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

by M. K. Gilroy

  I don’t know how Jerome and Bruce do it. Our two techies are working murder number five for us. The Cutter is definitely in the acceleration mode that Van Guten anticipated. They are putting items into clear bags and then writing notes on the bags with Sharpies. The medical examiner is leaving as I arrive. Once we give the green light, the body will go into a big black bag, which will be zipped up and taken to the morgue so the body can be seriously studied.

  Grace Mills. Grace. Pretty name. Her background is a little different than the others. She doesn’t have a professional job—she was a waitress at a cocktail lounge about ten minutes from her 900-square-foot house—and obviously, her place isn’t nearly as nice inside or out as what the others lived in. Not the same zip code—literally.

  I cover all the rooms in a slow and methodical walk-through. When I get to her bedroom, I just stand at the door and watch the workers preparing to move her from the blood-soaked bed, trying to imagine the place with just her and him. I breathe slowly. I say a prayer. I have an impression. Of what? I think I can feel some of his emotions. Elation. Frustration. Disappointment. Fear?

  I try to hold on to a soft blurred image in my mind, but then it’s gone.

  • • •

  Don rides with me from the crime scene.

  “I know you all are convinced that Cutter Shark attacked me,” I say, “but you’re ignoring one simple fact. If he attacked me I wouldn’t be here. According to Virgil, our killer hasn’t let anyone go free yet. Once you swim in his ocean, you don’t make it to shore.”

  “You might be right,” Don says, “no matter how contrived your word picture. But Van Guten likes Woods for your attack and for being the Shark.”

  I shake my head. Dell just didn’t feel right for either role.

  “This is not the MO of the Cutter Shark. He hasn’t snuck up on people in parking lots. He has charmed his way into their bedrooms. He hasn’t attacked them and drug them in there by the hair.”

  “Maybe Dell thought he was going to charm you and when it didn’t work out, he attacked you.”

  I give that serious thought. “Even if you’re right, I’ll ask again: why am I still alive then?”

  “That’s a great question, KC. Maybe he has real feelings for you in his twisted, perverted mind. He is crazy, you know.”

  “Did you just call me KC?”

  “I did. My bad. But bottom line, the shrink thinks your ex is our man.”

  “Bottom line, she’s wrong. It’s not Dell. And Dell is not my ex.”

  There is no way he could punch like that.

  • • •

  We met back at the State Building at 7:00 p.m. Fifteen of us sat around a long conference table, like a big family settling down for a dinner of information. Willingham was at the head of the table, with Zaworski right next to him. Reynolds entered a few minutes late, arriving by helicopter like some serious hotshot. He sat at Willing-ham’s left hand. I look at them. The holy trinity of the Cutter Shark murder investigation.

  Van Guten had been sitting in the seat next to Willingham when the meeting started, but left the room to answer a phone call. When she got back in, Reynolds had taken her chair. She gave him a decidedly dirty look and appeared less than thrilled to get stuck down at the other end of the table next to me. I glance at her several times out of the corner of my eye. How can anyone have such perfect fingernails? I can’t stop stealing looks at them—honestly, I don’t think they’re fake. Her hair is perfect—she could walk away from this place and into any restaurant in the city fifteen minutes later—without stopping in the powder room—and fit right in. I’ve never wanted to win a beauty contest but I feel just a little self-conscious looking at my short, clipped nails. No polish. Maybe I’ll get a manicure tomorrow. And maybe I’ll join the circus. Just as likely.

  We’d been going at it hard for ninety minutes. We spent the first thirty minutes on Dell. I got my phone back and was given explicit instructions to pick the thing up the second a private number vibrated, no matter what time of day or night.

  Reynolds confirmed that Dell’s home has been linked to Cutter Shark activity. There’s no sign of him being there recently and even though they’ve been tossing the place for almost twenty-four hours, they’ve found no physical evidence explicitly tying him to any of the crimes. No way is Dell a serial killer. I did not date a serial killer. But the thought crosses my mind that it would delight a sicko like the Cutter Shark to play with a detective. But it’s not Dell. No way.

