by M. K. Gilroy
It’s been a tough month. Everyone I love has told me, in some form or another, that I’ve got an anger problem. Now everyone wants to know why I have bonding issues. I’m pretty sure everyone likes Dell better than they like me. Klarissa gives Mom and Kaylen big hugs. I get a polite sideways embrace and she misses the kiss on my cheek by a mile.
I wasn’t totally honest with Don. My weekend wasn’t even so-so. It was lousy.
21
The ChiTownVlogger
April 26, 3:30 a.m.
“WELCOME TO THE jungle; we got fun ’n’ games; we got everything you want,” Guns N’ Roses pounded out as the report title scrolled onto the screen: CUTTER SHARK ALERT: FALL ELECTIONS NOW HAVE A SHARP EDGE TO THEM.
Allen Johnson’s bifocals were propped atop his thick mop of messy white hair. He sported a tan button-down shirt with a ketchup stain a couple inches above his navel that he figured most viewers wouldn’t see. Nor would they catch the stubble on his face—it was a benefit of televising solely via the Net . . . a slightly grainy image that disguised
such things. It saved him so much time, not having to shave every day. Leaving me more time to investigate. He stood in his postage stamp front yard, one foot on a step, his black Labrador Retriever obediently at his side. With puffy, dark-rimmed eyes he knew he looked like he hadn’t slept since the last time he shaved. But he spoke into the camera with his best baritone that lent seriousness even in the midst of his rumpled condition.
“Welcome to my jungle, friends and foes alike—you’re all welcome here. You’ve come to the place where you get the news that matters. The news the others don’t report because they are in bed with city hall.
“Speaking of bed, I wonder how well Mayor Doyle has been sleeping lately. Is he having sweet dreams? Or nightmares? There’s a killer loose in our fair city. Never a good thing for a reelection campaign, even when you are an incumbent eight times over and the city’s octogenarian set thinks your daddy is still the ‘Boss.’
“But the historians on his staff surely remember Harold Jefferson getting voted out of office because he couldn’t shovel snow from our sidewalks fast enough, which spawned the evil Empire of Jane. Bottom line, Chitown is intensely loyal and fickle, all wrapped in one package. No, no Republican in this century or the next shall oust our mayor. But that doesn’t mean a fellow Democrat will not.
“But I digress from the matter at hand. We have a new resident with a proclivity toward knives and blood. So who is this denizen of the night? A vampire? A werewolf? George Bush and Hillary Clinton’s love child? Now that’s a scary thought.
“We do know he loves blood. You heard that first from the ChiTownVlogger. He’s a predator with two Chicagoland hits under his belt.
But here’s where the news gets worse, folks. According to my sources, I am going on record as saying it looks like he might just be warming up. “You know my goodwill toward all men and women, and you know that I would never make light of violence. But I am officially dubbing this twisted tortured soul Chicago’s very own Cutter Shark. I feel I have no choice after that moronic morning news muddler on WCI started calling our new friend the Windy City Whacker. The Windy City Whacker? Come on. I’m afraid Reporter Jenson isn’t the brightest bulb on the Ferris wheel.
“It’s quite clear that the Cutter Shark has a way with our lady folk. I want to give a big shout out to Nancy Reagan. She was right, girls. You can let a shark buy you a drink, but then you better just say no!
“Mayor Doyle assures us our crack police force is on the case and will turn over every stone to bring this perpetrator of pain, this sultan of slice, this Faustian fiend of the flesh to quick and certain justice. I will stay true to my political convictions and not buy a handgun—but I am going to break down and buy one for my daughter. I’m also going to make sure her college accounts are paid up so she doesn’t come home to the Windy City, asking Dad for more cash.
“Now, if our venomous villain was piling up a pack of illegal parking citations, I have no doubt that Mayor Doyle and Commissioner Fergosi would be able to handle that. The Cutter Shark would definitely be off the streets and in custody. But give us a killer that’s tough to track down? Our city’s finest seem to be floundering and our mayor pretends it’s not happening.
