Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (5 page)

“’Bye, Coach!” eleven voices chirp in near-unison. I turn and smile. I tell them they played a fabulous game and circle around the table to give a little love to each one. Kendra hugs my neck hard as I bend down to kiss her. Kids can be very forgiving.

There is almost a tear in the corner of one of my eyes as I walk out the door and into the sunlight. Man, it’s bright today. I blink it away.

Did my sister say I was thirty? She’ll pay for that.

7

I FLIP STATIONS the whole way over to the Second Precinct. I know more about who to call for all my insurance needs to save money, but don’t catch a peep about our murder case or the score of the Cubs game last night, the only two items of vital interest to me. Bulls might make the playoffs but since the day Jordan retired, I was never as interested in the NBA. On the murder case, the media usually gets it screwed up anyway, so better to start with a clean slate and no false information embedded in my mind.

I consider stopping by my place to grab a sixty-second shower and a change of clothes. No time.

I’m still the last person to the conference room after parking, entering the back door with my electronic key, and pounding up five flights of stairs to Homicide in the Second Precinct, too impatient to wait for an elevator. I look around and realize this could be about a hundred different rooms in our precinct. Gray table and chairs. Gray walls. The white ceiling must have been the interior designer’s idea of a contrast. A couple of the ceiling tiles are cracked and chipped at the corners. Several tiles are rust-stained from a leak on the floor above and look like they are ready to cave in. I used to drink water from our antiquated porcelain fountains when I first joined the force. I shudder and thank God for bottled water. Who knows where that leak came from.

“Grab a seat,” Zaworski says, barely nodding at me. I sit next to Don. He looks dapper in designer jeans and a white mock turtleneck. Summer weight. Loafers with no socks. You’ve got to be kidding me. Does he not have to clean the garage or mow the lawn on a Saturday morning?

Four other men are at the table besides Zaworski and Don. One is in uniform with sergeant stripes; I think his name is Kincaid. Then there are two detectives from another precinct that I recognize, both wearing jeans with one in a cotton pullover and the other in a couple layers of T-shirts. I don’t know either by name. Finally, there is a very nice-looking man, maybe early thirties, wearing a suit way too fine for local law enforcement. Except for Don, of course. Navy blue with a light blue stripe, white oxford shirt with button-down collar and monogram on the chest pocket and sleeves—AER—and a pale yellow tie with a diagonal blue stripe. This guy has got to be a federal agent or a salesman for IBM. I am suddenly self-conscious of my worn-out soccer shorts and ratty NIU sweatshirt. I wore my cleats to the game but have switched into a pair of Crocs with Mickey Mouse smiling on one and Minnie Mouse on the other. Christmas present from Kendra.

I don’t catch myself in time to not take a quick glance at the Fed’s ring finger, which is naked. I think he catches me looking, which is very embarrassing. I kick myself for even wondering because I have a sort-of boyfriend who is madly in love with me—at least that’s what he tells me. The problem is I’m not crazy in love with him. So I don’t reciprocate with the words he longs to hear. Every time I try to break things off completely, he assures me that he’s very comfortable just being very good friends and that he is willing to wait for me to feel the same way for him that he feels for me. I have got to put him out of his misery and end this thing.

Captain Zaworski makes the introductions.

Nice suit guy is FBI, like I guessed, and his name is Austin Reynolds. The sergeant’s name is Konkade, not Kincaid, so I was close. If he has a first name other than Sergeant, he’s not giving it out. The detectives are Bob Blackshear and Antonio Martinez from Third Precinct. We all shake hands, say our “heys,” and nod.

The mood is somber and I resist any temptation to crack a joke. Don’t know why I would think to do so in the first place. We’re talking about murder—and no one laughs at my jokes anyway. Except for Kendra. She thinks I’m hilarious.
Focus.

