Copy Cat

by Erica Spindler

  Roy piped up again. “Don’t take it personal, Riggio. Even Wonder Woman comes up short sometimes.”

  Kitt saw her partner’s jaw tighten but didn’t comment until they were headed down the corridor for the elevator. “Want some advice?” she asked.

  “Not particularly.”

  “You know I’m going to offer it, anyway.”

  “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

  “Don’t take it all so seriously. Lighten up, sometimes.”

  M.C. stopped, looked at her, expression incredulous. “You’re telling me to lighten up?”

  “Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

  “For obvious reasons, yes.”

  “Obvious reasons?” Kitt said, keeping her voice low. “You mean ones like outworking and out-investigating you? Or being able to take a joke?”

  M.C. flushed. “Let’s see, Detective Intensity, you basically ‘go postal’ over the SAK case, blow it and several others, climb into a bottle and end up suspended. By the grace of God-or some mighty powerful strings-you’re back at work and I’m stuck with you. Yeah, I have a problem with you telling me to lighten up.”

  They glared at each other. Kitt acknowledged being angry-as much at herself as Riggio. For letting the woman engage her and for stepping into the “wise mentor” role in the first place. If Mary Catherine Riggio wanted to be humorless and unlikable, it was her life.

  “You know what, Riggio? We have to work together, so get over it.”

  Kitt didn’t give her a chance to respond; she turned and started for the elevator. M.C. fell into step beside her. They reached the elevator and simultaneously moved to punch the call button. Same for the floor number.

  They didn’t speak again until they were halfway across town. Kitt broke the silence first. “My daughter died. My marriage fell apart. I didn’t handle it well. You called it ‘going postal.’ Whatever. It’s in the past. Or at least, I’m working hard to put it there.”

  For a long moment, Riggio didn’t respond. When she did, her voice was tight. “I overreacted,” she said finally. “Being taken seriously is a big deal for me. I had to fight for it all my life.” She paused. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

  “Fact of the matter is, neither one of us was lying,” Kitt answered.

  M.C. smiled suddenly. “If we ever need to speak in code, you’re ‘Going postal.’”

  “And you’re ‘Taking a joke.’”

  “But I still don’t trust you to watch my back.”

  “Ditto.”

  The remainder of the drive passed in silence. But a less prickly one this time, one Kitt used to assemble her questions for Sydney Dale.

  Mr. Dale, they discovered, lived in a large, contemporary home. The house sat on a beautifully landscaped lot-two acres or more, Kitt guessed, with pool, cabana and natural pond with rock waterfall.

  They parked in the circular drive, behind a white BMW convertible. They crossed to the door, but before they could ring the bell, it swung open. An attractive teenage girl ducked past them, blond ponytail swinging. She trotted to the BMW, slid inside and started it up.

  As the engine roared to life, a man thundered out the door, nearly knocking Kitt down. “Sam!” he shouted. “I did not give you permission to-”

  “Gotta go, Dad. I’m late!” The teen stepped on the gas and sped down the drive.

  Kitt watched, part amused, part disgusted. Classic case of teen ruling the roost. When she was growing up, either of her parents would have chased her down, then soundly kicked her butt.

  “Mr. Sydney Dale?” M.C. asked.

  He looked at them then, as if just realizing they were there. “Yes?”

  He was a big man, though not particularly attractive. His nose occupied too much of his face, and his pitted skin spoke of teenage years besieged by acne.

  A problem his daughter did not have. Of course, these days well-heeled parents spared no expense on their spoiled children: facials, professional manicures and pedicures, salon styling Kitt couldn’t even afford. She had even heard about breast augmentation as high school graduation gifts.

  Geez. Her Mom had given her a ten-karat-gold cross necklace.

  Kitt showed him her shield. “Detective Lundgren, Rockford Police Department. My partner, Detective Riggio.”

