by M. K. Gilroy
“Phases change. I can wait until later.”
The moment of truth is here. I just have to do it. Dad said that if you’re going to cut the tail off a monkey, do it all at once, not one inch at a time since every cut hurts the same.
“Dell, I don’t know how else to say it, other than to be totally direct. I don’t want to see you.”
He pauses and I hold my breath.
Then, “I understand. But you’re going through a lot right now. Things will settle down and maybe you’ll change your mind. I’m willing to wait.”
I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. This is ridiculous. “You are not hearing—or simply not accepting—that I’m pretty positive that when things settle down, I’m not going to settle down with you.”
“When you say ‘pretty positive’—”
I cut him off before he can embarrass both of us with the “I’ve got a chance” line from Dumb and Dumber. “Dell, that won’t help either of us. You hanging out, waiting for me to come around. Me knowing you’re there, treating you like a . . . like you shouldn’t be treated. We need to let this go.”
There is another palpable silence on the line. I feel like a creep for being so blunt, but you know what? This is Dell’s doing. He’s relentless. I silently count to ten and then speak.
“Dell, I’m sorry. It’s just not right.”
He says, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For finally being honest.”
Finally? Really? “I don’t think I’ve been dishonest with you prior to tonight.”
“No, you haven’t, but you’ve left enough wiggle room for me to keep hope alive.”
“There’s plenty of hope for you, Dell. Just not with me. Go call Carrie or someone else. Ask someone on a date tomorrow night. I’m being serious. Do it. Get moving.”
“Okay, I hear and obey,” he says with a painfully stilted laugh. “I just might make that call. But I’m not going to set up a date for tomorrow night. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Is he a stalker? Does he not know I’m a cop? “What are you talking about, Dell? What did I just get done saying?”
“Kendra’s birthday party is tomorrow night. I got invited by the princess herself. You didn’t forget did you?”
Klarissa told me an hour ago and I’ve already forgotten.
“I haven’t forgotten, Dell; I just wasn’t thinking about you being there.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
I’m stunned by this bizarre response. Maybe he really is a stalker. “Okay, Dell, here’s the thing. You really need to not be there. It’s my family, and if we weren’t broke up before in your mind, I think I just made it officially, inescapably clear.”
There’s another awkward pause before he answers with a question. “Is me getting un-invited to a little girl’s birthday party your decision to make?”
Are you kidding me? “If you want to press the issue, then yes, I’m making it my decision. If my family picks you over me, so be it. But we aren’t both going to be at that party tomorrow night.”
He hangs up on me. Good. And don’t leave me a message in an hour pretending nothing happened.
That just got uglier than I even imagined it could. And weirder. But I don’t have time to think about it now. I’ve got to go get Kendra a birthday present. Especially since Dell won’t be bringing one.
• • •
“What are you doing tonight?”
It’s Klarissa. Apparently, my closest friend in the whole world based on our recent food and telephone activity together.
I’m going out of my mind at a Walmart Supercenter—looking for a great present for a soon-to-be eight-year-old Snowflake—is what I’m doing.
“Just picking a few things up at the store on the way home,” is what I tell her.
“I was calling to re-remind you that you need to get Kendra a present tonight. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind. I’m impressed you didn’t forget.”
I’m not going to tell her that Dell had to remind me. I pause too long while trying to think of a witty comeback, so she continues. “Just a bit of advice, but you might want to get her something that’s non-sports-related. Just once.”
I look at the soccer ball and new shin guards in the cart. I roll my eyes and sigh. I’ve let my hair down and it falls across my face. I blow it off and run my fingers through it. I’m half a mile from the checkout line and the return trip to sporting goods is pretty close to the Wisconsin state line. I put the items on a display with electric toothbrushes. I spot a two-pack of replacement heads for my Braun and put the armored plastic package in my cart.
“You there?”
“Sorry, Klarissa. I’m just having trouble narrowing down what I want to get for Kendra.”
