Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) by M.K. Gilroy Read Free Book Online Page B

will listen, I’m not just muscle and good looks. I am a college graduate. Not summa or magna cum laude , but cum laude by the skin of my teeth, and that’s still honors in my book. I’m on the slowest boat possible toward a master’s degree in criminal justice. That means I sign up for three classes a year and usually drop one of them on the exact date that doesn’t count against me grade-wise, but where I don’t get much of my tuition money refunded. My mom gets after me for wasting money, but I’m on my own dime now and can be stupid with money any way I want.
    I’m not sure how all this psycho data is going to help us actually find him. But Reynolds does have one clue we can actually work on. In five of the six known cities our murderer has worked, multiple victims attended Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. This apparently confused the FBI a lot at first because the profiling doesn’t suggest someone who abuses alcohol or drugs. Someone suggested the obvious; he is pretending to have a drinking problem. Duh. All the pieces fell together.
    Of course, we’re putting a lot of confidence in a computer program called Project Vigilance. We’re assuming Virgil—I’ve given the program a name of my own—hasn’t missed other cities that would reflect a broader or emerging pattern of behavior. To be fair to good old Virgil, he’s only going to be as good as the input he has to work with.
    Reynolds is convinced that the connection of the forty-seven previous crime scenes is valid and that we are factor number seven. Why can’t he just say we’re the seventh city? Our perp has been hibernating for six months and is ready for serious business again.
    Sandra Reed and many of the victims didn’t attend AA, but twenty-nine did—more than half—so it’s a major priority in our investigation.
    Kendra, my niece, has switched spots with her mom and is at my side. She tugs on my sleeve. How long have I been the only one in the congregation standing? Kaylen looks over and stifles a laugh. Very funny, big sis. I guess long enough to be noticeable. Is Jimmy giving me a dirty look from the pulpit? I’ll remind him that pastors aren’t supposed to do that. I’m sure his message will be scintillating as he starts off with a joke that people find very funny, but my mind wanders away again to yesterday.
    • • •
    We agreed that the four detectives in the room would start attending a couple AA meetings a week. I don’t drink—okay, I’ve had a sip of Klarissa’s white wine once or twice—but I’ve heard enough sob stories from winos when I walked a downtown beat that I can fake it well enough. For that matter, there are enough cops with drinking problems—self-medicating with alcohol is one of our occupational hazards—that everyone on the force likely has firsthand experience with someone who has been in, or should be in, AA. We considered putting out the word that any department employees already attending AA meetings need to keep their eyes open. But we couldn’t quite figure out what they were to look for—or how to keep that kind of information from getting leaked to the press—so we scrapped the idea.
    There was nothing else but the crime scene. We dispersed quickly and all seven of us headed for separate cars to caravan over to a small apartment house in Washington Park. I didn’t even mess with the starter on my Miata. I rolled it back and popped the clutch.
    • • •
    Jimmy is winding things down up front. He asks a couple of questions about the current state of our soul when it comes to anger. That wakes me up. If I had paid attention I wouldn’t have been so surprised that he wasn’t talking about having too much bad anger—the kind I’ve been wrestling with—but rather not having enough godly anger. Holy anger. Righteous anger. My mom’s kind of anger. Things that make God mad are supposed to make us mad.
    I can embrace that. First of all, I already feel lousy enough about myself right now, and