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“Ummm, no, not yet,” she says. “I thought I’d bring it to you first, seeing as you’re also investigating the case.”
“Yes, I’d love to see it,” I say. “Can we meet now?”
“Sure, I’ll come to you, since—” she says then stops talking abruptly, clears her throat and continues with. “Where do you want to meet?”
For about half a second, I debate asking her to meet me at one of the cafes by the river, then give her the address of the task force office. “And please handle the letter as little as possible. There could be fingerprints or other trace evidence still on it.”
She laughs at that. “Look at you with all that official police lingo. But don’t worry. It’s an email.”
Which she could just forward to me. But she clearly wants my opinion on it to color her article with, so why didn’t she just lead with that?
But I also know that reporters can sometimes be a little cagey when trying to get an interview. I personally prefer to always lay all my cards on the table upfront, but I also know that some people just won’t talk to reporters and I remember the tricks I sometimes had to pull to get a story when I was just starting out. And I suppose the fact that it’s been twenty years since we last spoke has something to do with it too.
“I can be there in half an hour,” she says then says goodbye.
I call Mark right away, then text him with the news when he doesn’t pick up. After that I spend some time looking up Hana’s articles.
She covered all the major crime cases in the last twenty years and even wrote a book on Slovenia's most notable crime stories that were the result of the perpetrators not getting the mental health help they needed about five years ago—a book I’ve never heard of.
She’s made quite a name for herself here and by the time I head downstairs to the office to meet her, I’m more than a little embarrassed that I don’t know anything about her work. But hopefully giving her this interview will make up for that.
* * *
MARK
Father Ignatius was just as bumblingly and loquaciously helpful today as the first time we met. He said he was in all night and that he’d never heard of Tara Merc, but he hastened to add that his memory is terrible and proceeded to once again direct me to Sister Tereza.
When I told him we haven’t been to see her yet, he insisted he accompany me to the convent, saying he’s in dire need of a walk, since he’d been cooped up inside for so long—his words, not mine. I suppose that could’ve been his way of subtly letting me know that he was in last night, but he did already spend the first ten minutes of our meeting today telling me that in great detail.
So now we’re walking towards the convent, my shoes squelching in the ice-cold, runny slush, which is what yesterday’s snow has turned into. The hem of my pants and even my socks are already soaked with it.
The hem of Father Ignatius’s brown robe is black and wet too, but it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. He’s setting a fast pace and I think he’s even humming something as we walk. He’s definitely an avid walker. I can tell that by his practiced stride and his gait. Me, I haven’t been on a proper hike in months, since there’s been so much to do around the house. The house which still doesn’t have a roof.
But I’m meeting Sojer’s cousin tomorrow so he can look at the damage and assess it. From the description I gave him over the phone, he said it might not need all that much work. I hope that’s his honest opinion and not just something he said in an effort to get the job. Given my experience with the contractors around here, it’s probably the latter.
“This is it,” Father Ignatius says, bringing me out of my walking-induced thoughts, as he stops abruptly in front of a squat three-story building surrounded by residential houses of all shapes, sizes and colors. One of them is a bright lime green, for example. But the convent is the classic concrete grey, though well maintained and with all new PVC windows.
“I’ll ring the bell and introduce you,” he says and proceeds up the four steps to the front door. I follow about a step behind.
The bell buzzes screechingly and less than two heartbeats later, the door itself opens. The nun standing in front of us is at least fifty years old and only about a head shorter than Ignatius. She’s wearing a blue-grey skirt and jacket and a matching cap on her head. Her cheeks are wind-burned and rosy, so I suppose she must’ve just come in from outside.
“Father Ignatius,” she says in a clipped, stern voice. “I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow morning.”
“Ahh, Sister Tereza,” Ignatius says. “Just the person this gentleman needs to speak to. May he come in?”
She glances at me, and I’m just about to show her my badge and introduce myself, when she turns back to Ignatius, her lips a very displeased looking thin line.
“You know very well that men may not enter this house,” she says. “I’ll just get my coat and meet you outside.”
Then she proceeds to close the door firmly.
Ignatius chuckles uncomfortably. “Sister Tereza is as efficient as they come. But perhaps she lacks a little something in decorum.”
He can say that again, but I don’t.
“I’ll leave you to it now, if you don’t mind,” Ignatius says, already descending the stairs. “I must visit a parishioner.”
I’d like him to be here for this interview too, but if I want him to stay, I’d have to yell after him to stop, because by the time he finishes speaking he’s already well on his way down the sidewalk. And yelling after a priest might not be the most appropriate thing, so I don’t.