Captain Zaworski passes crime scene photos around the room. A very pretty girl in the alive photos; a very disfigured girl in the dead shots. No details were given on the radio. Good thing. She died at the hands of someone very nasty and very good with a knife. Nope, no jokes today.

“How long have we been on the scene?” Konkade asks.

“Detectives from the Third got there at five or so,” Zaworski answers, nodding at Blackshear and Martinez. Don and I look at each other in surprise. Konkade purses his lips and runs a hand over his “bald scalp.

“Why aren’t we all there now?” Don asks for both of us. “Time’s wasting and the bugs are eating our clues.”

For detectives, rule number one in investigating a murder is that you get to the scene of the crime as quickly as possible to see things as they really are with your own eyes. Even though you can practically guarantee the first officer on the scene will be diligent in protecting evidence—everything from segregating witnesses to establishing a noninvasive traffic pattern to the victim—you know there is going to be corruption. If every criminal leaves a trace of his activity—so does every investigator looking for him. Or her.

“Soon enough,” Zaworski answers. “Everything will still be in place, including the body, when you get there. I know that on one hand, we’re not doing this exactly by the book, but on the other hand, we’re going to make sure the book is followed to the letter of the law. So we’ve decided to go slow on this one. Blackshear and Martinez got the first call and they got to look around a couple minutes before we pulled them out for this briefing. They’ll share initial impressions in a moment. The deed was done right on jurisdictional lines.” Zaworski pauses and continues, “We’re not sure if the Second or Third Precinct owns it, so you’ll be working together.”

Uh oh.
Sharing and police work rarely go hand in hand.

“We’re not sweating the politics,” he adds, looking pointedly at me. “This one gets even more complicated.” He looks around to make sure he has our undivided attention. “The second our initial report hit the data ports, a red flag went up in DC at FBI headquarters. They’ve tagged a guy with a very sophisticated and extensive crime pattern. He’s been killing lots of people and moving to new cities for a number of years now. They think he’s been a member of our community for the past six months, getting ready for his first victim in Chicago and a good number to follow. Sandra Reed may have been first, not last.”

Oh man. What’s a “good number”?

The captain goes on. “Major Reynolds was flown in specially by the US Army this morning in order to assist us in our investigation. He’s going to fill you in on what the FBI knows about our perp and help us apprehend him. Not only are we going to work well between the Second and Third precincts but also across agency lines. That order has been jointly issued from the director of the FBI and the CPD commissioner. Mayor Doyle’s office strongly endorses it. I do too.”

He nods to Reynolds.

“Actually, I wish we knew more about who the perp is and how we’re going to apprehend him, but we don’t,” Reynolds begins, clearing his throat. “About six years ago we received some software programming money from the Department of Homeland Security. We hired some geniuses from Silicon Valley to create a specialized search engine to cross-collateralize and correlate a number of local, state, and federal databases. The purpose was tracking terrorist activity, but some other good things came out of Project Vigilance.”

Reynolds pauses dramatically for a sip of water and I whisper to Don, “Wow, it’s got a name—Project Vigilance, just like a spy novel.” Don leans away, frowns, and arches his eyebrows to let me know I need to keep my mouth shut, and let anyone else know with his body language we are not a team.

We all wait as Reynolds sets his water bottle down slowly and picks up his papers again. I can’t pull off a similar “pregnant pause” because I live in a constant state of fear that I’m putting people to sleep when I talk. There’s precedence to support me on this one.

“PV is one of the biggest breakthroughs in profiling unsolved crimes,” he continues. “Obviously, it connects the dots between federal, state, and local investigations. It gets computers talking to one another—and that leads to people talking to one another. One of the key ideas was to make information available whereby other law enforcement agents and analysts could study and make suggestions on a case, even if there was no solid line of connection with something they were working on. PV stole a page from a business textbook and has become a kind of ‘best practices’ online symposium.”

