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

by M. K. Gilroy

  Instantly alert, he says, “Already? This early?”

  “Yeah. Not good.”

  “We meeting at the precinct again?”

  “No,” I answer. “We are getting back to protocol and heading directly to the crime scene. Konkade has been calling the troops to action and you didn’t pick up. So he asked if I could try to reach you and give you the location while he called the others. You got something to write on?”

  “Shoot,” he says.

  40

  I AM THE first one on the scene from the task force. Miracles do happen. As I stride down a long brick sidewalk toward the front door, I see Konkade and Zaworski drive by looking for a parking spot. Looking ahead, I recognize the officer working the front door. Chuck Gibson is a tough twenty-year veteran of CPD. I nod at him.

  Gibson nods back and answers my question before I can ask it: “A neighbor was out walking his dog. Hundred-pound-plus Lab basically dragged him here to the front steps. The man took the time to throw up and then called 911.” He pauses, grimacing. “I took a look upstairs. We’re past initial decay and into full-blown putrefaction—maybe even a little black putrefaction. You’re going to need a mask.”

  I grimace, too. With the body in that state, the victim has been dead more than a day and a half. Maybe two days. That means it has already swollen to as big as it’s going to get and the gasses are starting to leak out. I sigh. The death odors are going to be at their very worst. Even with hustling over here as quickly as we could, our team will not be on the Cutter Shark’s fiftieth crime scene—known fiftieth crime scene—within a twenty-four-hour postmortem interval. Stats for apprehending criminals after the first twenty-four hours are not good. Although with the Cutter Shark the stats are never good.

  My bright, beautiful Sunday afternoon has gotten dark in a hurry. With one finger I lightly touch the angry welt on my forehead from the Wiffle ball. I think I’m stalling.

  I walk partway back down the sidewalk, turn, and catch the grandeur of this stately three-story townhouse just north of the University of Chicago one more time. The other two places had been very nice, even high-end by my civil servant standards, but this one must have cost a fortune.

  Gibson hands me the mask as he signs me in at the checkpoint. I walk up the wide stairs of an impressive front stoop to the front door. I take four steps onto the porch and before reaching the egress, the odor is already overwhelming. I quickly pull the mask over my face. The 911 operator called the closest squad car to investigate but had a pretty strong inkling that the Cutter Shark was back in action. He called Zaworski one minute later, and he started a chain of calls to rally the troops.

  I put sterile cotton slippers over my shoes. I pull the mask away from my face and hit three drops of ammonia under my nose and flinch as the chemicals make a mad charge up my sinuses and into my brain. Reynolds has ordered an extra level of care at the scenes, so I also put on a cotton version of a shower cap, similar to what the food vendors wear at Sam’s Club. Nylon gloves complete my ensemble.

  I step inside to view a wide front-door-to-back-door hallway with a room on each corner of the first floor, and an ornate staircase dominating the middle of the house. All the floors are open around the staircase, with a widow’s perch constructed mostly of open windows on top of the third floor, so there is plenty of light in this weird mixture of classic and contemporary architecture. A second uniformed officer—I don’t recognize this one—stands in front of the staircase. He’s got to be miserable getting assigned inside.

  “Third floor, bedroom in the southwest corner,” he says with a nod upward.

  “Anyone else up there?”

  “Couple of tech guys from the ME. No detectives yet. But the tech guys will keep the scene just the way it is for you folks. The chief medical examiner is on his way in, too, so they’ll be running a tight ship.”

  With the horde of techies from the medical examiner’s office and about ten of us who are considered central to the task force, keeping the crime scene pristine for long is pretty much impossible. A perpetrator who bleeds out his victims doesn’t help things.

  Not only is there physical corruption at a crime scene, but there is a second kind of corruption; the spiritual state of the scene. I don’t know how to explain it, but it is basically the mood, the psychology, the ambience—whatever you want to call it—that gives you clues on the emotions of a particular crime. Was it passionate and spur of the moment? Was it slow, methodical . . . premeditated? Was it violent, noisy, and angry?

