Trial By Fury

CHAPTER 13

St. Agnes of the Hills School sits well back from the road in the middle of Beaverton. It boasts an expanse of beautifully manicured, discreetly lit grounds sandwiched between business parks and new and used car lots. It was late evening when I drove up the circular driveway and parked in front of the building. Spotlights showed off the golden bricks and arches of a graceful Spanish facade on the front of the building.

In the darkness, one front window of the building glowed industriously. I climbed the circular stairway and tried the heavy, double door. It opened into a highly polished, tiled vestibule. Directly ahead, the doors to a plain chapel stood open, but the room itself was deserted. To one side of the vestibule, the fluorescent glow of a light revealed a tiny receptionist's cubbyhole. There was, however, no receptionist in sight. From a room beyond that room, through a half-opened door, I heard the hollow clacking of an old manual typewriter.

I paused in the doorway of the second room. A woman in a prim white blouse with a short blue-and-white wimple on her head sat with her profile to the door, leaning over a typewriter in absolute concentration, her fingers flying. She was a bony woman with a hawkish nose. Wisps of gray hair strayed out from under her headpiece.

She was typing at a small, movable typing table. The large wooden desk beside her was polished to a high gloss and devoid of any clutter. An equally polished brass nameplate on the desk pronounced "Sister Marie Regina O'Dea" in a way that said the lady brooked no nonsense.

As the unchurched son of a fallen-away Presbyterian, what I knew about Catholic nuns could be stacked on the head of a proverbial pin. My previous knowledge was limited to the convent scenes in The Sound of Music, which was, for many years, my daughter's favorite movie. The sum of my stereotypes went little beyond the schoolboy rumors that roly-poly equals pleasant and angular equals mean, and ugly girls become nuns when nobody makes them a better offer.

Looking at Sister Marie Regina's narrow face, I wondered if anybody had ever made her an offer of any kind.

I stood quietly, watching her type. The woman had no idea I was there. She typed copy from a neat stack of handwritten pages. When she reached the bottom of a page, she stopped, moved the top sheet to the bottom of the stack, straightened the pile with a sharp, decisive thwack on the table, and put them down neatly again.

When she stopped to change pages the second time, I decided to go ahead and interrupt her. "Excuse me, but I'm looking for the lady in charge, Sister Marie Regina, I believe," I said, nodding toward the polished brass nameplate.

Startled, she jumped, her hand knocking the stack of papers to the floor. Without a word to me, she bent down, retrieved the papers, and straightened them completely before she ever officially acknowledged my existence.

"Yes," she replied crossly, eventually, her tone saying she welcomed me about as much as someone welcomes the twenty-four-hour flu. And that was before she knew who I was or what I wanted. "What can I do for you?"

"For starters, could you tell me where to find Sister Marie Regina?"

"I'm Sister Marie Regina."

"Good. My name is J. P. Beaumont. I'm a detective with Seattle P.D. I'd like to speak to one of your students."

I held out my ID for her to look at, but her shrewd eyes never left my face, nor did she reach out to take the proffered identification.

"Which one?" she asked coldly. She knew which student I wanted, and I knew she knew. I went along with it, though, playing dumb just for the hell of it.

"A new student," I said i

Sister Marie Regina O'Dea rose from the typing desk and walked to a tall, brown leather chair behind the polished wooden desk. With slow, deliberate movements, she picked up a blue blazer that was hanging there and put it on. She buttoned the front buttons with a flourish, like someone do

When she spoke, her voice was crisp and peremptory. "Detective Beaumont, I'm sure you understand that the young woman you mentioned is here because she's undergone a severe emotional upheaval. Her family has no wish for her to be disturbed by you or by anyone else."

I matched my tone to hers. Two can play Wi

"Sister Marie Regina, I'm here because I'm conducting a homicide investigation. Bambi Barker is a material witness. I'm afraid her family's wishes have nothing whatsoever to do with it."

She smiled, a brittle smile calculated to be totally u

Unfortunately for Sister Marie Regina, I'm a hell of a long way past fifteen. "Concealing material evidence to a capital crime is somewhat out of yours as well, wouldn't you say, Sister?"

She sat down in the high-backed chair and leaned back, clasping her hands in front of her. She regarded me thoughtfully. I don't believe Sister Marie Regina was accustomed to counterattacks.

"Exactly what is it you want, Detective Beaumont?"

"I want to talk to Bambi Barker."

"That's impossible."

"Why?"

I refused to budge under the weight of her level stare. For several long moments we remained locked in visual combat before I took the offensive and attacked her sense of order. I took a straight-backed chair from its place near the wall, moved it to a position in front of her desk, turned it around so the back faced her, and sat astride it with my arms resting on the back of the chair.

"What kind of financial arrangements are necessary to get a girl transferred into St. Agnes over a weekend three months before she's supposed to graduate?"

Sister Marie Regina didn't answer. She didn't flinch, either, but I continued in the same vein.

"Enough to maybe buy a personal computer to replace that ancient typewriter?" I asked. "Or what about a new car? Didn't I see a new Ford Taurus sitting out front, a silver station wagon with temporary plates?"

She blinked then, and I rushed forward into the breach. "I could make a real case in the papers that the car was a bribe, you know. Payment in advance for keeping the girl away from our investigation."

"But that's not true," she blurted. "It was only to get her admitted…" Sister Marie Regina stopped abruptly, clenching her narrow jaws.

"You know that, Sister. And maybe I know that, but that's not how it's going to read in The Oregonian."

"You wouldn't."

"Oh yes I would. I wouldn't hesitate a minute. I want to talk to that girl, and I want to talk to her tonight. Now."

Sister Marie Regina wasn't used to being outmaneuvered. She stared wordlessly at me for a long time before she reached for a phone, picked it up, and dialed a two-digit number. She tapped her finger anxiously on the phone while she waited for it to be answered.

"Would you please have Sister Eunice bring the new student to my office?" There was a pause. "Yes, I mean now," she added crossly. "Tell her to get dressed."

She got up from her chair, smoothed her jacket, and walked to the door. Sister Marie Regina was a fairly tall woman in exceedingly sensible shoes whose crepe soles squeaked on the glossy surface of the tile floor. "Follow me, please."

With her stiff blue skirt rustling against her nylons, she led me out of her office and down a long hall with a series of unmarked doors lining either side. Toward the end, she stopped, opened a door, and showed me into a tiny room.

"These are our visiting rooms," she a