Read Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) for Free Online

help with something that really matters. Someone has committed forty-eight murders and is planning more. How can that be?
    “We haven’t seen our friend for almost seven months, so we were afraid he had changed his modus operandi and disappeared from PV’s ability to detect patterns. Honestly, I was starting to go a little crazy with the thought that I wouldn’t get another shot at him. But last night tells us—or at least strongly suggests—he’s back.”
    Reynolds lays out details of forty-seven murders in six cities and why last night’s murder in my city looks like a fresh start and factor number seven.
    “This guy sounds smart,” Blackshear interrupts. “He’s going to be tough to catch. Have you all gotten close to him yet?”
    “Catching him is going to be tough,” Reynolds responds. “He is smart. And we haven’t gotten close yet. But he’s a sociopath. And sociopaths are delusional—especially about themselves. So they leave clues.”
    “But you said this one doesn’t,” Don says.
    “I said he hasn’t, but believe me, he will. Sociopaths love narratives. As long as they are the star of the story, of course. They start believing they can dictate life by force of will. We all know the Burns’ line, ‘the best-laid schemes of mice and men often go awry.’ Even though everyone in this room gets frustrated when plans go awry, most of us know that’s part of life. Sociopaths are not quite as understanding and get a lot more frustrated. That’s when they make mistakes. I’ll admit this guy is on one incredible roll. But not every break is going to go his way.”
    Handsome and literate. He goes on to tell us what they guess they know about the perpetrator’s childhood and adolescence, about what makes him tick.
    Forty-seven murders in six previous cities. Murder number forty-eight has happened in my precinct—or at least right next to it. Holy cow. He’s back.
    I hate when bad people go free. My younger sister, Klarissa—already a star news reporter on a local TV station—says I get too uptight and worry about things I can’t control. Dad would have said that makes me a good cop. And now I’m on the primary investigative squad tracking a serial killer. That means I do have some control.
    If I can keep my temper under control—and Internal Affairs doesn’t bust my chops.

8
    I TURN THE ignition on my Miata; it starts right up. That’s a good thing because it’s been acting real funny for the past couple of months. I keep meaning to get it in the shop tomorrow, but tomorrow becomes today. I end up looking for parking spaces located on inclines, so if it won’t start, I roll it backward and pop the clutch in reverse. I’m glad I couldn’t afford an automatic transmission when I bought the thing slightly used. There would’ve been no clutch to pop. And it would’ve been a lot more expensive to repair. My biggest problem is finding inclines. Chicago is flat as a a pancake.
    Don looked up my car online and said a salvaged starter will cost about 200 bucks. I could actually afford the starter if that was the total bill. But that doesn’t cover labor, which will be the same amount. I almost had enough put aside when I decided to switch from a standard-issue Glock service handgun to a Beretta. For 900 bucks, I better shoot straighter.
    I look at the cracked leather passenger seat and think about how hot this thing used to look. No major body damage but a small dent in the back left corner. There’s a little rust there now. Something else I don’t have money to fix.
    I look down at my cell, which I left in the front passenger seat. Six missed calls. Great. Only one person that can be. I’ve been at the crime scene for four hours, still decked out in my torn, paint-stained sweatshirt. I realize now that I forgot to call Dell, my sort-of boy-friend, to let him know something had come up. He’s been after me to drive out of town about a hundred and fifty miles to see a historic Amish