  Once you and twenty-five of your friends start tromping around a crime scene, it’s hard to regain that initial spiritual sense of a place. It takes a weird combination of focus and imagination. Dad said that Scalia would show up to a murder scene and just stand there for as long as an hour, never saying anything, just trying to see and feel possibilities of what might have happened.

  What did Big Tony do when he stood motionless in the middle of a room where someone’s life has been stolen from him or her? Did he see images? Did he pray? Did he hear voices?

  Dear God, help me see things I can’t see myself.

  I pray over and over as I tread up the steps. I don’t think I’ve ever prayed at a crime scene.

  Halfway up the last flight of stairs I can hear muffled voices from the room in the southwest corner. I look up and down the identical front-to-back hallway on the landing of the second floor. Everything is so still and muffled that the place feels like a museum—or a mausoleum—today.

  Even with the ammonia and mask, the stench assaults all my senses anew as I enter the room where GiGi Baker’s mutilated body is simultaneously decomposing and bloating grotesquely. Two techies look up at me. It is impossible to read their expressions behind their surgical masks.

  I walk to her nightstand. There’s a large ten-by-twelve picture of a happy couple. I pick it up carefully in my gloved hands and turn it over in my hands. On the back, someone—I assume GiGi—had drawn a heart and written “Alex loves GiGi” in the center of it. I hold the face of the picture out toward the lab guys.

  “Is this what the victim looked like?” I ask.

  “I’m guessing she’s about four or five years older now,” answers one who has “Bruce” stitched on his scrub top. “Pretty girl. What a shame.”

  “You’ve got that right,” I respond. “Wonder where Alex is.”

  “Who’s Alex?” Bruce asks. “The guy in the picture?”

  “Yep. And if he’s still alive, a certain suspect, though I doubt he’s the killer.”

  “Do you folks have any leads?” the other tech guy asks. No name on his chest. He sees me looking and says, “My name is Jerome. We met at the first murder.”

  “I’m Conner,” I respond. “And I can’t really discuss our leads at this point.”

  I carefully set the picture back in place. I force myself to look at GiGi and remember that Scalia, Big Tony, didn’t move for an hour or more. I’ve never stood still more than five minutes in my life. I am reminded of a Bible verse: “Watch and pray.” Don’t know where it’s at and what the context is, but I make a note to myself to look it up tonight.

  I hear loud thumps coming up the steps. The cavalry is about to arrive.

  Martinez is first through the door. He looks paler than I do today. He is wearing one of those silk or linen button-down shirts that are popular in tropical climates—even if he’s fashionably early by a month or two. He has on light khakis and a pair of sandals, which are covered by the gauze hospital booties. He has somehow worked a fedora, complete with felt band and a little feather, into his outfit. He takes off his hat, which I guess took the place of the gauze headwear, out of respect for the dead, and walks slowly to the decomposing body of GiGi, his eyes downcast. The others are close behind. “Santa madre de Dios, apiádate de nosotros” I hear Martinez say as he makes the sign of the cross.

  I’m not sure I’ve translated it right, but I catch the essence of it. God in heaven, help us catch this monster.


  • • •

  “GiGi Baker. Thirty-six years old. Five foot ten, 145 pounds. Widowed a year ago.”

  Ouch. Blackshear is reading a summary of what has been learned about the victim in the past couple hours. We are back at the precinct. We switch holding task force meetings between the Second and the FBI’s office over in the State Building. Once word hits the streets that there’s been another Cutter Shark murder, we can’t avoid the throngs of press, but keeping them guessing on location cuts the mob in half.

  “Deceased husband of the . . .” Blackshear hesitates over the wording and gives it another go. “The deceased husband of the deceased wife is Alex. He died of lymphoma and complications from treatments on May 5 of last year. No children.”

  “Some Cinco de Mayo,” Martinez says with a whistle. “Life’s not fair.”