  I feel incredibly sad for him. And I’m very bothered by the fact that I could hang around with someone off and on for most of six months and never have a clue that there was something terribly wrong with him. He’s not the killer. But he did tell me he was in some kind of trouble. Did I sense something? Anything? Besides a die-hard pursuit? A lot of guys are weird when it comes to dating. And he’s not the killer. Or am I just a lousy, blind, deaf detective?

  Right before we transitioned to the postmortem of the Grace Mills crime scene, my cell buzzed and sure enough, it was a private number. Everyone in the room froze and my heart was racing as I hit the green answer button on my Nokia. It was my credit card company wanting to know if I wanted to try their identity theft protection plan free for a month with no obligation to buy. I thought it might be funny to ask a few questions about costs and benefits with everyone listening in, but Don’s audible sighs and angst-ridden expression were helpful deterrents. Don, I wasn’t going to fool around. I’m not that stupid.

  Willingham looked irritated. Not my fault, I wanted to say to him. Any thought of actually voicing such sentiment and defending myself was cut off by Zaworski’s stern gaze. Has he been talking to Don? Reynolds was trying to make eye contact with me the whole time. Not going to happen, Major.

  I’ve kept my mouth shut since explaining for the seventh time everything I know about Dell’s call. How many times can you say you were asleep, he called, you didn’t pick up, he left a message, and you listened to the message while driving over to a murder site? The same message they heard from a guy they think is the killer, but who isn’t the killer.

  A number of theories were espoused as to why the Cutter Shark picked Grace Mills. She wasn’t really that less attractive than the other women and yes, she met the qualification of being single, but she definitely stood apart from the rest in her occupation and residence. She didn’t show signs of illegal drug abuse but she definitely liked her alcohol. Another AA target? We don’t know yet. There were empty beer and whiskey bottles everywhere. Pabst Blue Ribbon and Jim Beam were her poisons of choice. There were enough cases of PBR stacked on one side of her garage that she could weather a couple years of famine, pestilence, and nuclear fallout without having to drive to the corner convenience store for a six-pack. My guess was that the guy who owns the bar she works at, downstairs for questioning even as we spoke, was going to have a lot less beer missing from his inventory in the years ahead.

  Don started things off by asking if Grace’s murderer was even the Cutter Shark—or maybe a copycat killer instead. One of the FBI forensics experts got Bruce on the speakerphone and after about ten minutes of question and answer, the group was reasonably certain that this was the work of the one and only Cutter Shark.

  Konkade chalked up the perpetrator going for “a drunk slob”—his phrase, not mine—rather than a sophisticated lady, to the law of averages. If you go out with enough people, some of them are going to look better, have better habits, and generally be better off than others. Grace just happened to be on the very right edge of the murderer’s bell curve as applied to victim selection.

  That didn’t really fuel a lot of discussion. Reynolds was flipping through notebooks the whole time to see if there was precedence. He was sure he remembered another woman who might be a little like Grace. He found the page he was looking for, and it ended up that one of the Cutter Shark victims in Charleston, South Carolina, was almost as messy as Grace. But then the comparison broke down. She was actually a very suc
cessful artist who kept her studio in her home, which was on the National Register of Historic Places and worth a couple million dollars. She was also beautiful and from the pictures had good personal hygiene. She just kept a messy house.

  Konkade argued that this just might prove his point; over time not only would the killer find women who were more or less messy, but he would also find some women who were richer and some women who were poorer. He still didn’t have anyone convinced. He looked deflated as he smoothed the hair on his bald dome.

  Van Guten took over the conversation and discussed the Cutter Shark as a man in and out of a killing frenzy, not quite on top of his game, showing cracks in his veneer, and making mistakes. The only problem, Willingham pointed out, was that the guy really hadn’t made any mistakes; at least none were immediately identifiable at his latest killing ground. He still hadn’t left the proverbial calling card with his current address. Van Guten didn’t like this response. I watched her swinging the toe of her right foot, higher and higher over her left-crossed leg.

  The conversation ground to a halt and it looked like things were done for a Saturday night. I started organizing my papers into a neat pile.

