Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (9 page)

“So did the trip to the Amish village put you over the edge or what?” Kaylen asks. Is there a retro obsession with horse and buggy culture? Is the energy crisis that bad? Did no one hear me say I’m on a murder case?

“As I tried to communicate earlier, we didn’t really take that drive at all.”

“Oh?” Klarissa’s eyebrows are arched upward. Should I tell her that will cause wrinkles? That would give her something more important to think about. Klarissa always complains that male newscasters are allowed to age but female newscasters have a short shelf life and spoil when the wrinkles start showing up.

Everyone is staring at me, including the kids. “What?” I ask. “I just said we didn’t go.”

“Did Dell have to go in to work?” Mom asks. “Because I know he’s really been looking forward to seeing it.”

“Actually, I got called into work, Mom. Right after Kendra’s soccer game. I have a job, too. And in case you weren’t listening before, I was assigned the case that’s on the front page of today’s paper.”

“You’re doing security when the president comes to town?” Mom asks.

“No. I’m not guarding the president, Mom. I’m working the murder of the young woman in Washington Park.”

“Yeah, I heard two of the producers talking back in the green room,” Klarissa says. “Her boyfriend shot her.”

“I didn’t catch that story,” Jimmy says. “That sounds awful.”

“No guns were involved, Klarissa.” That’s all I’m saying.

“Well, that’s good, I hate guns,” Mom says, oblivious to the gap in her logic. “Now tell me again why you didn’t take the drive with Dell? I think he’s a sweetheart.”

James saves me. He’s been playing with a straw and suddenly spews milk in a fine mist all over the table. I knew he liked my little show with the Diet Coke so he decided to try it himself. It’s my turn to crack up, trying to hide my laugh behind a hand. Kaylen is up in a flash and James’ exultant smile turns to a plaintive wail to let her know it was all a big misunderstanding. She marches him from the room, encouraging him on with a swat to his rear. Kendra knows she’s not supposed to smile, but does so anyway. Jimmy gives her a reproachful glance and she guiltily clamps her lips in a straight line. Smart girl. Mom looks at me from the corner of her eyes, without turning her head my way. I know she thinks I’m being a bad influence on the kids. I bite down on my lip, even though I feel like defending myself against a look. After an awkward moment, Jimmy gets the conversation rolling again. He’s good at that.

Thankfully the table has lost interest in Dell and our torpedoed Amish excursion. The Washington Park murder is forgotten, too. We talk about the Bulls and the Cubs and about the great spring weather, even though it has been all over the charts temperature-wise. For a few minutes we discuss why some people believe in predestination and why some don’t believe in eternal security, which somehow segues to a new discussion on whether Klarissa should consider interviewing for the news anchor job with the number two television station in the Baltimore market, which could be one step closer to a national position. News
reporter
in a market like Chicago is doing very good for a twenty-eight-year old; news
anchor
puts her at the top of the food chain.

I want to have a serious discussion with Jimmy. He may be a bit naïve and sheltered, but he is a smart guy. I want to ask him why people do what they do. Especially evil people who cut up innocent women. I also want to ask him if he thinks it is ever okay to tell a lie, like when it is for a good cause or just by omission or part of the job description as a detective. I’m not sure Jimmy knows what to make of me, so he rarely engages and listens like he does with others. So once the conversation transitions to Klarissa’s career and then back around for another go at the weather, I know I’m not going to get his attention and my mind drifts away. Maybe I should make an appointment to talk to him in his office. I do listen carefully to a joke Kendra tells me in a loud whisper when she loses interest in big people talk, too.

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Canoe.”

“Canoe who?”

“Canoe come out and play?”

I laugh enthusiastically and interrupt something Jimmy was saying for just a second, but he soldiers on. I do fear Kendra has inherited the same gene I got for joke telling. Hopefully she’ll have a better left foot in soccer than I ever did.

Kaylen and James return—and I’m glad my nephew looks no worse for the wear—as Jimmy tells everyone about Kendra’s three goals. She beams. I beam. James is ready for some attention and insists that he plays soccer, too.

When no one pays attention he yells, “I scored a thousand,” tired of his sister hogging the limelight.

I know how he feels about the limelight. When you have two beautiful sisters that have legs and smiles to stop traffic at the Indianapolis Brickyard on race day, you feel a little ignored sometimes. Klarissa is a princess’s princess. And Kaylen is married to Jimmy King—Dad used to call him King James—so that makes her a queen. I guess I’m the court jester. But today I want to stay in the shadows.

I look around at my yammering clamoring family. We’ve had a tough couple of years and took another punch in the gut in the past month. There’s an empty space at the table and maybe in each of our hearts. Not sure any of us feel whole right now. But we’re strong enough to laugh together—and fight together. And maybe that’s as good as it ever gets.

My mind moves to Sandra Reed and the family she left behind—a mom and dad in Columbus, Ohio, a brother in San Clemente, California, and a sister out in Lake County. Only one thing might help them a little over time . . . to know the monster who murdered their loved one is off the streets.

God, help us . . . help
me tell them we caught her killer.

13

“SO YOU’RE TELLING me you did not push the back of the suspect’s head toward the ground with force sufficient enough to cause multiple abrasions and bruising to his facial area?” “No, sir, that’s not what I said.”

It’s Monday morning and I wasn’t in the greatest mood to start with. I’m not a Monday morning groaner as a rule. I don’t go out partying over the weekend as a few of my colleagues are wont to do—and it shows on their faces on Monday mornings. I wasn’t in a sour mood because I don’t like my job. In fact, I love my job.

This particular Monday morning just started wrong. First of all, after not enough sleep on Saturday night and church and Sunday dinner with my family, I spent the rest of Sunday afternoon and early evening in the situation room back at the precinct. Ever since the advent of CNN and around-the-clock cable news, plus a new generation of cop shows, you have to name things with a little more flair. It’s not good enough to go to a conference room. It’s got be something dramatic, as in, a
situation
room.

