Burning Man (20 page)

“How did she react to that?”

“I think she nodded, but she was too shy to make much eye contact.”

“You said she was heavy. Do you think she could have been pregnant?”

Karen hesitated before answering. “That thought did cross my mind, but I learned long ago that you never ask a woman if she’s pregnant unless you’re absolutely sure she is. All you have to do is make that mistake once and you’ll never do it again. As soon as she told me the bootees were for her aunt, I took her at her word.”

“How old was she?”

“She could have been anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five, but now that I think about it I’m guessing she was in her late teens.”

I encouraged Karen with a nod and a look that reassured her so that she continued talking.

“I think she was wearing costume jewelry, and her makeup was on the heavy side, with lots of black eyeliner.”

“Can you recall the clothing she was wearing?”

Karen grimaced. “I seem to remember she had on jeans and an oversized sweatshirt with an animal logo on it. It had writing of some kind.”

“You don’t remember what that logo was?”

“I wish I did. It feels like an image I should know, but the more I think about it, the more it won’t quite show itself, which I now know is even more frustrating than trying to pull out a word that’s stuck on the tip of your tongue.”

I nodded and tried to give off the impression that it was no big deal. “Don’t sweat it. When you least expect it, the image will probably just pop into your head.”

“That’s what I have been telling myself.”

“How did she pay?”

“We only take cash here.”

“Maybe you should have one of those signs that say ‘In God we trust, all others pay cash.’”

Karen laughed and then said sotto voce, “I don’t think the sisters would approve.”

“What else can you tell me about this woman?”

She thought a moment, shook her head, but then thought of something. “I don’t think she had very much money.”

“Why is that?”

“When she was buying the bootees, she kept sniffing the air and taking in the aroma of the pumpkin bread. I told her that over the years I’d probably gained ten pounds from inhaling pumpkin bread, or at least that was my story and I was sticking to it. That got a little smile out of her, and then she asked how much a loaf cost. When I told her the price, she thought about it, and after some deliberation she decided to buy a loaf. It wasn’t an impulse purchase but one that she weighed out, as if debating whether she had enough money. I remember feeling almost guilty taking her money.”

“What time of day did she come in?”

“It was in the early afternoon, probably somewhere around two o’clock.”

“Was it your impression that this woman was familiar with the gift shop and monastery?”

Karen shook her head. “I am fairly certain she’d never been here before. When she walked into the gift shop she looked around the way people do when they come here for the first time.”

I mulled that over. “What do you think brought her here?”

“Some people visit the monastery to reflect. It’s a holy place.”

I smiled, encouraging her to talk. A witness that is comfortable tends to remember more than one who is on edge.

“I thought the monastery was closed to the public,” I said.

“The cells are cloistered, but there are gardens and public areas open to visitors, and on occasion there are services open to the public. They’re very simple but beautiful. When I attend I usually find myself looking at the monstrance. It’s shaped not only in the form of a cross, but also that of the sword of Saint Michael.”

I didn’t have any idea what a monstrance was, but I nodded knowingly.

“Were you named after the Archangel Michael?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I was named after my great-uncle Mike, and as far as I know he was about the opposite of an archangel. Uncle Mike had a lot of fishing poles, but I don’t think he had a sword.”

“I always liked the story of Saint Michael’s sword. I remember when I was a girl, a demonstrative priest showed our communion class how Michael struck down a fiery dragon with his sword.”

Karen offered these words while staring at my burn scar, and then she suddenly turned away in embarrassment. Her face flared red, but I pretended not to notice, just as I had pretended not to see her stare. I began circulating around the gift shop, poking at this and that.

“You manage to pack a lot into a small space,” I said.

“The nuns make many of our products. They bake and knit and paint.”

I paused to look at some of the paintings on the walls; most were scenes from the monastery.

“All those paintings you’re looking at were drawn by the sisters,” she said.

“I guess that explains why there are no nudes.”