“Well, while Mayor Doyle can pretend all he wants—his only concern a reelection six months down the road—rest assured, your ChiTownVlogger will be on the case. I am going to be the first to offer a reward. I have instructed my financial planner to place $10,000 in an escrow fund, to be paid to the person who provides information that leads to the capture and conviction of the Cutter Shark.
“By the way, I asked an official at city hall why they weren’t offering a reward. She told me that they were afraid of receiving a deluge of calls and messages from nut jobs. Isn’t it good to know that your mayor thinks of you as nut jobs? How concerned can he be about the safety of our fair maidens?
“Check back in my jungle often, folks. It’s getting wild out there. If you want the real news behind the news, you’ll only get it from me, the ChiTownVlogger.”
22
TODAY’S MEETING IS not pleasant. Captain Zaworski is not happy. The press continues to be all over the case. And thanks to some nut job with a popular online video blog, who dubbed our killer the Cutter Shark, it’s grown tenfold. The people of our city—specifically single women between the ages of twenty-five and forty who are at least reasonably attractive and gainfully employed—are afraid. They’re staying home at night, which means the single men of Chicago are not happy either. Then there’s the bar and restaurant owners. My mom’s calling me and Klarissa every fifteen minutes, just to make sure we’re okay. Everyone’s clamoring for us to get off our tushies and make a quick arrest. Okay, then. Why didn’t you guys just ask? I’ll wave my magic wand and voila, the case will be solved.
There was an article in today’s paper interviewing guys who feel their dating mojo has been off since the killer arrived. One guy being interviewed in the paper claimed that every time he offers to buy a girl a drink in the bar, he fears he’ll be pepper-sprayed.
Mayor Doyle is not happy either, which means Police Commissioner Fergosi is not happy, so surprise, surprise, the good vibes have filtered down to Czaka and on to Zaworski. Now it’s our turn to feel the heat.
“We’re sitting at almost four weeks,” Zaworski fumes, “and the only lead we are working came to us from the FBI. Folks, I need something. We need something. It’s time to earn your retirement program.”
Is that a threat?
We are back in the spacious and almost luxurious suite of the Midwest Regional office of the FBI, located on the forty-eighth floor of the State Building. I’ve never considered anything but local law enforcement for my career, but I could get used to the federal digs.
The meeting is scheduled to go ninety minutes, which is a relief. I might even get in a workout early this evening. Nothing too rigorous because my knee is aching. I did the high school stadium stair torture workout again. I’m not even thirty and I’m already complaining of aches and pains.
After Zaworski’s chewing out, Dr. Van Guten spends fifteen minutes proving that Sandra Reed and Candace Rucker’s murderer is the same killer who has struck in six other cities. This seems very important to her and Reynolds. Did any of us dispute or even question that? I guess they want us to be assured that once we find him, the information will help make sure that ten years and twenty appeals from now, someone from the state of Texas—he spent time in San Antonio and since they allow the death penalty, we’re guessing that’s where he gets tried—is going to stick a needle in one of his veins. But it’s the finding him part that we need help on. That’s where we need to spend our time. She doesn’t know what to make of him changing the timing between kills, but she wants us to know that it is still the same man based on 137 direct connections or parallels she and Operation Vigilance have discovered. She enlightens us that, mathematically, this is a 98.7 percent certainty. I nev
er did well in stats class—the chi tail formula just about killed me—but I’m convinced. I was convinced just by visiting the two crime scenes. This is a waste of time. She already looks tired at eleven in the morning. I think she’s spending too much time with Virgil. Maybe I should invite her out for dinner.
“Has everyone finished the notebooks?”
We didn’t have anything else to do the last forty-eight hours!
We all nod yes.
“Then it’s time to start over because, honestly, I’m not seeing any action from local law enforcement.”
No dinner invitation for her.