  “Conner, you haven’t said much. Why do you think he went after Grace?”

  Willingham was looking at me intently. I snapped out of my reverie.

  “Why Grace?” I asked rhetorically. “Why not another accountant or attorney or human resources director or media personality or studio artist? Why someone in a filthy little hovel when every other person had a ritzy place that was clean as a whistle?”

  I wondered where that phrase came from.

  “I think his plans got messed up at the last minute,” I said. “And he had to improvise. I think Grace was Plan B. Maybe even Plan C.”

  There was a silence in the room. Every eye was focused on me. I like creating awkward pauses for others, but hate them for myself. I wanted to explain my thought further or apologize for wasting everyone’s time with such a stupid idea or let the group know that I had to get home and go to bed because I didn’t feel well. Using all my willpower, I held my tongue and said nothing.

  “Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding . . . I think we’ve got a winner,” Willingham said, breaking the silence.

  A winner? Right. They think I dated a serial killer.

  He dismissed us and set another meeting for ten the next morning. I looked at my watch. If I could climb in bed in an hour, I thought, I could cop a whole twelve hours of recovery sleep. I needed every second of it. I walked out of the conference room. My bodyguards were drinking coffee and looking at magazines in the reception area. I suddenly loved my bodyguards because they meant I could leave my car in the parking garage and get a ride home from them and then a ride back over here in the morning. I headed their way.

  “Nice job, hot shot,” Martinez said as he held the door for me. “I like that Plan C theory you came up with. How’d you come up with it that fast?”

  “I’ve learned from the best,” I answered him.

  “And that would be me?” Don said, walking into the conversation.

  Konkade, Blackshear, Big Tony, Zaworski, and Van Guten over-heard and joined the circle to see how this would turn out. Reynolds was still back with Director Willingham.

  “Tell them,” I said to Tony.

  “That’s easy,” he said to an interested audience. “Her daddy.”

  Good answer. But my daddy would have known he was dealing with a serial killer—though Dell is not the serial killer. We headed our separate ways. One of these days I have to ask Scalia about his AA story and whether he really broke my dad’s jaw.

  62

  I CALL MY mom from the back of the squad car on my way home. I like being chauffeured; it feels different than when Don drives and I get shotgun. Mom lets me know she went back to her house for a couple hours to pack some things and feed the cat and is already back at my place. I tell her again that she doesn’t have to spend the night, reminding her Kaylen said she’d stay, which makes her indignant and hurt. I give in.

  Kaylen is already back at the apartment, too. Mom tells me they’ve made my favorite chicken salad for me. Mom made me a quick ham and cheese sandwich earlier, but I suddenly realize I am starving and chicken salad with golden raisins, fresh dill, walnuts, grapes, celery, and a little mayonnaise sounds wonderful. I ask about Jimmy and the kids and Kaylen gets on the phone to tell me that it’s good for him to be on his own. All he has to do is finish a sermon and get James and Kendra to bed. I wonder how long it takes to write a sermon and practice it. I know how long it takes to get those two kids into bed. Kaylen tells me she isn’t planning to go to church in the morning, but is going to stay at my place and make sure I don’t go anywhere for the rest of the weekend, even if she and Mom have to form a human barricade in front of my door. I decide not to tell her just yet that I’ll be back in the office at ten. I wish I had one of those rope ladders so I could make an easy escape in the morning.

  As far as Kaylen asserting that she is going to miss church, I think I’m going to pass out from shock. I’m not sure she’s ever missed church. When we were little kids, our church had a perfect attendance award system. You got a medallion for your first year with no Sunday misses, and then you got a gold bar that hung on tiny hooks from the medallion for subsequent years. She looked like a five-star general when she wore hers. I never made buck private. I didn’t dislike going to church; I just came up with excuses for missing from time to time. I know when we were teens my sisters—and my mom—resented that Dad took me to my weekend soccer tournaments in St. Louis or Champaigne-Urbana or Indianapolis or Springfield—and Mom took them to Sunday school. Nobody said they couldn’t try out for a travel soccer team.