  My first thought is, Thank God he wasn’t alive to face this. But then I realize that this probably wouldn’t have happened if she was a happily married woman. I’m glad there are no kids, but realize there might be wonderful brothers and sisters and parents left behind who would raise their kids with love. Maybe they didn’t want kids. Maybe they couldn’t have kids. Maybe they thought they had all the time in the world to have kids. I hold my breath for a sec, realizing that’s what I think.

  Blackshear continues, “She was a certified public accountant and had her own business that she ran from the first floor of her home. But she didn’t have a lot of active clients. Those she did have are big accounts. Real big. Not sure how much she has to work anyway. At first glance, her husband left her well cared for financially. No relatives from her or her deceased husband’s family in the area.”

  Sandra Reed. Candace Rucker. GiGi Baker. A simple pattern in Chicago and a pattern consistent with the stream of related national occurrences that Virgil spit out. Single. Living alone. Successful. Attractive enough. Or too attractive?

  Just another confirmation of what Virgil has told us. He doesn’t force his way into these homes. There are some signs of romance and all three women have been murdered in their bedrooms. The evidence says that they haven’t entered those bedrooms after a struggle. He doesn’t consummate sex with the victims, which has Van Guten in psychological-profiling heaven. The possibilities for our killer’s stunted development are endless.

  “So he’s never had sex with his victims,” I say, glancing at Van Guten across the table.

  “No,” Van Guten answers. “Any ideas on what that might mean?”

  “Impotent,” I guess.

  “Possible but not probable,” she answers. “He’s a healthy male. What else?”

  Undeterred, I try again and this time pick up a little steam: “He’s both fascinated by and terrified of women. He’s attracted to and then repulsed by them. He goes through the motions of romance and maybe even foreplay, but his heart isn’t in it. Deep down he hates women. His conquests are to show who has the real power. He is unable to love.”

  “Good. You read your notebooks. So how’d he get that way?” she asks, still holding me with her eyes.

  I look around before answering. Konkade is smoothing his nonexistent hair. Don is brushing equally imaginary lint from his shirt. This seems to be a habit.

  Reynolds is staring at the ceiling, broken tiles and all, with his pointer fingers forming a tent and his lips pursed. Our date—or professional powwow as I prefer to see it—was okay. Reynolds wanted to go to the Magnificent Mile, so we did. We ate at the Signature Room on the ninety-fifth floor of the Hancock Building . . . a location that’s pretty hard to write off on the FBI dime.

  “Family trauma,” I answer Van Guten. “The death or desertion of the father, leaving behind a mother with damaged emotions, unable to cope. Something happened and he was taken away from her—or vice versa. Really, just the kind of path that Virgil has already told us.”

  “Virgil?” Reynolds asks, his head snapping in my direction. “Who is Virgil?”

  Don rolls his eyes. Blackshear stifles a laugh. Martinez comes to my rescue.

  “Just a nickname we have for Operation Vigilance,” he says.

  I like Martinez better all the time. What a standup guy. He said “we” instead of “Kristen.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Van Guten asks.

  “We’ll know him when we find him,” I answer. “If we can find him.”

  Reynolds folds the meeting and we all head home, desperately weary.

  41

  I’M AT JAVASTAR before Klarissa on a bright Saturday morning. I catch her on the phone. “I’m here. What do you want me to order for you?”

  “Grande latte, skinny.”

  The skinny’s a surprise. Not. Maybe I’ll order her a slice of the extra fat cinnamon swirl coffee cake.

  “Go ahead and have them make mine,” she says. “I’m almost there.”

  “You got it.”

  I repeat “grande latte, skinny” to the barista. I’ve already ordered my extra shot grande Americano with one Splenda. I need every one of those four shots.

  “Just one Splenda in that?” he asks. “In which?” I ask.

  “The skinny latte.”

  “No, I just asked for a Splenda with my extra shot grande Americano.”

  “Got it. Name?”

  “Kristen.”

  “And on the latte?”

  “Kristen, too.”

  “That’s funny,” he beams. “You’re meeting someone with the same name!”

  There are so many things I’m tempted to say. I wonder if he can see wheels with gears spinning in my head.

