Authors: Aimée Thurlo
“Of course. Sheriff Green will go easy when he talks to her. He’s a good man,” Sister Agatha said.
As Sister Bernarda left with Sister Jo, Sister Agatha
confronted the knowledge that Jane had needed to talk to her about something and she hadn’t made time to help. She’d allowed other concerns to overrule the second great commandment—to love thy neighbor as thyself. Guilt made her chest tighten. Was Jane’s problem somehow related to her death, or was it just an unfortunate coincidence?
Sister Agatha had no time to ponder the question. Sirens filled the air.
The paramedics, despite being called last, pulled up first. After taking a quick look at Jane’s body, the three-person team rushed toward Sister Bernarda, who was standing at the entrance to the chapel.
Sheriff Tom Green arrived next, with the crime scene van and another squad car trailing behind. Sheriff Green, a tall former college track star with thinning hair and a slender waist, joined her a moment later. As he adjusted the latex gloves required for his work, she noticed that his pale blue eyes were bloodshot and his face was drawn with fatigue.
“Before you say anything, no, I’m not sick or hungover. We had a long night at the station. I’d be home in bed right now if I hadn’t been in the area when the call came through,” he said. “Now tell me everything you saw and heard. Sister Jo said that the victim may have been shot.”
Sister Agatha recounted the sequence of events, including the sound of the car door, the pop, and finally how Mrs. Brown had discovered the body. She then pointed out the car break-ins and the way the Antichrysler had been vandalized.
“Doesn’t anyone lock their car doors?” Sheriff Green muttered.
“Maybe at St. Augustine’s in Bernalillo. But out here, we all feel—felt—safe,” she answered.
“You mentioned a pop. That had to have been the gunshot.
It makes sense that the killer would use a small caliber—less noisy,” he said.
“My brother and I used to shoot tin cans with his .22, so I’ve heard gunshots plenty of times. But the noise I heard was more of a pop—or more precisely, a plop—not quite like a gunshot, really. It reminded me of a bubble of chewing gum being popped, only a little softer, I guess. I didn’t give it much thought at the time.” She took an unsteady breath, then added, in a voice that didn’t sound like her own, “I should have gone outside to check when she didn’t come into the chapel.”
“I hope you’re not blaming yourself. If you’d come out to look, you would have undoubtedly interrupted the killer while he was going through her purse or through the other vehicles. You might have become his second victim.”
“Maybe so,” she answered in a whisper.
“It’s possible, from what you said, that the gun had a silencer. Did you hear any other noises outside?” Tom pressed.
“No.”
They both looked over as a black car roared up and slid to a stop beside Tom’s vehicle, raising a small cloud of dust. A red-haired man in an expensive gray suit, turquoise bolo tie, and black Western boots climbed out. He took a step toward them, but Tom intercepted him before he could come closer.
“Stay put, Albrecht. Crime scene here,” he said, gesturing to the deputy who was working quickly to put up the yellow tape.
“Understood,” the man said, moving back and bringing out a BlackBerry.
“What’s Fritz Albrecht doing here?” Sister Agatha asked Tom softly. “The last I knew, he was working for Channel 7 in Albuquerque.”
“He’s on Mayor Garcia’s staff now. His official title is law
enforcement liaison, but he’s more of a pain in the…neck, or thereabouts.”
“Back when I was a journalist, the word was that he was a real lightweight as a reporter. He was more of the press conference type.”
“Word has come down from above—Mayor Garcia, not God—that our department needs to improve our image, and we’ve been told to pay particular attention to community relations. Fritz is supposed to help us out on that. If we look good, Garcia looks good,” Tom said in a taut voice.
“And what else, Tom?” she pressed, reading his tone correctly.
“I’ve been told to make sure civilians don’t get involved in our criminal cases. When citizens uncover vital evidence, it makes us look incompetent, according to Garcia.”
“I guess that means me, but this time the monastery has a vital interest in what’s going on. My old journalism skills can be an asset to you now. I’m not after credit. Your department can take it all.”
“This is a murder investigation, Sister, and you need to stand back and go about your own…calling,” he said as the tape was placed between them.
“That’s kinda hard to do, Tom. One of our own parishioners just got killed outside our chapel.”