“I’ll bet,” she laughs. “Hey, I’m not going to keep you because I know that shopping takes every ounce of patience and concentration that you possess, but I just wanted to say thanks for going to dinner with me earlier this week and then eating with me again tonight. It was nice. I like getting along.”
“It was, Baby Sis, and I like getting along, too. If I didn’t tell you already, thanks for the sandwich. Just what the doctor ordered. Oh, and you promised to tell Mom that we haven’t been fighting. She won’t believe it coming from me.”
“Already done,” she says. “It made her happy.”
There’s a long pause.
“You okay, Klarissa?”
“Yeah, I think I am. Nothing like what you’re going through with this case, but still kind of a tough time for me right now. But things are already looking up, so it’s all good. Hey, I’ve got to review my notes one more time for my on-air segment. And you have to start over looking for a present.”
She laughs when I groan.
“I love you, Kristen.”
“I love you, too, Klarissa.”
When was the last time we said that? There’s an awkward silence. She breaks it.
“Go look for a present and I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
We hang up. I have the feeling there’s more going on than she told me our last few times together . . . and she told me a lot more than she ever has before. Warren broke up with her. That’s usually not a big deal. They’ve broken up a hundred times. But I guess this time it was more than one of their battles of the network stars. There’s someone else in Warren’s life and he admitted that she had been there for a while and that things were serious. He just hadn’t found the right time to tell Klarissa. Wimp. No wonder he never got any playing time in the NFL . . . Of course, who am I to talk with how I handled things with Dell? I just hope the love of his life’s name isn’t Carrie. I need her for Dell.
Klarissa’s a volatile mix of vulnerable and unconquerable displayed at dinner in the break room of my squad was no exception. She was tearful about the breakup, but when I asked if anything else led up to it, she locked things up tighter than the walls of Sing Sing.
Stop thinking and find Kendra a present!
I get hit by a jolt of genius. I remember that Don’s daughter, Veronika, is about the same age as Kendra. He and Vanessa treat her like a princess. I’m betting Vanessa can help me find a better present for Kendra than I can on my own. Don will find that amusing and give me a hard time . . . but who cares? Desperate times call for desperate measures. I leave the shopping cart where it is, buy the toothbrush heads at the self-serve checkout line, which is thankfully empty, and head for the exit with a bounce in my step. I hit Don’s home number on my cell.
• • •
Given my loitering at Walmart, I give up on Planet Fitness and head home. Three sets each of twenty push-ups—the boy kind—and a hundred crunches, followed by twenty-five double leg jumps and eagle jumps in quick succession—may have awakened my neighbor in the apartment below. But after three, three-minute planks and thirty bridges, I congratulate myself on a pretty good workout. I am breathing hard and sweating. I take a long hot shower, brush my teeth with a new electr
ic toothbrush head that I have to wrench from plastic packaging that requires an electric chainsaw to open, and plop into bed with a copy of People magazine. I’m not sure I care who is together or apart or having a baby or having a mental breakdown or finding inner peace in Hollywood, but it’s right there in front of me.
Klarissa had it in her tote and was reading it when she came over to my precinct for dinner. The cover story is about a nineteen-year-old actress who is in rehab for alcohol abuse. I want to read the story so maybe I can do a little better in my next AA appearances. I’m adding a second meeting tomorrow night after Kendra’s birthday party. Actually, it’s more like a dinner with presents. Kendra’s party, not the AA meeting.
The article’s actually not a whole lot of help. I’m not sure I can work the horrors of growing up as a child actress into my storyline.
I hit the lights at midnight, thinking I’ll be asleep in a minute or two. Don’t know what time I actually drift off. I can’t get the faces of Sandra Reed, Candace Rucker, and Dell out of my mind.
26
BLACKSHEAR, MARTINEZ, SCALIA, Don, and I are reviewing notes with Sergeant Konkade. There are now twelve detectives and another ten techies from forensics, data, and psych on the case. That’s twenty-seven full-timers from the CPD dedicated to this nightmare case alone, taking time away from the other work involved in keeping the peace in a city of almost three million people. We’re trying to make sure we have covered all the bases.