  My cell beeps twice while we talk. I pull the phone from my ear and look each time to see if it is a private number that will end up going live with me and about a hundred FBI agents at the same time. It is Reynolds, both times. I’m not taking his calls. But if I do, it will be to let him make a fool of himself within earshot of his colleagues.

  My cell starts beeping again. It’s Don. I tell Kaylen I have to take it and that I’ll see her in a few minutes.

  “What’s up, Don?”

  “Just talked to Vanessa. Need a roommate tonight? She’s already packed if you need her. She says I can get the kids ready for church all by myself tomorrow.”

  “I would say no, but the thought of you being a mommy and getting those angels of yours ready by yourself makes me want to reconsider my first response.”

  “Ha ha. KC, consider it done. She’ll be there in less than an hour.”

  “Don, tell her to sit tight. My mom and Kaylen already have dibs on the beds in my guest room. I’m calling Klarissa next and if she comes over, she’ll get half my bed. That would leave the couch for Vanessa. I wouldn’t wish my couch on an enemy.”

  “She’s made dinner to bring over,” he says. “Wouldn’t have to spend the night.”

  “Tell her to get moving now,” I say without hesitation, laughing.

  “And tell her to bring her pajamas and a sleeping bag, just in case.”

  “Done.”

  “And Don?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stop calling me KC.”

  “Got it.”

  I love Kaylen’s chicken salad. But Vanessa is a gourmet and as I’ve noted, I’ve taken a liking to fine dining. I hold down the number four and Klarissa’s cell starts chirping Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” Her voice message comes up: “You’ve reached Klarissa Conner, reporter at WCI-TV, Chicago’s number one source for news. I can’t come to the phone right now, but your call is important to me. Please leave your name, a detailed message, and the time you called. I will get back to you as soon as I can.”

  “Hey, Klarissa, this is Kristen. Call when you get this. Better yet, just come over. It’s slumber party night.”

  She wasn’t very talkative at my apartment earlier today, which now feels like a couple of weeks ago. She’s
probably jealous of the attention I’m getting from Mom and Kaylen. She probably feels left out and she for sure feels I’m not listening to her. Okay, cool it, I tell myself. You two have been getting along fine until that last blowup. Better than fine. Better than ever. Even if you are a little mad at her, let things go.

  Dear God, help me get along with my sister.

  63

  The ChiTownVlogger

  June 6, 8:40pm

  AXL WAILED, “WE take it day by day; if you want it you’re gonna bleed, but it’s the price you pay . . .”

  GUESS WHO HAS BEEN OUT ON THE TOWN? scrolled across the screen. Then, THE CUTTER SHARK HAS BEEN A BAD BOY . . . AGAIN flashed over and over during the Guns N’ Roses intro.

  “Your ChiTownVlogger hears that we are America’s number one city in the heart of the FBI. In fact, the national headquarters has set up shop and has just sent another ten agents to their posh new digs on the forty-eighth floor of the State Building. They are being led by Deputy Director Robert Willingham. And wherever he shows up, the bad guys tremble. He’s not only smart but he also brings his impeccable style and taste—at a significant cost to taxpayers. I hear he brought in a corporate designer to decorate and furnish temporary offices and is paying twice the going rate for downtown office space. The perks of being a legend are excellent, all the way down to the Blue Mountain coffee he has flown in at the beginning of every week.

  “I happen to know the designer’s total bill. Get this: 150,000 bucks. For a temporary office space. That didn’t include the actual furniture. I don’t even want to guess what Willingham’s expense report is costing us. I don’t think he does the dollar menu at McDonald’s. I hope they catch the Cutter Shark before our government goes bankrupt. Too late. I think Bush and Obama already tag-teamed to make that happen.

  “Sadly, it appears that Citizen Willingham is much like Citizen Doyle. Both like to sit on their tail ends all day. I guess that’s one reason they both feel free to spend so much of our hard-earned dollars making themselves feel very comfortable. Even with all that to-do, there are no new leads on the Cutter Shark case. Where is J. Edgar Hoover when you need him?