  M.C. flashed her badge; the man didn’t even glance at it. “I was wondering when you’d get here. And just to let you know up-front, I’ve already spoken to my lawyer about this matter.”

  Typical rich asshole. “What matter is that?” Kitt asked.

  “My employment of Derrick Todd, of course. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “It is. I guess my confusion stems from why you’d think you’d need to consult a lawyer over a few questions about one of your employees.”

  He frowned. “Don’t play games with me, Detective. We both know why a man like me would consult with his lawyer over this. I have a lot to lose from liars, scam artists or bad press.”

  That was true, and she appreciated his candor. “And what did your lawyer advise you to do, Mr. Dale?”

  “Answer your questions honestly and help you in any way I could, then send you on your way.”

  “That sounds fine to us, Mr. Dale.”

  He closed the door behind him. “My wife’s still sleeping.”

  Lucky her. Kitt took out her spiral-bound notepad. “I understand you own the Fun Zone.”

  “Yes. It’s one of my investments. I leave the running of it, including the hiring and firing, to my manager.”

  “Mr. Zuba.”

  “Yes.”

  “You say you leave the ‘hiring and firing’ to your manager, but that’s not always true. Is that right?”

  He hesitated, just slightly. “Once in a while I offer suggestions.”

  “As you did with Derrick Todd?”

  Again, he hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Mr. Zuba told us you ‘highly recommended’ Mr. Todd.”

  “I did. He was our yard and pool boy for several years. He did a good job, seemed like a nice kid. He quit when he went back to school.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “RVC.”

  Rock Valley College was a local junior college. Many a high school senior from the area attended “The Rock,” as they called it, before moving on to a four-year university. The school also drew older students, looking to better their chances in the work force.

  “When was this?”

  He thought a minute. “Four, four-and-a-half years ago.”

  Kitt glanced at M.C. She was watching the man carefully, gauging his truthfulness by his body language and eye movement.

  “Then what happened?”

  “He approached me about a job. I promised I’d see if there was anything available at one of my business endeavors. The Fun Zone had an opening. I recommended Mr. Zuba consider him for it.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t tell your manager to hire Mr. Todd on your recommendation alone?”

  “Without a background or criminal check? That would be very stupid, don’t you think?”

  “I do, Mr. Dale. But somehow that’s what happened.”

  “I certainly don’t know how.” He glanced away, then back at her. “Some sort of communication foul-up, I suppose.”

  Kitt’s hackles rose. He sounded almost bored. “That communication foul-up may have cost two young girls their lives.”

  He blinked quickly, three times. She had hit a button with that one. Why? Guilt? Or fear?

  “So, you had no idea that Derrick Todd had run afoul of the law after leaving your original employ?”

  “Would I have recommended him if I had?”

  He all but bristled with indignation. Kitt cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t know, Mr. Dale. Would you have?”

  “I have nothing more to tell you, Detectives. If I could help you more, I would.”

  Yeah, right. And pigs fly.

  They thanked
the man and headed for M.C.’s car. When they were buckled in and on their way, Kitt looked at M.C. “Did you notice he never commented on the reason we were investigating Todd? Never expressed regret, concern or denial?”

  “Yeah, I noticed. He was too busy covering his own ass. Prick.”

  Kitt nodded as they turned onto Riverside Drive. “If it turns out Todd is guilty of the Copycat murders, Dale’s making certain your friend ZZ takes the fall.”

  “He had his story down pat, no doubt about it. What a sweetheart.”

  “Let’s run Mr. Dale through the computer, see if he’s as fine and upstanding as he’d like us to believe.”

  M.C. nodded. “But first, let’s swing by the Fun Zone and have another chat with ZZ. Give him a little heads-up. See if his story changes.”

  They arrived at the Fun Zone before the doors officially opened for the day. ZZ and his employees were busy readying themselves for the Saturday onslaught of screaming kids.

  He looked anything but happy to see them.

  “Could we have a word in private?”