“Yeah, and let’s hope this leads away from the monastery, not toward it.” Seeing Albrecht staring at both of them, he looked back at Sister Agatha. “I better get to it.”
He went to look at the black beaded handbag lying on the ground. Less than a foot away was the victim’s wallet. He picked that up, taking a closer look. “No money, but he left a credit card, her driver’s license, and a voter ID card,” he said, just loud enough for Sister Agatha to hear.
“She has her watch and rings, too, and a pearl necklace that looks expensive,” Sister Agatha said after making sure Fritz wasn’t within hearing distance.
“That kind of thing is hard to get rid of around here,” he answered. “I’ll check and see if she carried more credit cards and a checkbook. Did she normally make her offering with cash or a check?”
“Our cellarer would know. I’ll ask her,” she answered, then added, “Where’s her cell phone? I know she carried one.”
Tom looked in the purse and around the area, then stood. “It might be in a pocket, or her car. Thanks for the tip. Anything else you might want to add?”
“Yeah,” she admitted reluctantly, guilt forming a lump at the back of her throat. “Jane called me on Friday. Something she’d seen was really bothering her, but I was too busy at the time to meet with her. I asked her to come to the parlor the next day, but she never did.”
“Interesting. I’ll check it out with her husband and see if he can tell me what that was about, but it may be totally unrelated.”
She swallowed hard but didn’t comment. “I know Father Mahoney had been counseling her regularly, but I don’t know the details. You’ll have to ask him about that yourself.”
“I’ll do that. I’ll be interviewing everyone—and you again as well—before I leave.” Tom motioned to some officers who’d been hovering near the scene.
As two members of the crime scene unit walked up with their cameras and gear, Sister Agatha stepped back. A third deputy, female, started attaching yellow crime scene tape to a vehicle aerial.
Sister Agatha said another prayer for the soul of the departed. For now, Father Mahoney would be prevented from
administering Last Rites. Access to homicide victims was restricted to police personnel taking part in the investigation.
As one of the women deputies, wearing latex gloves, inventoried the contents of Jane Sanchez’s purse, Sister Agatha glanced away. That was when she noticed what looked like the letter
Y
on the door of the Antichrysler. Sister Agatha moved to her left, realizing that she might have been premature when she’d assumed what she’d seen there was only scratches. Positioning herself to see the entire door, she read the message, and it brought chills to her blood.
Etched in crude block letters at least a foot high was
YOU’RE NEXT, NUN
.
H
ER HANDS SHAKING, SISTER AGATHA LOOKED AT THOSE
gathered there. The only person who seemed to be looking in her direction at the moment was Fritz Albrecht. He nodded, and she nodded back.
Sister Agatha moved around until she caught Tom’s eye; then she pointed toward the old station wagon.
“You didn’t leave anything valuable in that old rust bucket, did you?” Tom asked, coming over.
“No, but I just realized what was scratched into the door. Take a look for yourself,” she said, pointing.
“Oh, crap,” Tom muttered once he was at the proper angle to see the entire message. “It wasn’t there last night?”
“No, and we wouldn’t have left the door open like that either. So what now? This is either the work of a very sick person or a direct threat to our monastery,” she said. She swallowed, but her mouth remained infernally dry.
“Maybe not the entire monastery. It could be directed at you or one of the other externs who drive this car. This is the vehicle you use to deliver the Good News meals to people all over the community, correct?”
“Yes. Sister Jo usually handles the details and makes most of the deliveries. Sister Bernarda and I help when needed. Did you know that Sister Jo did all the paperwork that resulted in the county handing the contract to us and St. Augustine Church? This is the first faith-based initiative in our area. Of course, we don’t make any profit from it, but it’s now a better and more reliable service to the community.”
“However, I remember some people were upset about a state-funded program being awarded to religious groups. Have you caught any flak over it?”
“Only from Peter Aragon, but he’s just a city councilman using the program to promote his own agenda. Some nonsense about us using the program to try to push religion down the throats of senior citizens. He’s a political hack, not a killer.”
“Probably, but this threat’s real, and I have to check out all the possibilities. Make sure everyone at this monastery stays alert, the externs in particular.”
