Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (7 page)

I LOOK AT the clock on my nightstand. How did it get to be 9:40 already? Did I just sleep ten hours? Since I tossed and turned all night and never really drifted off, I guess the better question is whether I’ve been in bed ten hours. Regardless, the answer is that I’ve overslept, big time. I jump out of bed with a start. I told Kaylen I would get to church early to help her with Kendra’s Sunday school class. Soccer coach; class helper; what next? Weekend babysitter? Yeah, I’ve already done that gig, too. Not that I’m complaining. Not really.

• • •

I slide into the pew next to Kaylen. She’s singing and barely acknowledges me. That means she is not happy with me. She finally looks over a stanza or two later and gives a half-hearted nod. I don’t think her smile is totally sincere. Not very nice for a pastor’s wife. In my typical contrarian pathology I immediately feel better. If the nicest woman in the world is being pouty, then I can’t be that bad, right? I almost smile. I look over to see if there is any sign of a cute little baby bump. Not yet. Maybe she and Jimmy need to work harder. She feels my gaze and scowls at me. Now I do smile. My gorgeous, kind-hearted, forgiving older sister can never stay mad at me—unlike my younger sister who can stay mad at me for years and who isn’t in church with us again this week, I notice.

I missed all of Sunday school and was fifteen minutes late for the worship service. That means another ten minutes of singing. All standing up. The words are projected on a screen. I understand contemporary church services are designed to appeal to contemporary people like me, but it wouldn’t kill us to sing a couple verses from the hymnal—preferably sitting down. Ten minutes of announcements and the offering will follow. Jimmy will preach about thirty-five minutes.

We’re usually out the door at 12:15. The Baptists, who are apparently more punctual, will have all the good restaurant tables tied up by then—the charismatics follow in waves at 1:30 or so. Our independent church is in the no-man’s land of Sunday dinner scheduling, so we always eat at Jimmy and Kaylen’s house. All of us are on a budget except for Klarissa anyway. We used to do it at Mom and Dad’s house, but there is more room at Jimmy and Kaylen’s. Tradition can be a good thing. Like I said, it wouldn’t kill us to pick up a hymnal and sit down for a song or two. I think the hip and contemporary train left the station without me. My news reporter sister got in the first-class car. She said she was just going to visit somewhere closer to her house for a week or two, but I think she has wanted a change, maybe something a little more formal and sophisticated—like her. No big deal. There has to be a reason there are so many different kinds of churches. At least I hope so. I’d criticize her for not just coming out and admitting that to Jimmy and Kaylen, but after not telling Dell that I did not want to visit an Amish village with him, it would be hypocritical.

I’m leaning hard with two hands on the chair in front of me. Kalen’s giving me sideways glances and decides to forgive me for slinking in late. I get a sideways hug. Maybe she has put on five pounds.

My mind sometimes wanders in church, but not today. It stays focused. Just not on church. I’m thinking about yesterday’s meeting at headquarters. After Reynolds’ presentation, Captain Zaworski recapped the FBI profile of our alleged perp. Male. White. Very methodical, maybe an accountant or engineer. He’s intelligent. Watches TV, because he leaves next to no trace of his existence at the scene. All those shows on forensic evidence have seen to that, even though, technically, every human encounter does leave some physical record. He blends in well. Probably helps old ladies cross the street. Will say hi to new neighbors, but won’t engage. His relationships won’t be in his neighborhood. He’s a good actor.

How the FBI has identified his bonding issues, his desire for narrativity—a fancy way of saying he likes to tell stories about himself—and a childhood filled with an alienating, abusive, and neglectful mother and an absent father—left the family? died?—is beyond me. And as I like to tell Don and anyone else who will listen, I’m not just muscle and good looks. I am a college graduate. Not
summa
or
magna
cum laude
, but
cum laude
by the skin of my teeth, and that’s still honors in my book. I’m on the slowest boat possible toward a master’s degree in criminal justice. That means I sign up for three classes a year and usually drop one of them on the exact date that doesn’t count against me grade-wise, but where I don’t get much of my tuition money refunded. My mom gets after me for wasting money, but I’m on my own dime now and can be stupid with money any way I want.

