The Cruelest Cut by Rick Reed Page A

somehow?”
    Liddell stopped reading and looked at him. “Connected how?”
    â€œWell, why did the killer pick these particular people? What did they have in common?”
    â€œWe’ve been through this, buddy. They didn’t have anything in common except dying a horrible death.”
    â€œI knew Timmy Ryan,” Jack said. “And Anne Lewis’s name sounds familiar. She was a psychiatrist or psychologist, right?”
    Liddell leaned back, and his chair creaked loudly with his weight. “But she wasn’t your psychiatrist, was she?”
    â€œNo,” Jack said, and wondered if his partner could ever be serious. “Wait a minute. Where’s that file?” He rummaged around on his desk and found the case file on Anne Lewis and her husband. Flipping through some of the reports, he finally stopped and pulled a page out.
    â€œHere it is,” he said, holding up the paper. “Jansen worked on this case,” he said, and Liddell moaned and covered his face with both hands. “Let me finish. Jansen said in the one and only supplement he wrote that besides her private practice, Anne Lewis worked as a court-appointed psychiatrist.”
    Liddell caught his meaning. “And what if she knew the killer?” he finished Jack’s thought. Then he looked at the pile of paper on his desk. “That means more files, Jack. We’ll need someone to put all this stuff into a database so we can search for connections.”
    â€œI’ll see the captain,” Jack said. “See if he can spare some real help.”
    â€œBetter get that corporate shrink of Maddy’s in here, too,” Liddell said, causing Jack to turn and look questioningly at him. Liddell explained, “Well, he seems to be an expert on Mother Goose.”
    â€œDon’t you start it, too, Bigfoot,” Jack said and left. He’d had all of the Mother Goose crap he could stand for one night. Even the mayor had come in to ream the chief and demand to know what was being done about “Mother Goose.” When the chief couldn’t produce a solid suspect, the mayor suggested that the police should “bring in a psychologist, like on CSI .”
    Jack wondered if the mayor really didn’t know that CSI was just a television show, and not real life. Also, that the police department didn’t use psychologists to solve cases. But then he would have to explain that Ghost Hunters was also just entertainment for the weak-minded or bored, and that they probably wouldn’t be able to speak to the spirits of the deceased to get information. Sometimes it’s better to just keep it zipped and let them think they’re helping. But if the mayor kept this up, the investigation would turn into a circus and Jack would be just another clown.
    Â 
    â€œThe bitch clawed me, Bobby!” Eddie screamed. He sat on the floor of the cabin with his hand clamped to his right ear. Blood seeped between the fingers of his hand, and his ear burned like hell.
    Eddie picked up the corn knife and started to get up. “I’m gonna take her fuckin’ head clean off.”
    Bobby just shook his head sadly. “She’s dead, bro. Besides, that would mess up the message.”
    Eddie dropped his arm. Of course, Bobby was right. When she was found, she had to look just like this. If he did any more cutting it would screw things up.
    â€œOkay, I guess we can get out of here, Bobby.” Eddie started toward the door, but then remembered the note. He took it out of his pocket, grabbed the woman’s face roughly, and forcing the jaws open, shoved the note into her mouth and as deep as he could into her throat.
    Eddie stood back and looked at his handiwork. Something’s missing, he thought. He dipped his finger in her blood, and then dabbed it on her nose.
    â€œThat’s better,” he said and smiled.
    Â 
    Captain Franklin had promised Jack someone to help sort through the