We have. We’ve talked to every neighbor, every relative, every work associate, every club associate, and every other kind of associate of the past ten years for both victims. We’ve canvassed every store owner in a three-mile radius of each crime scene. We’ve checked every phone log. We’ve read every report that Virgil has spit out on previous crime cities. We’ve read all forty-nine case reports at least a couple times each. We’ve talked to lead investigators from the other cities and from similar cases. We’ve listened to Reynolds and Van Guten hypothesize on the motivations and habits of our killer. We’re all attending AA meetings now. Zaworski feels like it was a mistake to just put women in the meetings at the outset.
Konkade heads up that part of the investigation. We’ve read the reams of reports this has generated. I think he has them memorized. We’ve run background checks on close to 300 AA attendees. None of them look good for this kind of crime, but we’ve gone deeper and probed into the backgrounds and current records on about forty of them anyway. Konkade has mobilized about twenty surveillance teams to pierce the anonymity of a good and innocent organization. None of us are comfortable with it, but none of us are willing to let the only viable lead go unattended. I don’t know the religious orientation of the individual team members, but I’m guessing anyone who prays is praying that the press doesn’t get hold of our infiltration of a nonprofit service organization. None of us are ready to face the potential legal repercussions.
Stern and taciturn, Konkade is showing signs of stress. He keeps running a hand over the top of his head to smooth his hair back. Problem is, he doesn’t have any hair.
Scalia is old-school. Just like Dad. He listens and rarely speaks. Just like Dad again. He’ll occasionally interject a question about a conversation we’ve had with someone who might have information that can help us understand what’s going on. Otherwise, he’s not volunteering what’s on his mind. He’s a legend on the force. Could it be that he has no ideas in mind either? That’s scary.
Reynolds pops his head in the room. Zaworski and Czaka are behind him.
“Sorry to interrupt. Can we steal Detective Conner from you for a few minutes?”
“We’re wrapping up anyway,” Blackshear answers. “She’s all yours.”
Blackshear is now our official spokesperson. I am predicting a promotion for him in the not-too-distant future. Maybe Martinez too. His English isn’t the best but his Spanish is a very desirable trait in a multicultural city. Because of guilt by association, I may not be helping Don’s cause.
I look at my watch and frown. It’s 11:30. I was planning to get Kendra’s present from Vanessa over lunch break. I’m hoping this goes fast.
“Is there a problem, Conner?” Czaka asks, noting my frown and hesitation.
“No, sir.”
We give each other an icy stare, both willing the other to speak. Zaworski smoothly positions himself between Czaka and me and nudges me down the hall before I can hang myself. I feel like a fifth-grader being taken to the principal’s office.
I look back at Czaka and Reynolds following us. We enter Zaworski’s office. Van Guten is already sitting comfortably in one of the wingback chairs, legs crossed, kicking a high-heeled shoe up and down slowly, reading a report. She nods at Czaka, Zaworski, and Reynolds but doesn’t look up at me. I guess what she’s reading is too important to acknowledge a lowly detective.
I told Don after the first meeting that I didn’t think she liked me. He scoffed and credited it to my female insecurity. Maybe we’re both right. We all just stand around and get busy doing nothing. Zaworski scrapes at an invisible stain on his tie with the fingernail of his right forefinger. Reynolds races through emails on his BlackBerry or iPhone or some concept phone that only the FBI gets to test. Czaka has opened a green file folder and is looking at a two-page report of some kind. He signs the second page, shuts the folder, hands it to Zaworski, and exits without a word.
Van Guten is in no hurry to finish her reading. Power move. She looks back a couple pages, purses her lips, snaps her folder shut, and looks directly at me.
“Detective Conner, after almost four weeks of scouring for clues, it appears that you are the only law enforcement officer from local, state, or national agencies who has suggested even one possible lead for our quarry.”