“I bet that goes over real good with the guys working the case,” Martinez chimes in. “Sounds like one more way everybody in the world wants to second-guess you and look over your shoulder if you’re a cop.” “You’d be surprised at how well it works and how well it’s been received, Detective Martinez,” Reynolds answers. He’s good at remembering names. “I guess ideas and advice don’t offend as much when someone’s nose is in your case from a thousand miles away. But the unexpected positive outcome from Project Vigilance is that it has revealed to us almost 1,000 connected cases. PV has correlated crime events that were once treated as singular and jurisdiction-specific crimes into non-isolated crime streams.”

What did he just say? Jurisdiction-specific? Non-isolated crime streams? I’m writing this stuff down. I think I’m back at NIU in an advanced level criminal justice seminar.

“So, Boss, how come we aren’t on Project Vigilance, if it’s so good?” Martinez asks, turning to face Zaworski.

“It’s still under review,” the captain answers curtly. His steely look suggests further comments and interruptions are not welcome.

I look straight down at my notebook. No way am I going to snicker. Don must have been worried about me because he kicks me under the table.
Ouch.
That one I didn’t deserve.

“So did you start this Project Vigilance? Do you run it?” Blackshear asks Reynolds.

“I wish,” he snorts. “No, I’m a single investigator who has benefited from someone else’s vision and work.”

I’m impressed. Handsome and dutifully humble.

“I do have the distinction, however,” he continues, “of identifying thirty-seven streams; more than any other investigator. I’ve spearheaded seventeen busts nationwide.”

So much for being humble.

“But I’ve had my eye on one stream from the first day PV started connecting dots for us. This particular stream pulled together six unsolved crime factors. And by factor, I mean each of the cities that have experienced multiple murders at the hands of the same perp, who I’m about to tell you about.”

“How many murders in all?” Konkade asks.

“As I said, we’ve identified six factors, which means six cities,” he answers. After a pause he continues, “There are now forty-seven known murders. We aren’t counting Chicago as a factor yet. It’s also possible PV has missed some of his handiwork, so there could be more.”

Everyone is still. Blackshear gives a low whistle. Don whispers, “Sweet Jesus,” under his breath. Martinez crosses himself and mumbles, “
Santa madre de Dios, apiádate de nosotros!”

“If we’re right about who the killer is, today’s murder is just the first he has planned for your city,” Reynolds continues. “We believe Sandra Reed is victim number forty-eight.”

I can’t help myself—I gulp. An hour ago I was poking my finger in a coach’s chest for encouraging rough play. Or maybe girls just trip each other. Now I am saying a prayer for help with something that really matters. Someone has committed forty-eight murders and is planning more. How can that be?

“We haven’t seen our friend for almost seven months, so we were afraid he had changed his modus operandi and disappeared from PV’s ability to detect patterns. Honestly, I was starting to go a little crazy with the thought that I wouldn’t get another shot at him. But last night tells us—or at least strongly suggests—he’s back.”

Reynolds lays out details of forty-seven murders in six cities and why last night’s murder in my city looks like a fresh start and factor number seven.

“This guy sounds smart,” Blackshear interrupts. “He’s going to be tough to catch. Have you all gotten close to him yet?”

“Catching him is going to be tough,” Reynolds responds. “He is smart. And we haven’t gotten close yet. But he’s a sociopath. And sociopaths are delusional—especially about themselves. So they leave clues.”

“But you said this one doesn’t,” Don says.

“I said he hasn’t, but believe me, he will. Sociopaths love narratives. As long as they are the star of the story, of course. They start believing they can dictate life by force of will. We all know the Burns’ line, ‘the best-laid schemes of mice and men often go awry.’ Even though everyone in this room gets frustrated when plans go awry, most of us know that’s part of life. Sociopaths are not quite as understanding and get a lot more frustrated. That’s when they make mistakes. I’ll admit this guy is on one incredible roll. But not every break is going to go his way.”

Handsome and literate. He goes on to tell us what they guess they know about the perpetrator’s childhood and adolescence, about what makes him tick.