Karen laughed from behind a closed hand.

After finishing my deliberate inventory, I made my way back to where Karen was standing and suddenly asked her, “What was on the girl’s sweatshirt?”

The abruptness of my question produced an immediate answer: “A bird.”

Karen looked surprised but then started nodding definitively. “It was a bird.”

“What color was it?”

“Gold, I think, or brown.”

“Can you describe it?”

“I remember it being—feisty.”

I couldn’t think of any California teams with a bird, and wondered if the girl could have been a migratory NFL fan. “Could it have been an Arizona cardinal or a Seattle seahawk?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think it was a bird representing a professional team. I’m of a mind that it was a school mascot.”

“Do you think it was a high school mascot or college?”

Karen’s face scrunched up in concentration. “I’m fairly sure it wasn’t high school. I probably would have taken more notice of it if it was.”

She offered me a small explanation and history: “I was a high school teacher for many years before going into school administration.”

“So you think the bird was a college logo?”

Karen offered a tentative nod. The two most recognizable university mascots in the LA area are the UCLA Bruin and the USC Trojan, but there were plenty of other smaller universities in and around Los Angeles. Later, I would have to go mascot hunting.

“Can you tell me what this case is about?” she asked.

“I can only say that this woman might be a person of interest in a crime that occurred.”

Karen nodded. “I’ll probably close up by the time you finish your meeting with the reverend mother, so you better take your package now. Dottie wanted me to tell you that she put it together especially for you.”

“Bless her,” I said in tones not exactly ecclesiastical.

I pulled out my wallet, and Karen quoted a price that sounded high. “Did the price go up for pumpkin bread and chocolates?”

“No,” she said. “Most of the expense is for the medals that Dottie picked out for you. She chose two of Saint Jude, and one of Saint Michael.”

“Is there a patron saint for suckers?”

Karen looked innocent. “I am not aware of one.”

“I suppose I should be glad Dottie didn’t add gold, frankincense, and myrrh to my order.” I thumbed through my wallet. “It looks as if I’ve got just enough cash.”

“We can bend our cash-only rule for you. Your check is good with us, Detective.”

“Then you must know something my bank doesn’t.”

I finished paying, and then Karen escorted me over to a building not far from the gift shop. As far as I could determine, I was now officially in cloistered territory. There was no one in sight, and I wondered if all the sisters were praying.

The Catholic church makes no secret of the fact that over the last half century the ranks of nuns have been in serious decline. Some believe the sisters are becoming an endangered species. I wondered if anything was being done to reverse the trend. Most vocations recruit when they experience declining numbers. I probably wouldn’t have become a cop if not for a job fair I had attended at college. It was only after talking with LAPD recruiters that I began to entertain the idea of being a police officer. As I recalled, there had been no recruiting booth for sisters. Maybe
it doesn’t work to advertise when the job description is chastity, poverty, and obedience.

The sound of footsteps approaching along the tiled floor made me hastily stand up. The reverend mother was slightly bent from age, but her stoop didn’t slow her down. She was wearing white robes and black open-toed sandals with white socks. A fringe of white hair could be seen underneath her black habit. The sister wore thick glasses, but the eyes behind them were clear and appraising.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I said. “I am Michael Gideon of the Los Angeles Police Department.”

With a slight rustle of robes she offered me a small hand. “I am Sister Frances.”

She took a seat at the table and looked at me expectantly. Most people are nervous around cops, but she wasn’t. Apparently the reverend mother had a clean conscience. Either that or she had nerves of steel.

“I believe a young woman visited the monastery last Friday,” I said. “I am trying to find this girl so that I can question her about a case I am working on. I think it’s possible that she approached someone inside the monastery and engaged her in conversation.”

“And why do you think that?”

The prioress’s voice was soft, but there was an amazing clarity to it, like one of those bells that aren’t overloud but ring in such a way that they can be heard over just about anything.