My mind races around trying to remember what it was that I came up with. Jonathan. I saw him in one meeting at one location. He hasn’t been back. He fits the age profile that Van Guten has proposed. Even his story of multiple jobs and high intelligence fits. Could I have scared him off? Tipped him off with my inability to come up with my own story? Is that why they’ve hauled me in?
“As I mentioned, there are things I like about this Jonathan that you met at your first AA meeting and things I don’t like. What intrigues me is that on three separate reports you expressed a question as to what he said about the timing of his return to Chicago.”
“I think that says more about my memory over a quick remark than it does about him.”
“I agree with you on that,” Van Guten says smugly. “It suggests to me that something about this person triggered a response in you that may be LCR.”
I look at her blankly.
“LCR. Latent Case Relevant,” she clarifies.
Okay. Everyone in the room is looking at me intently now. What the heck is going on?
“What I’d like to do, with your full consent of course, is put you under hypnosis, which just happens to be one of my areas of expertise.”
I’m not sure I’m comfortable with her knowing what’s on my conscious mind, never mind my subconscious; the thought of opening that part of myself to someone else is outright scary. I’m not sure even I want to know all that goes on in my head.
27
“SO ARE YOU going to do it?”
“I don’t know, Don.”
“I’m sure it’s safe or they wouldn’t ask you to do it.”
“I don’t know. I read a novel once where an FBI psychologist used hypnosis to murder victims.”
“Did he strangle them or what?”
“It was actually a she and she didn’t do it directly. She had them commit suicide.”
“Huh?”
“She’d call them and speak a key word prompt she planted in their minds when they were in a hypnotic state. So there were no clues.”
“Sounds like a tough conviction.”
“Wasn’t necessary. The good guy killed her.” “What kind of trash are you reading these days?”
“Who says I’m reading
trash? It was a great book. A little far-fetched, but believable.”
“Using hypnosis to murder people is plausible?”
“Well, the way it was written, sure. But getting back on topic, the thing that worries me most about Van Guten hypnotizing me is that . . . well, she doesn’t like me.”
“You say that about everybody.”
“Well, if you had even a twinge of suspicion that somebody didn’t like you, would you want them to control you when you were vulnerable?”
“No, guess I wouldn’t. But I do let you drive and I even go to the shooting range with you. Both are acts of courage in conditions of extreme vulnerability.”
Normally I’d punch Don in the shoulder. Hard. But my mind is racing. Don clears his throat and knocks some imaginary lint off his jacket sleeve while he ponders murder by hypnosis and my concerns about Van Guten.
“So . . . don’t do it,” he says.
“Right.”
“I thought she said it was your choice.”
“What do you think? Do I really have a choice?”
“Sure you do. You can say no—and go back to checking parking meters.”
“I think I’ve worked every rotten job that CPD has to offer, but I actually missed the meter maid routine.”
“I didn’t.”
I can’t help but laugh. Don? Working the parking detail? How’d I miss that in my year and change as his partner? “I’ll bet we’ve never had a better-dressed maid on the force.”
“Keep laughing,” he says.
“I’m going to let my meter run out just so I can see you roll around in your little meter cart.”
“Like I said, laugh it up.”
It’s Friday morning. I have to give Reynolds, Van Guten, and Zaworski an answer by ten. We’ve been on this case close to a month and desperation has seemingly set in. Van Guten wants to hypnotize me based on my report of Jonathan at my first AA meeting. So what if Jonathan is the killer? He hasn’t been back.
I’m all for science and any technique that might help us catch a sick killer. But you have to be realistic, too. Hypnosis feels about one step above the work of all the so-called psychics who show up when a predator like the Cutter Shark emerges. My dad was actually intrigued by the psychics—or the psychos, as he called them. He said that if you believe in the spiritual world, including angels and demons, you never know when one of the whack jobs—his phrase not mine—was going to have an insight due to a special connection with the spiritual world.