  He nodded. “Come on back.”

  When they reached his office, M.C. didn’t mince words. “ZZ, we have a problem. Your boss insists he only recommended you look at Todd. Not that you hire him. And certainly not that you skip any of the screening process.”

  ZZ blanched. “That’s not true. He told me quite clearly that he was ‘hired.’ That he could personally vouch for him.”

  “That’s not his story. I’m sorry.”

  Visibly upset, he ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know why he would say that.”

  M.C. held his gaze. “ZZ, you gotta be straight with me here. ’Cause if Derrick Todd turns out to be a killer, it’s going to get ugly. Real ugly. If you’ve twisted the story to save your own ass, you’d better tell me now.”

  “I didn’t. I swear.”

  Kitt studied the man. Why would he lie? Besides, they had questioned him cold; Dale had been primed by ZZ. That had given him plenty of time to prepare his story.

  “Thank you, ZZ. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Wait!” The manager looked confused. “Why do you think Mr. Dale said that?”

  “Maybe you should take that up with him?”

  His expression changed, realization coming over him. He knew. His boss was setting him up, just in case.

  Hang the little guy out to dry. No big mystery there.

  Kitt felt bad for the man. Reality checks sucked, big-time.

  Her cell phone rang. She unclipped the device, brought it to her ear. “Lundgren here.”

  “Kitt, it’s Sal. Derrick Todd made an appearance. Officer Petersen picked him up.”

  “Good. Stick him in an interrogation room. We’re on our way.”

  23

  Saturday, March 11, 2006

  Noon

  Derrick Todd was an angry young man. Big on bad attitude. Small on smarts. Not to say he wasn’t intelligent. M.C. had no idea if he was or not-he had enough brainpower for her not to have ruled it out yet.

  He seemed like one of those kids who consistently made the wrong choice, then blamed somebody else for it.

  This cycle always ended badly, in squandered opportunities, jail-time-or worse.

  Kitt wandered in, carrying a coffee mug, a newspaper and a box of doughnuts. The doughnuts were a cliché, but that was the point. They figured Mr. Not-So-Bright probably had a chip on his shoulder about cops and would buy right into it.

  As they had rehearsed, she dropped the latest edition of the Register Star on the table, well within Todd’s line of vision. The headline screamed Copycat Or Not-Will He Strike Again? There was a picture of both little Julie Entzel and Marianne Vest. There were also smaller photos of the original SAK victims.

  Most serials loved the limelight. They loved to read about themselves in the news. Loved reliving the act. Got off on it. And on the fact they had people in a panic and the cops on the run.

  If he was the killer, once he saw the headline, he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off it. It was a psychological trick that had been developed by the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI. The trick also worked with items from the crime scene, photos of the victim, murder weapons.

  The first time M.C. had tried it, the suspect had actually moved his chair to get a better view of the item, a lavender knit cap the victim had been wearing at the time of her murder.

  They would start out easy, they had decided. Lull him into a false sense of security. M.C. would play the “bad cop,” Kitt the “good one.”

  Kitt set the box of pastries smack on top of the paper. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I was taking a coffee break.”

  “Cops,” the kid muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  He rocked back in his chair, expression cocky. “You never disappoint, that’s all.”

  “Doughnut?” She motioned to the box. “Help yourself.”

  “No thanks.”

  “M.C.?”

  “Sure.” She made a great show of choosing one, then taking a bite.

  “Why am I here?”

  “I think you know, Mr. Todd.”

  “So I got a job at the Fun Zone. Big fuckin’ deal.”

  “Where were you last night, Mr. Todd?”

  “Out.”

  “Out where?”

  “At a friend’s.”

  “Name?”

  “Don’t have one. Met her in a bar.”

  No accounting for taste. “Which bar?”

  He hesitated. “Google Me.”

  “You don’t seem so sure about that.”

  “I’m sure. Just don’t want you pigs to know where I hang out.”

