Read Online The Bad Kitty Lounge by Michael Wiley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Wiley
Ads: Link
sanctuary into the courtyard garden that separated the church from the buildings that housed the nuns and priests who taught at the parish school. A statue of St. Joseph, dedicated to a long-dead pastor, stood near the front fence.
The mailboxes in the entrance to the second faculty buildingincluded 1-H. SISTER JUDITH TERRANO . The door into the building was locked but it was like a toy lock. I slipped a card between the door and the frame, slid it upward, and eased the spring bolt into its housing. The door swung open into a hall carpeted with the thin, outdoor-grade stuff you find on the greens of miniature golf courses, but red, fading to pink. The wall sconces held dimly lighted bulbs.
The fourth door on the right was 1-H. It opened more easily than the front door. It had no lock. The room measured about twice the size of a prison cell but had a closet and a separate bathroom. The bed was plain and institutional, and at the foot of it a white sink with old fixtures was attached to the wall, probably left over from a time when the room had no private bathroom. A medicine cabinet hung above the sink. A crucifix with a figure of Jesus looked over the sink and the bed. In front of a window, a steam radiator was propped up on one end with a brick. More bricks were stacked beside it. A plain wooden desk and chair stood in a corner. A telephone and a well-thumbed Bible rested on top. A thinly upholstered chair with a floral print stood in another corner with a dresser next to it.
I was looking for evidence of who Sister Terrano was, the kind that wouldnât appear in the news clipping files or the obituaries. If Greg Samuelson had killed her because his separation from his wife had driven him over the edge, I probably would find nothing. Same thing if someone else had gone nuts and killed her. But some people who kill arenât nuts. Theyâre like everyone else, plus a weapon and a cause.
I started with the desk. The top drawer contained blank stationery, a roll of tape, and pens. A side drawer held a stapler, rubber bands, paper clips, and another roll of tape. The drawer under it contained three books on theology, a looselybound national report on teenage sexuality, and a book called
A Short History of Medieval Architecture
. The bottom drawer contained a pair of binoculars, which would have been good for watching birds and small animals outside the window in the courtyard garden, a Swiss Army knife, an unopened pack of AA batteries, a flashlight, matches, and a box of candles.
I opened the closet door. The floor was a mess. Someone had pulled two cardboard boxes off the shelf and dumped them, rummaged through the contents, and then swept the mess back inside before closing the closet door.
The stuff was the debris of an almost possession-free life. A little wooden model of a Swiss chalet lay on top. It could have sat on a bookshelf or hung in the window of a young girlâs room but now its roof was broken and attached to the rest of the building by a bent staple. Most of the rest had to do with Judy Terranoâs service as a nun. There were diplomas and testaments printed on heavy paper, some in Latin, some English.
At the bottom of the pile three photographs were held together by a paper clip. The first two were black and white, and looked fifty or sixty years old. One showed a handsome-faced man wearing a hat. The other showed a serious-faced woman. Their faces had something of Judy Terranoâs, and I figured they were her parents.
The third picture was in color and showed Judy Terrano when she was the age of the older teenagers who were watching the video in the undercroft. Everything about the picture amazed me. It looked like a dirty picture without the nakedness. She had an Afro, green eyes full of desire, and a wicked smile that said she was thinking darker thoughts than ever had crossed the minds of the girls she would later try to convince to remain virgins. She wore a blouse unbuttoned to
The mailboxes in the entrance to the second faculty buildingincluded 1-H. SISTER JUDITH TERRANO . The door into the building was locked but it was like a toy lock. I slipped a card between the door and the frame, slid it upward, and eased the spring bolt into its housing. The door swung open into a hall carpeted with the thin, outdoor-grade stuff you find on the greens of miniature golf courses, but red, fading to pink. The wall sconces held dimly lighted bulbs.
The fourth door on the right was 1-H. It opened more easily than the front door. It had no lock. The room measured about twice the size of a prison cell but had a closet and a separate bathroom. The bed was plain and institutional, and at the foot of it a white sink with old fixtures was attached to the wall, probably left over from a time when the room had no private bathroom. A medicine cabinet hung above the sink. A crucifix with a figure of Jesus looked over the sink and the bed. In front of a window, a steam radiator was propped up on one end with a brick. More bricks were stacked beside it. A plain wooden desk and chair stood in a corner. A telephone and a well-thumbed Bible rested on top. A thinly upholstered chair with a floral print stood in another corner with a dresser next to it.
I was looking for evidence of who Sister Terrano was, the kind that wouldnât appear in the news clipping files or the obituaries. If Greg Samuelson had killed her because his separation from his wife had driven him over the edge, I probably would find nothing. Same thing if someone else had gone nuts and killed her. But some people who kill arenât nuts. Theyâre like everyone else, plus a weapon and a cause.
I started with the desk. The top drawer contained blank stationery, a roll of tape, and pens. A side drawer held a stapler, rubber bands, paper clips, and another roll of tape. The drawer under it contained three books on theology, a looselybound national report on teenage sexuality, and a book called
A Short History of Medieval Architecture
. The bottom drawer contained a pair of binoculars, which would have been good for watching birds and small animals outside the window in the courtyard garden, a Swiss Army knife, an unopened pack of AA batteries, a flashlight, matches, and a box of candles.
I opened the closet door. The floor was a mess. Someone had pulled two cardboard boxes off the shelf and dumped them, rummaged through the contents, and then swept the mess back inside before closing the closet door.
The stuff was the debris of an almost possession-free life. A little wooden model of a Swiss chalet lay on top. It could have sat on a bookshelf or hung in the window of a young girlâs room but now its roof was broken and attached to the rest of the building by a bent staple. Most of the rest had to do with Judy Terranoâs service as a nun. There were diplomas and testaments printed on heavy paper, some in Latin, some English.
At the bottom of the pile three photographs were held together by a paper clip. The first two were black and white, and looked fifty or sixty years old. One showed a handsome-faced man wearing a hat. The other showed a serious-faced woman. Their faces had something of Judy Terranoâs, and I figured they were her parents.
The third picture was in color and showed Judy Terrano when she was the age of the older teenagers who were watching the video in the undercroft. Everything about the picture amazed me. It looked like a dirty picture without the nakedness. She had an Afro, green eyes full of desire, and a wicked smile that said she was thinking darker thoughts than ever had crossed the minds of the girls she would later try to convince to remain virgins. She wore a blouse unbuttoned to
Similar Books