“I am only guessing, but I suspect this young woman had a guilty conscience. I think she came here looking for answers and maybe a way out of her situation. It’s possible she was hoping that she might escape her problems by becoming a nun at this monastery.”

I waited for the reverend mother to answer, but she didn’t seem to be in any hurry. One of the interview techniques every cop learns is to let the silence build. I was quickly learning that strategy doesn’t work with nuns. They are old friends with silence.

“I need to know if this woman talked to anyone here.”

The reverend mother’s serene face regarded me. For a woman of her apparent age, it was remarkable how unwrinkled she was. Her composed expression would have been at home at a poker table: it gave away nothing.

“And how would that help your case?” she asked.

“The nun with whom she talked might be able to give me information about this girl.”

Her nod showed that she understood, but it wasn’t a nod of agreement. “It is not uncommon for troubled girls to make vocational inquiries. We stress to them that ours is a calling from God and not an escape from the world.”

“Is there one nun in particular who talks to these girls?”

“Usually they are directed to me.”

She didn’t elaborate further. When silence stopped being golden, I decided to be more direct. “Did you talk to this girl?”

Instead of answering, the reverend mother said, “I refer all serious inquiries to the vocational director of our order. I am well aware that there is no one nun-size habit that fits all.”

I thought I saw a little smile on her lips.

“In fact some orders don’t even wear habits,” she said. “There are sisters that go out in the world and there are cloistered nuns. Is the candidate looking for a community of sisters that is evangelical, monastic, or apostolic? Many of the orders require a minimum of a high school education, as well as work experience. Young women are often surprised to learn that in many orders they have to be at least twenty years old before they can take their vows.”

“Did that rule out this candidate?” I asked.

Once again she chose to answer a question I didn’t ask. “It is one thing to be a potential postulant, but it is quite another to arise at four forty-five every morning. That is our daily routine here.”

“Did the thought of those long working hours discourage this girl?”

“What you need to understand, Detective, is that you don’t become a sister merely by knocking at the door of a monastery. There is a demanding system in place.”

“And you need to understand, Reverend Mother, that as far as I know the rules of the confessional don’t apply here. Anything this girl might have said isn’t privileged.”

“I imagine you are right about that.”

“Did you talk to this girl?”

A hardened criminal could have taken pointers from the reverend mother on how to avoid answering questions. “Did you know that last month I had my eighty-ninth birthday, Detective?”

“Congratulations.”

“I am getting worried about my memory. I have heard when you are as old as I am your memory plays tricks on you.”

“I think it’s playing tricks on me.”

With unruffled calm she asked, “Can I be of any other help?”

There was no threat that would make her talk. My rules and laws didn’t concern her. Besides, I was keeping her from praying, and that was something the world could ill afford.

“Apparently not in this matter,” I said.

“Is there another matter you wish to discuss?”

The day before, Dottie had told me the prioress experienced a miracle. Since that time I had been recollecting the media’s reporting on the story of the reverend mother’s miracle. At first her identity had been withheld; she had only been identified as a nun at the Monastery of Angels, but as the beatification process for Mother Serena ran its course, her name and position had been revealed by the press. According to the Vatican, the woman sitting across from me had experienced a miracle.

“My inquiry isn’t a professional one, but I wanted to hear about your miracle.”

With her great calm she asked, “What is it that you wish to know?”

“I seem to remember that you were diagnosed with brain cancer, and that after you and the nuns in the monastery prayed to Mother Serena, you were cured.”

“Your explanation is short on many details, but on the whole it is accurate.”

“How do you know your disease just didn’t have some spontaneous remission?”

“The disease had ravaged my body. I was blind and incontinent, and cranial nerve palsies and seizures had left me in a state where I could not leave my bed unassisted. I remember being frustrated by my inability to do the smallest tasks. I couldn’t even write a note. Muscle twitches and numbness made my handwriting completely illegible. As I understand it, most spontaneous remissions aren’t really spontaneous. They don’t happen all at once.”