Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (12 page)

We’re focusing on a five-mile circle around the crime scene. That cuts the numbers down to forty-eight known weekly or semi-weekly meetings in twenty-one locations. Again, we’re assuming we don’t have all of them accounted for. My assignment is to cover the Tuesday night sessions at Saint Bartholomew’s United Methodist Church.

A married woman speaks next. I’m assuming she’s married because she’s got a big rock on her ring finger. She’s wearing a tight white scoop-front shirt with a push-up bra that’s generating a lot of interest from the men. The group leader, I think his name is Darren, is carefully keeping his eyes on the ground because he knows what we’re all going to think if he gives her the same kind of earnest and attentive eye contact he’s given everyone else. I want to laugh, but stifle it.

“Hi, I’m Bethany, and I’m not sure, but it’s conceivable that I’m an alcoholic. It’s probably more that I just have a . . . a sometimes drinking problem.”

“Hi, Bethany,” I say along with the group. This is going to get interesting.

She describes the various places she hides vodka—her poison of choice—from her unsuspecting husband’s sight. She gives a pretty detailed description of the new vodkas on the market, including a revolutionary grape-based vodka, and which ones are best for the money. One of the reasons she’s not sure she’s an alcoholic is that she doesn’t drink cheap vodka, which she heard is one of the tell-tale signs of being an
alkie
—her word, not mine. I begin to wonder if she is a liquor salesman and this is a rogue marketing scheme, but she finally gets down to business.

She tells us that she’s explained her slurred speech and erratic behavior to her husband as a hormonal imbalance and that it will take awhile for her doctor to find the right level of meds to get her emotions back on track. She explains that no man wants to talk about a woman’s hormone problems, so he’s bought it hook, line, and sinker. Husband thinks she’s with her friends playing bunko tonight. The fact that she has lied to attend an AA meeting sparks a discussion about whether it is ever right to lie to protect the innocent, which heats up and runs wild for about fifteen minutes. I look at my watch and realize—gratefully—this will save me from having to share. Thank you, Bethany.

I’ve never been to an AA meeting so I don’t know what most of them are like, but I’m pretty sure it’s uncommon for an entire group to instinctively dislike someone. This group dislikes Bethany. The consensus is that honesty is necessary to get better. Then some of the comments on the value of honesty start getting directed at Bethany. One guy leans forward and says, “Bethany, I think you are trying to mask some deep-seated problems with your lying.”

Darren is all for honesty, too, but finally comes to her rescue, saying, “Bethany, thanks so much for sharing. We are honored you’ve decided to meet with us. I think we have time for everyone to share if we move a little more quickly. And by the way, if you don’t get to say everything on your mind tonight, we’ll be open for business next week—and we have a list of other meetings that meet every day.”

Bethany’s cheeks are flushed in anger. I don’t think she was expecting to get ripped to shreds at an AA meeting. I’m no expert on drinking troubles, but I suspect she’s not ready to make a go of this sobriety thing just yet anyway. Maybe I’m wrong. I wonder if her name is really Bethany. There I am being a cynical detective again.

My mind drifts back to the murderer. Wonder what happened in his childhood to start him down this path. Alcoholic mom? Abusive dad? It didn’t matter—all that matters is that we catch him. It’s been five days and so far we have only one clue—and that clue is based on the assumption that Virgil is on to something with this AA lead. I mull that over. Life isn’t fair. About the time you make a decision to get your life together, you get hit from another direction.

“My name is Jonathan, and I am an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Jonathan.”

I look up and over a couple seats. Jonathan doesn’t quite fit in this setting. It’s not that the rest of us here have dark-rimmed and blood-shot eyes, smelly clothes, slurred speech, and a variety of involuntary tics. Bethany, for instance, is neat and trim. She’s got that rock on her left hand—the day she pawns that is the day she’ll know for sure she is an alcoholic. But Jonathan is immaculately dressed in a pair of gray wool slacks with pressed creases, nice polished loafers with tassels, a preppy navy jacket, and what looks to be an expensive dress shirt with sleeves showing exactly half an inch below the jacket. Jonathan actually reminds me a little of Dell, in manner. Even Don might approve of his taste in clothes.

“I’ve been drinking every day since my junior year in college at Northwestern. Never thought I had a problem, even though my grades slipped enough to keep me from getting accepted for my MBA at Kellogg School of Business. Now I’m thirty-eight. I’ve lived all over the country but always end up back here where I grew up and went to school. I’ve been through seventeen jobs—I always get a new one because no one will give you a bad reference for fear of a lawsuit. I don’t think I can count how many relationships I’ve burned through. Some of you are sweet drunks. I’m an angry drunk. That said, I’ve come close, but I’ve never, ever, ever hit a woman.”

He makes that sound like a real accomplishment. Am I supposed to stand up and applaud?

“I’m looking for job eighteen and it’s become clear that alcohol is getting in the way of me finding and keeping the right one. Same with women. I’m jealous of the guys who have wives and kids. I’d like that, too, someday. So about a month ago I finally decided to own up to the fact that I have a problem. I want to change. It’s been two days since I’ve had a drink and I’m dying for one right about now. I especially want to thank Walter. Just knowing you’ve succeeded for more than a couple months is a real inspiration to me.”

Walter blushes and nods in acknowledgment. After a momentary lull, the group breaks into applause.

Jonathan continues, “I’d tell you what else I’m dying for right now, but who knows, maybe there’s a cop present and frankly, not all of my substance issues are legal.”