I got home at eight, ready to do a light workout with my home exercise equipment, which consists of a floor, gravity, and the weight of my body. Then I was going to relax with my favorite TV show and get to bed early. But I procrastinated and by the time I was poised to do a set of one-legged squats, Dell stopped by to talk things out. What things? It was quarter to nine. He knows that at quarter to nine there are only fifteen minutes until the only show I watch every week comes on. I am the only person in America who doesn’t know how to schedule a show on TiVo for the whole season and I’m not sure I pushed the record button for this week, so I probably won’t get to see it later. He also knows I need some alone time after a typical Sunday with my family. I really needed some alone time last night.

I knew from his loud knocking and the way he entered my apartment that he was mad and going to vent. I’d never seen him mad before. And vent he did. Hey, I never pledged undying love and devotion. I never even gave a hint of reciprocity. I never let the guy steal a full hug or kiss—though that hadn’t seemed to be on his agenda. I didn’t know if it was refreshing or strange. I’m used to hand-to-hand combat to keep the wolves at bay. Is that why I’ve let this charade continue—because he’s been so easy to control? And even if I did miss a Saturday drive in the country, for obvious good reasons—and admittedly, my effort to get a hold of him and explain was late—it wasn’t me who brought a revenge date to church. Why am I the bad one?

After I had heard enough of the pain and suffering he’s experienced at my hands and a little bit of analysis on my inability to bond, I came back with both guns blazing. I explained clearly that any pain and suffering he was feeling was self-induced. I let him know I liked him, but reiterated that I did not return the level of feelings he professes toward me. I let him know we had covered this territory before. And I let him know that I thought his church date was cute and that perhaps he needed to devote his considerable attentions to her.

“And we’re not going out anymore.”

That stopped him in his tracks. His response was interesting: “You know it’s only you, babe. I was hurt and just wanted to get your attention. It was stupid to bring Carrie to church. Will you ever be able to forgive me?”

I thought I was going to puke. What would it take for him to get it? I pushed him out the door at eleven. He wanted a kiss. I obviously didn’t. When I yanked my head back, he got the message and stomped down the stairs.

I was so tired I didn’t brush my teeth or hang up my clothes. I just fell in bed and squirmed under the covers. When I woke seven hours later, it felt like my teeth had a film to rival barnacles on the underside of a cruise ship. When I stumbled to the bathroom and took a look at myself in the mirror, it was downright frightening. That’s how I greeted Monday morning after my alarm went off like a tornado warning at six.

It didn’t help that when I arrived at my cube, with just fifteen minutes to spare before my Internal Affairs interview—make that interrogation—there was a large Post-it note on the center of my computer screen with a message written in all caps:

DEAR DETECTIVE CONNER—HAVEN’T
MEANT TO LEAVE YOU OUT! JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW THAT YOU ARE ALWAYS WELCOME TO BE A
PART OF AARP! (ANGRY
AND RAGING POLICEPERSONS) WE
FEEL YOU’VE GOT LOTS
OF PROMISE. YOU’RE EVEN BEING CONSIDERED FOR A MENTORING ROLE.
DETAILS TO COME!

That was bizarre. Who would write that? I looked around a couple times and then crumpled it up and threw it away. I wasn’t going to give someone the satisfaction of seeing me get angry. For once.

• • •

I am in an interview room usually reserved for suspects. I guess that makes me a suspect. Tom Gray of Internal Affairs and I have been sparring in a twelve-by-ten room, sitting across a six-foot folding table centered in front of a large mirror—which anyone who’s ever seen a cop show knows is one-way glass—for ninety minutes now.

If anyone from my detective squad—and the curiosity, and yes, embarrassment is killing me—has been watching, they’ve got to be close to nodding off. I’m not a cooperative suspect. Just as I was leaving my cubicle, Zaworski and Konkade stopped me and in hushed tones advised me to say as little as possible. That had me wondering if I should be worried. I’m still asking myself the same question at a time when the interview should have long been over.

After introducing himself just as Tom Gray, and giving no rank, which is atypical for an officer of the peace, he opened a thick manila file and leafed through it for almost ten minutes in complete silence. I knew he was trying to create an awkward silence where I would blurt out a confession of premeditated and unmitigated brutality. Exactly what I would do if I were in his shoes.

I wanted to say,
Hey, Tom, thanks for
coming prepared and respecting my time.
Instead I forced myself to keep quiet. I guess that’s why the boys stopped by and told me to keep it zipped—they knew it would be the hardest part for me.

I think we’re coming to the end—maybe wishful thinking—of a pretty unproductive, ninety-minute interview, and I make myself refocus.

“I don’t understand,” he says. “You said that in cuffing the alleged perp, you pushed him to the ground while your partner covered you with a drawn weapon. If the threat was nullified, why push?”

“Tom, the punk may be an alleged smash-and-stash perp to you, from the comfort of your cushy IA office, but the knife he sliced me with was very real. Would you like to see my scar?”

“You know the legal rules, Detective Conner; we say ‘alleged’ until a perpetrator is convicted. Don’t get off point.”

“The bruise on my chin from a swing he took at me was pretty real too,” I say, defiant and undeterred. “You’ve been studying the report like it’s tomorrow’s final chemistry exam, so I think you know a lethal weapon, brandished at a police officer by an alleged smash- and-stash perpetrator, was recovered, bagged, and sent in as evidence. And the punk’s prints were positively identified. How many times do I have to repeat that?”

“I understand exactly what you’re saying about the knife, Detective Conner,” he says as if speaking to a child who is a slow learner. “But I don’t understand the contradiction in your testimony.”