I’m not sure how all this psycho data is going to help us actually find him. But Reynolds does have one clue we can actually work on. In five of the six known cities our murderer has worked, multiple victims attended Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. This apparently confused the FBI a lot at first because the profiling doesn’t suggest someone who abuses alcohol or drugs. Someone suggested the obvious; he is pretending to have a drinking problem.
Duh.
All the pieces fell together.

Of course, we’re putting a lot of confidence in a computer program called Project Vigilance. We’re assuming Virgil—I’ve given the program a name of my own—hasn’t missed other cities that would reflect a broader or emerging pattern of behavior. To be fair to good old Virgil, he’s only going to be as good as the input he has to work with.

Reynolds is convinced that the connection of the forty-seven previous crime scenes is valid and that we are factor number seven. Why can’t he just say we’re the seventh city? Our perp has been hibernating for six months and is ready for serious business again.

Sandra Reed and many of the victims didn’t attend AA, but twenty-nine did—more than half—so it’s a major priority in our investigation.

Kendra, my niece, has switched spots with her mom and is at my side. She tugs on my sleeve. How long have I been the only one in the congregation standing? Kaylen looks over and stifles a laugh. Very funny, big sis. I guess long enough to be noticeable. Is Jimmy giving me a dirty look from the pulpit? I’ll remind him that pastors aren’t supposed to do that. I’m sure his message will be scintillating as he starts off with a joke that people find very funny, but my mind wanders away again to yesterday.

• • •

We agreed that the four detectives in the room would start attending a couple AA meetings a week. I don’t drink—okay, I’ve had a sip of Klarissa’s white wine once or twice—but I’ve heard enough sob stories from winos when I walked a downtown beat that I can fake it well enough. For that matter, there are enough cops with drinking problems—self-medicating with alcohol is one of our occupational hazards—that everyone on the force likely has firsthand experience with someone who has been in, or should be in, AA. We considered putting out the word that any department employees already attending AA meetings need to keep their eyes open. But we couldn’t quite figure out what they were to look for—or how to keep that kind of information from getting leaked to the press—so we scrapped the idea.

There was nothing else but the crime scene. We dispersed quickly and all seven of us headed for separate cars to caravan over to a small apartment house in Washington Park. I didn’t even mess with the starter on my Miata. I rolled it back and popped the clutch.

• • •

Jimmy is winding things down up front. He asks a couple of questions about the current state of our soul when it comes to anger. That wakes me up. If I had paid attention I wouldn’t have been so surprised that he wasn’t talking about having too much bad anger—the kind I’ve been wrestling with—but rather not having enough godly anger. Holy anger. Righteous anger. My mom’s kind of anger. Things that make God mad are supposed to make us mad.

I can embrace that. First of all, I already feel lousy enough about myself right now, and it’s nice to not feel judged, especially at church. And yesterday’s crime scene made me feel a little of God’s fury; it still was resonating in my chest today. I shook my head, remembering. It was unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed. Worse than any of the films they showed us at the academy. Slasher film bad. Torture more than murder. If seeing that doesn’t stir some godly anger, I don’t know what will.

We pray the benediction in unison as I stretch and arch my back; I think I sigh out loud because Kaylen leans over and gives me an elbow to the rib. Not very nice of her. Again.

Jimmy says “amen” and I turn into the aisle. I see Dell about six rows back. Our eyes lock. I squint and tilt my head to the side to give him a plaintive “I’m sorry” expression. He takes a step backward and half turns as a twentysomething puts her hand in the crook of his arm. He looks back at me, trying to stifle a look of triumph.

Okay. That was unexpected.

But you go, Dell. I had it coming.

11

I CAN’T STOP thinking about the crime scene.