He laughs and everyone provides at least a courtesy chuckle—though a few are looking at him like they looked at Bethany. I laugh a little harder than necessary out of surprise and to cover up that I turned red when he mentioned cops. I sit back and listen to Jonathan finish up, and the four people to my left tell what’s going on in their lives right now. When it’s my turn I say nothing. Darren politely deflects attention from me and asks if anyone else would like to say something. He looks my direction a couple times, so I keep my head down. I’m mad at myself for wimping out, but I’m thinking about Jonathan. He fits the profile. Maybe I should have a word or two with him just to see if my internal radar sounds an alarm.

Darren looks at his watch and asks halfheartedly one more time if anyone else wants to give a testimony. Sixteen sets of eyes look my way and then give up. I guess that was my last chance tonight. Oh, darn. I missed it. Darren explains the importance of regular attendance, celebrating victories big and small, and having a sponsor you can call when the urge to drink is strong and your willpower is weak. We hold hands and recite the serenity prayer together and are dismissed.

A few attendees make a beeline for the door. Others saunter over to a side table to get another cup of wretched coffee and a store-bought cookie or two from plastic molded trays. Jonathan awkwardly shuffles my way trying to make eye contact. In my peripheral vision I see that Bethany is eyeing Jonathan and is on a path to intercept him before he gets to me. Now I’m positive she’s not really here about staying sober. She succeeds in getting to Jonathan first, but only because Darren cuts me off.

“Your first time?”

“You could tell?”

He laughs. “Don’t worry about not sharing tonight. We’re just glad you came.” So much for not standing out.

“Well, thank you, Darren. Is it always this interesting?”

“Not quite
this
interesting,” he answers with a knowing smile. “But seriously, let me know if you would like the names of some female sponsors. Sometimes it’s easier to share one-on-one the first time.”

“Let me think about that.”

“Well, don’t think too hard. Really, no one is trying to trap you. These ladies are nice people who understand what you’re going through. They’ll drop anything to be there for you. We love to help.”

“I appreciate that; that’s very nice,” I mumble, sincerely moved by the care and concern I feel.

“Well, I’ll be honest. When we help you we help ourselves. AA has always been committed to service—it’s one of our pillars of recovery.”

“Makes sense.” Why do I feel so awkward? I’m here as a detective, not a participant!

“I forgot to mention at the end of tonight’s meeting, but we have a gift for you.”

“Really?”

He hands me a white chip. It is blank on one side and the other has the serenity prayer printed in blue.

“This is a small token we like to give first-time attendees. It symbolizes your desire to quit drinking, to get better. Carry it with you as a reminder of that commitment—and to come back next week.”

Jonathan keeps looking over our way for an opening, but Darren is now telling me about how long he has been sober and about how scary it is to share for the first time, but how much it really helps. Jonathan gives up on connecting with me and heads out the door. Bethany has been rebuffed and gives me a dirty look. She should have gone to bunko night with the girls.

Jonathan graduated from Northwestern, which is just up the road from Chicago in Evanston, but didn’t he say something about just moving back to town about six months ago? I think so. I think of the profile Virgil spit out. Neat. Articulate. Organized. Moves around. He fits. But no way could it be this easy to find a killer.

“I gotta run,” I say to Darren and I hustle for the door to see what Jonathan is driving. I step into the crisp night air. No sign of him.

Dear God, help Walter find his way home.

17

April 4, 2:00 a.m.

SHE IS DELIGHTFUL.

Wish she had spoken up. I would love to
hear what she had to
say.

I have to admit that I could look at her
all day. Long legs and thin, but she still has some curves. But
not too many curves.
That’s my kind of woman. Not a Silicon Valley type. I like soft and supple flesh.
So much easier to work
with when I take the stage, even if it is for an audience of one.

I’ll talk to her next time for sure. I like it here in Chicago now—even with the wind and the crazy
temperature changes. I think I might actually
describe myself as happy, for the first time
in a long while.

She
should have said something even if she’s new
to the group. She just looked at her hands. They
are lovely hands. I want to know what she’s holding back, understand her, and let her know
I understand her. That connection is vital for me and my girls.

I really don’t mind
listening to others’ stories. Most spout the banal ordure of small, tedious, mind-numbing lives. But I must say, I hated hearing that guy tell about how his wife kicked
him out of the house. How
demeaning. Has he no pride? What real man
would let a girl get the better of him?

I shared. Not my real story of course. I’m saving that for my journal. That shrink who worked for my captors was actually right about something. Journaling is therapeutic. I feel better knowing my
story, my real story,
is being recorded as a
monument to my work—to
me. If that hack Truman Capote can win the Pulitzer for writing
about the killing done
by others—amateur killers at that—just think what they will have to give me. A Nobel? I’m joking of course. I know
they don’t give prizes for my particular style
of performance art. Not everyone can appreciate the mastery I possess. Their loss.

Yes,
I really am happy. But I want to be even happier. And therein lies a catch-22. Happiness doesn’t satisfy. It’s too fleeting—it leaves you wanting more.
And oh, how I want more. I suspect I’m going
to depart from my customary schedule. Let’s call it a reward for the
patience I’ve shown in
setting up Chicago as the backdrop for my best work ever.

Cubs are on the road. Sox are in town
through Sunday. All night games. I’m thinking I’ll have to miss
one for another form of entertainment. If good pitchers mix up speeds, then
who am I to not do the same?