The detective teams report their current activities. Don speaks for us. I have no problem with that as long as I get to drive the car. And no question, he can deliver an elevator speech a lot better than I can.
I’m not quite sure what Tony Scalia’s role on the team is, but apparently he’s unofficially the liaison with city hall and more specifically, the mayor’s office. Did I mention that he and my dad once brought down a hit man hired to kill the mayor? That was about ten years ago, but Doyle is still alive and still the mayor, so he probably wanted someone on the case reporting directly to him that he trusts. Mom still has my dad’s medal—one that Big Tony undoubtedly has too—in one of those shadowbox frames in the living room.
No question, my dad’s status at CPD gave me a leg up on my first job and subsequent promotions. With the run-ins I’ve had with Czaka, I’m hoping his posthumous status still serves as major career protection. I met Mayor Doyle when Dad got his medal. I told him I was going to be a cop, too. He seemed to like that and made a big deal about me following in my dad’s footsteps. But he’s a politician, and politicians are good at saying what people want to hear. I wonder if he remembers me now. Czaka has studiously ignored me every time we’re in the same room.
Cream rises to the top and in our group of detectives, that seems to be Blackshear. I’m as competitive as anyone, but I’ve had my gold shield for less than two years. For all my lip, I’m actually very impressed with the team we have assembled, and Blackshear has been on top of everything. Blackshear and Reynolds spend twenty minutes of our meeting going over new strategies and new assignments. Despite feeling lost and helpless, this is my favorite part of the meeting. We may not know what to do, but at least we’re doing something.
Konkade goes last and reports on the number of volunteers from the force working the AA angle. No real leads so far—and no leaks to the press, thank God. He reminds us that this particular haystack is a lot smaller than the city of Chicago, so we aren’t to skip our appointments and we should do more if we have the time.
I put my notes into a small briefcase, stand up to stretch the small of my back, flex my knee, and look down at my phone, which is vibrating. Klarissa. I had forgotten Reynolds’ promise to check everyone’s phone log in the hour leading up to our approach of the second crime scene. My heart does a quick somersault. Then I relax. I figure nothing must have come from checking the phone logs or I would have heard something by now.
I follow Don toward the door. Only Zaworski and Reynolds are still in the room, talking quietly and heatedly at the far end of the table.
“Conner.”
I freeze halfway outside the conference room. That was Zaworski’s you’re-in-trouble-now voice. Which is the same as his “good morning” voice. I turn toward the two men with Don looking over my shoulder.
“Yes, sir?”
“Need you to stay a minute. Squires, this is going to take a little while so you may want to head back to the Second.”
So is it a minute or a while?
I don’t think Zaworski was making a suggestion to Don. This is an order. He moves over and pulls the blinds on the large windows that dominate one of the interior walls of our task force’s meeting place. Out in the hall, Don looks at me with arched eyebrows as if to ask, what’ve you done this time? He heads toward the door leading to the reception area and out to the bank of elevators and I reluctantly shut the door behind me.
• • •
“I know you called three times, Klarissa, but I couldn’t pick up. You, of all people, know that there are moments when answering isn’t an option.”
“So you weren’t just blowing me off again?”
“No! Believe me, I would have much preferred talking to you. I was busy getting my tail chewed.”
“Something to do with the Cutter Shark?”
“I don’t know where you guys in the media come up with names like that, but yeah, it had to do with the Cutter Shark—and you!”
“Me?”
“Yeah. Remember the morning following the second murder?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, we were trying to get over to the crime scene without any media interference. Someone placed a call to Mr. or Ms. So-and-So and the whole world showed up in our parking lot. So Reynolds, the FBI guy, ran a check on everybody’s phone log. Guess who talked to someone at WCI-TV an hour before we rolled out the door?”
“Who?”
“Me!”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Who were you talking to?”
“You, you big dummy. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, the morning you decided to wake me up at four.”