  Another indication of low IQ: insulting people who carry guns and hold your fate in their hands.

  Duh.

  M.C. glanced at Kitt. She was watching Todd intently, the expression in her eyes fierce. She could guess her thoughts: Look at the paper, damn you.

  But he didn’t. Almost pointedly. Could he be on to them? She didn’t think this one had the native intelligence to know what they were up to, but she needed to put it to the test.

  “Kitt, can I have a word with you outside?”

  The other woman met her eyes, immediately understanding what she was up to. They exited the interrogation room, locking the door behind them. They went around the corner to the surveillance room. There an assistant D.A., a thirtyish young man sporting Harry Potter spectacles and prematurely thinning hair, Sal and Sergeant Haas were watching the video monitor.

  All homicide interrogations were videotaped, a relatively recent addition to the RPD’s investigative arsenal. The videotape provided a permanent account of the interrogation to study at length later, and a means for the department to cover its ass against rights violations and brutality charges.

  Other than a quick glance in their direction, the trio never took their eyes from the monitor. M.C. pulled up a chair; Kitt stood. Todd thrummed his fingers on the table. He stood and paced. He sat again, looked at the camera and flipped them the bird.

  But he didn’t give the paper more than a cursory glance.

  “Maybe he can’t read,” M.C. muttered.

  “He’s not the one,” Kitt said. “He’s not going for it.”

  “You don’t know that for certain,” M.C. shot back.

  “Yeah, I do. Dammit!”

  “Hold on,” the assistant D.A. said, “he’s taking the bait.”

  M.C. swung back to the monitor. Sure enough, Todd was inching his chair closer to the paper. As they watched, he leaned forward, as if craning to read the headline around the box of doughnuts.

  She held her breath. Move the box. Get yourself a real good look at that paper. Read all about it, you bastard.

  Instead, he spat into the box of pastries, then settled back into his seat, smiling.

  “That little son of a bitch,” Sal muttered. “I was going to have one of those.”

  M.C. looked at Kitt. “Let’s take the gloves off.”r />
  Kitt frowned slightly. “That’s not the way we rehearsed it.”

  “So?”

  “So, we go the way we rehearsed it.”

  M.C. made a sound of frustration. “He needs more heat.”

  Kitt pulled rank. “We give it another minute or two. Then up our ante.”

  M.C. wanted to argue, but saw Sal frown. He would not have his detectives arguing over methods, and certainly not at this important juncture. “Okay, let’s go.”

  They returned to the interview room. Todd grinned at them. “Doughnut, detectives?”

  “You’re a nasty little prick, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Whatever,” she repeated, pulling a chair out, angling it to face him. “Funny you would patronize a place called Google Me. After all, you wouldn’t want to be Googled, would you, Mr. Todd?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Do you think that woman you spent the night with would have let you near her if she had known you’re a registered sex offender? Or maybe she wasn’t a woman at all. How old was this “friend” last night?”

  Kitt stepped in before he could respond. She kept her tone low, without the edginess of her partner’s. “Who at the Fun Zone hired you?”

  “The owner. Sydney Dale.” He said the man’s name on a sneer.

  “No love lost there?” she asked. “Even though he gave an ex-con a job?”

  “No love. You could say that. The guy’s a dick.”

  “When he hired you, did he know your history?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care.”

  M.C. took over. “Really? A children’s play center seems a strange place for a child molester to work. Or maybe not so strange…at least from the pervert’s point of view?”

  His face turned red. “I’m not a child molester!”

  “A jury disagreed, didn’t they?”

  She grabbed the newspaper and tossed the front page on the table in front of him. She tapped Julie and Marianne’s photos. “Ever see either of these girls before?”

  “No.”

  “You sure about that?”

  He stared at the paper. The headline. He put it all together. And looked ready to puke.

  “Care now?”

  “I never saw those girls.”

  “Did you work Saturday, January 21?”