  “No, I’m just waiting for my sister to come. If she’s not here yet, I’ll be picking up her latte for her.”

  “Do you want me to add her name, too, in case she gets here before the drinks are done?”

  I look around. Most of the seats are taken. But there’s no one else in line at the moment.

  “I think I can keep it straight for both of us,” I answer.

  “It’s no problem either way.”

  I promise, I was in a good mood, all things considered, when I got here. I love going out for a cup of coffee in the morning. A lot of times it is very uneventful and that’s what I love most about the whole experience. Because once I get the urge to jump the counter and cuff the barista, the coffee just doesn’t taste as good. Oh well.

  “Hey, Sis.”

  Klarissa saves me from charges of false imprisonment of a man with an ear stud the size of a silver dollar who’s currently wearing a green apron.

  “Name?” he asks her with more enthusiasm and delight than he ever showed to me.

  “Klarissa,” she beams.

  “Two s’s?” he asks.

  “You bet, and thanks for asking, Darrin with two r’s,” she says with a wink.

  Darrin carefully pens her name with a Sharpie, a look of rapture on his face. I think there’s a little lesson in this interaction I’m supposed to learn. I don’t want to acknowledge it so I give Klarissa a dirty look. She sticks her tongue out at me and laughs. She grabs the crook of my arm and pulls me toward the door.

  “Let’s talk outside,” she says.

  “I’d love to,” I say, still a little sullen. “You grab a table and I’ll grab the drinks.”

  The barista looks up as Klarissa exits the side door to stake a claim on a patio table. He looks after her wistfully. I’m guessing he wishes I had gone for the seating and Klarissa had stayed to pick up the drinks. I slowly drop a dollar in the tip box while clearing my throat. He doesn’t notice. He and the entire world would have broken into a song and dance from The Music Man if it had been Klarissa leaving a tip.

  I’ve got to start using people’s first names so I can Win Friends and Influence People.

  • • •

  “Mom wants to talk to you, too.”

  Klarissa hands me the phone. A delivery truck pulls by the patio spewing diesel fumes so I don’t hear what my mom says.

  “Come again?” I ask her.

  “I said
I am so proud of the way you two girls are getting along.”

  “I didn’t know we weren’t getting along before,” I say.

  “Well, you weren’t,” Mom answers. “And stop being difficult with your mother for a day.”

  Klarissa is nodding her head in agreement with Mom because she apparently knows exactly what she’s saying. I guess I would, too.

  “I’m not going to ask you about Dell today,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean the subject isn’t going to come up at lunch tomorrow. I want to talk to you about him. I’m worried about him. He was at church last week but turned down a lunch invite. He’s lonely and he’s a bit of a lost soul. Our family helps him.”

  “Mom,” I say with the sternest voice I’ll use with her. “Inviting him to lunch after I specifically said I didn’t want him there was highly inappropriate. That has to stop. If he said no it’s because I’ve told him we will not be together for any more Sunday lunches. You want to keep ignoring me on this, fine. Invite him for tomorrow. I will go somewhere else and have lunch. Your call.”

  Klarissa is watching with wide eyes.

  “Why do you have to be so combative, Kristen?”

  “No,” I answer with anger. “You aren’t putting this on me. I’m not the one being combative. This is me repeating for the twentieth time I am not interested in Dell—and you choosing to project what you want to happen on the situation. You and Dad raised us girls not to do ‘missionary dating.’ So I’m not going to date a guy—particularly a guy who is creeping me out—to somehow help him not feel lonely. You are welcome to help him find his lost soul. I’m not going to, and I’m not going to feel guilty about it.”

  “Okay, it’s your life. But Kristen, you’re a beautiful girl and I don’t want you to end up alone because you don’t take the time to find the right man.”

  “Mom, what has gotten into you? This is officially beyond ridiculous. Are you suggesting that Dell is my last hope for love?” I don’t want you to end up alone? Gag me!

  “I told you I wasn’t going to talk about him today and I’m not going to.”