“It was closer to five but I didn’t know when I’d have a chance to call again and I needed to cancel our coffee date. I didn’t actually think you’d answer. I figured it would go into voice mail.”
“I remember the call, but it still doesn’t make sense. How could they know you called me? That was on my cell, not the office line.”
“You think the FBI doesn’t know who pays your cell phone bill?”
Klarissa pauses. “Well, that’s more than a little disturbing.”
“Don’t go naïve on me, Little Sis. I hope you’re kidding.”
“I feel like my privacy has been violated.”
Uh oh. What have I gotten myself into?
“Got something to hide?” I ask, hoping to move the conversation another direction.
“No,” she retorts immediately. “But that doesn’t mean the FBI has the right to access private communication of private citizens who are in no way suspected of a crime.”
“Even with a mass murderer on the loose?”
“Your call to me would in no way hinder capturing the Cutter Shark, even if you were scooping me on some juicy crime scene tidbits—which you haven’t done so far.”
She leaves that hanging in the air. She may be true blonde, but she is smart.
I look at my watch and interrupt before Klarissa gets on a roll. “Hey, Sis, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m getting hammered here due to no results in our investigation. What’d you call about? Because I’m going to have to hit it pretty fast.”
“We were supposed to get together last Thursday night for dinner, which you cancelled. That’s in addition to you cancelling coffee.”
“For a little detail called a crime scene.”
She ignores my protest and continues, “Despite my hurt feelings, I wanted to see if it might work out to grab a bite tonight.”
I hesitate, but Klarissa and I have always had trouble connecting, so I want to keep the little momentum we’ve gained the last week or two going. “What time you thinking?”
“I’m not back on air until 10:00 p.m. Anytime between now and nine.”
I look at my watch. It’s six. I’ve got another two hours of work. I was wanting to hit my health club on the way home. I wonder if I can get everything done and then meet.
“Hey, if it’s too much trouble,” she starts with hurt in her voice.
“No. No,” I interrupt quickly. “I’m just looking at what the boss wants done. Tell you what, I’ll grab a cab and meet you somewhere in the middle. I’ll come back and finish up. But brace yourself, because I may have to miss your special report tonight and I don’t want to cost you ratings.”
“We’re only half a point from being number one, so I can manage without you
for one night. Just don’t make it a habit,” she returns primly.
“I won’t—and it’s a date,” I answer with a laugh. “Where do you want to meet?”
“I like that place over in Wicker Park. Not the Italian restaurant. The one with the American-fusion cuisine.”
“American-fusion?”
“You’ll love it. Just tell the cab to get you to Feast at the five corner intersection.”
“See you in thirty minutes.”
• • •
“Leaving early?”
It’s Van Guten. She is wearing a mauve business suit with an ivory blouse. She usually wears her hair up, but it’s after six, so she’s let it down. Light brown with blonde lowlights. What do I know? I’ve never colored my hair. It may be blonde with brown highlights. I knew she was attractive, but wow. I wonder what it would be like to be as together and confident as she seems to be. But the slight challenge in her question agitates me.
I decide to pull a Don and let it roll. “Nah. Just going to grab dinner with my sister but I’ll be back,” I say over my shoulder.
“Oh, the one who works at a local TV station?”
Nothing indirect in her tone this time. This one is a straight-forward challenge. I want to punch her in the nose but I’m not even looking at anyone cross-eyed because I am one outburst away from Zaworski ordering me into an anger management program. I’ve heard that they cure you through sheer boredom and you never get it off your employment record.
“That’s the one,” I say.
“You didn’t happen to get a chance to talk with Reynolds and Zaworski this morning, did you?” she asks with arched eyebrows. “After our meeting?”
“Indeed I did. But I bet you already knew that.”
“Anything good come out of that?” she asks with raised eyebrows, ignoring my back-at-you challenge.
“I’m not sure you’d call it good, Doctor, but we did seem to clear up a potential misunderstanding.”