious that the young nun had been crying.

“What is it?” Mary Helen asked.

“Nothing.” Anne's voice was thick.

“You don't cry about nothing. I know you better than that.”

As Mary Helen watched, a fresh tear ran down Anne's cheek. “I'm just upset, that's all,” she said.

“That's understandable,” Mary Helen said lamely.

“When I went outside I couldn't even look at the body. The very sight of the covered mound got to me. I felt as if I wanted to faint or throw up or something.”

“That's only normal,” Mary Helen said. She adjusted her bifocals and studied Anne's face. The young nun's hazel eyes were wide.

“What else is bothering you?” she asked, hoping she wasn't stepping onto a land mine.

Anne sucked in her breath. “If you really want to know, I'm afraid that some crazy person like the one who shot that Sarah will come in here and murder us. And that we can't do a thing about it!” As soon as the words were out, she started to sob.

Gently Mary Helen took Anne in her arms. “There, there,” she crooned, knowing that there was really no way to assure Anne that she was wrong.

“And don't tell me about Divine Providence or about the very hairs on my head being numbered,” Anne mumbled into Mary Helen's damp shoulder. “I've told myself all that and frankly, at this moment, it doesn't help.”

Mary Helen had no intention of bringing up any such things. But she felt she ought to say something that would help Anne pull herself together. She was sure Kate and Inspector Gallagher would be there any moment and more refugees would be wandering into the center. Surely Anne wouldn't want them to see her dissolved. She played a long shot.

“You know, Anne, Sister Eileen had an old saying from back home that might fit this occasion.” She felt Anne stiffen. Had she said the wrong thing? Anne always enjoyed Eileen, or so she'd thought.

“Eileen's sayings! I think she makes them up,” Anne muttered, not unkindly.

Often Mary Helen had suspected the same thing, but now was not the time to quibble. “Humor me,” she said.

“If I must.” Anne was starting to regain some of her usual good humor. Hooray!

“If I remember correctly, Eileen says, âIf you're born to be hanged, there's no need to fear water.'”

Anne hiccupped and pushed herself away. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she asked.

Mary Helen studied the young nun's face. She was actually smiling.
Mission accomplished
! Mary Helen thought. “And on the off chance that Eileen is wrong,” she said, “I've invited Kate and Inspector Gallagher for iced tea and to use our sleep room to interview witnesses. I hope you don't mind.”

“Mind?” Anne ran a towel under the faucet, and then covered her puffy face with it. “I'm delighted.” Her voice was muffled. “At least we're safe for the day. No one would dare harm us with two homicide detectives in the place.” She lowered the towel and sniffed. “Who in his right mind would risk killing a policeman?”

Watching Sister Mary Helen walk the short half block to the Refuge, Kate realized how hot and thirsty she really was. Iced tea sounded pretty tempting to her. Gallagher and she were nearly done at the crime scene. The coroner had taken the body. They would only be in the way of the technical team. Actually, they should drop by the Refuge for more than a cold drink. If anybody had any idea why this woman had been shot, that's probably where they'd hear it.

She scanned the crowd for her partner and spotted him standing over a wire cart. It was stuffed to overflowing with plastic bags. “This looks like something my mother had,” Kate said, joining him beside the cart.

“This looks like what every housewife in the good old days used to carry her groceries home in.” Gallagher ran his finger
around his shirt collar. “Geez, it's hot out here.”

“Whose is it, anyway?” Kate used the pencil in her hand to move the quilt, stuffed like a lid over the top.

“A couple of women I talked to said they thought it belonged to the victim.”

Kate let the quilt fall back in place. “I'll go through it,” she said. “It might give us some idea who this woman isâwas,” she corrected herself. “There must be a next-of-kin to notify.”

“Be my guest,” Gallagher said with a slight bow toward the rickety cart.

Repelled by the thought of what might be in all those bags, Kate pulled a pair of rubber gloves from her trench coat pocket and slipped them on. Squaring her shoulders, she gingerly peeled off the quilt. Instantly she wished she'd held her breath. The grimy, musty smell was overpowering.

“You never know what you'll find,” Gallagher said, watching Kate open the first plastic bag.

“I don't need to be reminded,” Kate said, a shiver running up her spine.

The bag was filled with other plastic bags. She found another that was full of dirty clothes. Another contained soap, shampoo, and some partially used hand lotion. So far nothing interesting.

Kate was about halfway through them when she discovered a worn tennis shoe that seemed unusually heavy. The moment she pulled it out of the cart, she saw the reason. The black handle of a 40 caliber, semiautomatic Beretta was wedged into the heel of the shoe. The barrel pointed toward the toe.

“Denny,” she called, trying to keep her voice even, “look what I found.” Carefully she removed the gun from its hiding place. It was SFPD issue, exactly like her own.

All at once her heart dropped and she felt the bile rising in her throat. She knew exactly where she had seen that lovely face before, that smooth pink skin. In the elevator of the Hall of Justice. The victim was another cop!

“What the hell? Gallagher was at her side.

“She's on the force,” Kate whispered, showing him the gun. “I've seen her at the Hall. She's Vice.”

“Are you sure?” Gallagher's face was solemn.

“Almost positive,” Kate said. “And I think I know why she dressed like that,” she said softly.

“If she was undercover she probably wanted to look like her elevator didn't go all the way up,” her partner guessed.

Kate shook her head. “It's her hair,” she said. “She had a head of wild auburn curls. Anyone who had ever seen her hair would recognize her immediately, so she had to cover it with that white cloth. Although her skin was a dead giveaway. I should have realized that she had redhead skin.”

“I thought redheads had freckles.” Gallagher studied Kate's face.

She felt her cheeks flush. “That's just some redheads, like me,” she said. “Other redheads like Sarah have that delicate, white skin that burns easily.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Gallagher didn't seem too impressed.

“I wonder if she was successful,” Kate mused.

“Successful at what?” Gallagher sounded genuinely puzzled.

“At not being recognized.”

“You didn't recognize her,” Gallagher said.

BOOK: The Corporal Works of Murder

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