“I’ll pass the word.”
“Which car is Jane Sanchez’s?” he asked.
Sister Agatha pointed to the maroon sedan, an older model with faded paint. “That’s hers.”
Crime scene officers were already inspecting the cars, which would be dusted for prints. Leaving Sister Agatha outside the tape, Sheriff Green began searching the ground around Jane’s car, moving outward from the parking area toward the opened gates and the driveway beyond.
Except for the rose bed in the circular planter at the center, and some lilac bushes beside the walls, the parking lot was
covered with a thin layer of gravel. Over time, activity and the elements had shifted the rocks, creating areas where there was more sand and soil than stone.
Tom looked up. “Someone walked in,” he said, pointing at what appeared to be large footprints. “Those impressions lead right up to the body. Any idea who arrived on foot?”
Sister Agatha shook her head. “Why would the killer come in on foot this close to where Mass was being celebrated? If he’d been seen, his only option would have been to run for it.”
“Wait there. I’m going to check outside the grounds.” He continued on, studying the ground all the way outside the monastery’s property line. He stopped beside the wall, looked down and toward the road, then came back.
“Anyone come to church on a bike recently, like today?” he asked.
“Not that I know about.”
“Someone rode up on a bicycle, leaned it against the wall, then came back for it and took off. The tracks are fresh, and there isn’t any gravel to confuse the markings. The size of the footprints rules out a child. So let’s say that it was our killer on that bicycle,” he said in a soft, thoughtful tone. “Providing he was in shape, that would have given him a way to make a fast exit. He could ride down this road about a hundred yards, then cut across into the bosque, out of sight, taking a route most cars couldn’t access. And on a bicycle, he would have been virtually silent. All things considered, it may have been a very good strategy.”
“So is this a burglary that escalated to robbery and then murder, or was murder the intent all along?” Sister Agatha asked him, making sure Fritz was still out of earshot. “Was Jane the unfortunate target because she happened to show up alone at just the wrong time?”
“It’s hard to say at this point, but if the killer did indeed bring a silenced weapon that would imply premeditation. Now here’s the critical question—was Jane
always
the last person to arrive?”
Sister Agatha nodded. “Without fail. Our list of regulars is small and well established, and you could almost set your watch by Jane’s arrival.”
“So my guess is that the shooter knew exactly who his target was going to be. Whether her selection as the victim was circumstantial or personal—that, I don’t know. He may have been watching Jane in her own neighborhood as well and learned her routines.”
“How does the warning on the monastery’s station wagon fit in with all that? Are we next on the killer’s list?” she asked.
“If Jane was the intended target, then the robbery and the message on the monastery’s car could be just a smoke screen.”
“If Jane
was
the target, could it have something to do with what she wanted to talk to me about? Could that have been important enough for someone to kill her?” Sister Agatha asked in a strangled voice.
“Do you think Jane might have had something she wanted to show you, too? Something that may have motivated the killer to go through her purse to remove it?”
“And then take the money and rummage through the other cars just to hide that? I can’t answer that, Tom. I’m sorry,” she said in a strained voice. “I have no idea what she wanted to talk to me about. I wish I’d taken time to talk to Jane when she called. I failed her—and God.”
“No matter what the investigation uncovers, you’re not responsible for what other people do.”
“A sin of omission is still a sin,” she said.
“The killer is the only one who should be feeling guilty,”
Tom answered. “Now you’ll have to excuse me while I get back to the crime scene,” he added for Fritz’s benefit, seeing that he’d ventured closer.
As Tom walked off, Sister Agatha gave Fritz a nod and decided to go inside to see if she could help there. She was a few feet from the doors when Tom caught up to her again.
“No cell phone anywhere. Either she left it at home, or the killer took it. I’m going to question the people who were in the chapel. It might help keep them calm if you sit in,” Tom said.
“I appreciate the offer. Most of them are elderly, and they’ve been through quite a shock.” Sister Agatha led the way to the entrance. “What I still can’t understand is why Jane didn’t scream for help. We
would
have heard her.” Sister Agatha stopped in midstride as a thought suddenly occurred to her. “Do you think Jane knew her killer?”