We should have carpooled, but no one wanted to lose any more of a Saturday afternoon in the salt mine. But we all pulled into a narrow street in Washington Park about the same time. Three- and four-story houses, each two units wide—the classic Chicago row house neighborhood. There were a few double-wides here and there in the neighborhood, as well as some small apartment houses. It was one of those timeless kind of streets that looked like an elegant ’50s film set but was now a contemporary, neo-bohemian enclave. The side yards weren’t much more than the width of a sidewalk and maybe a row of tomato plants. A back alley serviced the small parking lots behind each house that could each accommodate one car each. That meant half the street’s residents parked out front. Everything was well cared for, and a lot of high-ticket cars were on the street.

Even more than five hours after the crime scene had been established, there were still six or seven black-and-whites with rotating blue lights, a couple of dark brown Crown Vics and shiny black 300Ms, indicating more detectives and some brass had arrived, along with an ambulance and two crime scene tech vans. Both of the vans were wedged on the strip of grass and sidewalk in the front.

As we approached the apartment house’s front steps, we could hear a neighbor complaining to a uniform that the vehicles would damage the lawn and somebody was going to have to pay for it. The kid, stoic in a starched blue, was looking right in the lady’s eyes, but obviously not listening. Good man.

Two of the uniforms had set up sawhorse roadblocks a couple houses away in each direction. One of the guys had pulled the barrier aside to let our train of cars trail in. Our entourage officially finished filling in the center of the street. I thought I was last to pull up, which I figured was good because it would be easier to get out when we were done.

I had forgotten about Major Reynolds’ car. He drove a rented Cadillac in behind me. I didn’t think the government approved luxury cars on expense reports. He’s either more important in the Bureau than we already suspected or he got a free Hertz upgrade.

The seven of us huddled at the front steps, and we found out the Caddy was an upgrade courtesy of Enterprise. I was relieved to know he was a humble everyday officer of the peace, just like the rest of us. Not. He looked like he should be picking up a date for dinner rather than visiting a bloody crime scene.

A techie offered each of us a cotton ball dipped in a little ammonia mixture at the front door, in case we needed something to help us with the odor ahead. No one wanted to be the first to touch a drop beneath our nose because it looked weak. But when an EMT staggered through the front door, leaned over the rail, and sent his breakfast and lunch spewing—maybe even a midnight snack—we applied the ammonia in unison.

Martinez led us up the steps into the foyer. The security door was propped open. We walked past twelve white buttons underneath twelve dull brass-colored mail slots, each about four inches wide and eight inches tall. That meant four two-bedroom apartments per floor. I did a little calculation in my head and figured at least 2,000 square feet each. Probably storage cages and a laundry room in the basement. Twelve-foot ceilings on the first floor. A wide circular staircase and a small three- to four-person elevator dominated the lobby. Everything was in great shape, including the elevator with a checker-sized black button for each floor. I rejoined the circle of investigators in the foyer.

“According to the neighbors, our victim lived alone,” Blackshear started. “Nice apartment and furniture. She appears to be a very tidy person. No sign of anyone breaking in. We’ve checked all ground-floor windows and front and back doors. For right now we’re assuming the victim knew the perp and let him in voluntarily.”

“Or her,” I said. I thought it was a good point and worth noting. You know, not starting with any assumptions on anything, including gender. No one commented.

“Our victim—” Blackshear started again.

“What’s Sandra’s age?” Don asked, interrupting.

“Late twenties, early thirties,” Blackshear said. He flipped back in his black notebook. “Thirty-two. Not that her attacker made it easy to tell.” He paused until he caught his train of thought again. “She’s single, an accountant in a big firm downtown. She’s got a VP title on her card. Must’ve been smart, to be a VP this young.”

“Divorced? Married?” Don asked.

“The human resources director from her firm has been helpful. She’s divorced. No kids. And before you interrupt again, Don, we’ve already got a call in with the ex, but no answer yet. He doesn’t live here anymore. He’s in the L.A. area. Maybe he sleeps late. Local cops are checking in with him.”