Copy Cat

by Erica Spindler

  Dammit, she hated being in this position!

  “This once,” she found herself saying, “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But just this once. If you screw up again, I’m going to the chief.”

  Even as the words passed her lips, M.C. wondered if she was making a big mistake. A mistake that would cost her dearly-more than a few rungs up the ladder.

  Maybe even her life.

  32

  Wednesday, March 15, 2006

  3:30 a.m.

  The Other One had not been pleased. He had been very angry. Punishing and cruel.

  He stared into the small mirror above his bathroom sink, steamy from his shower. Using his hand, he wiped the moisture away. Before he could get a clear look at himself, it clouded again. How could the Other One treat him so? They were a part of each other. Not two, but one. It had been so for as long as he could remember.

  Not two, but one.

  He covered his face with his shaking hands. Hadn’t he suffered enough? He couldn’t rest. Couldn’t close his eyes without seeing that last angel. The image tormented him. Day and night.

  Horrible, horrible.

  He had been responsible for transforming her into a beast.

  Beast. What he had secretly begun calling the Other One, when certain he wouldn’t hear.

  For that’s what he was. A beast. And a bully.

  Anger surged through him, with it defiance. How dare he scold! Had he asked permission to play games with that detective? To call her, doling out information as he pleased?

  No. Absolutely not.

  Who had decided the Other One controlled their fates? Not him, certainly.

  Beast! Bastard!

  He dropped his hands. A darting image in the cloudy mirror caught his eye, and he whirled around.

  He was alone in the bathroom. The door was shut but not locked. His imagination was running away with him. Or was it? It wouldn’t be the first time the Other One had come to spy on him.

  And what of the angels? Perhaps one-the horrible one-had come to seek revenge for what he had done to her.

  He sank to the floor, the ceramic tile cold against his naked backside. He scooted toward the wall, until he was pressed into the corner facing the door.

  The minutes passed as he waited, his pounding heart marking off the seconds. Finally, eyes burning, he blinked. And she filled his head, her terrible, ugly countenance. He whimpered and cringed, bile rising in his throat.

  He had to be rid of her. But how? How?

  Another one. Another angel to take her place.

  Perfect and beautiful.

  The Other One be damned. He had no one’s permission to ask but his own.

  33

  Wednesday, March 15, 2006

  6:00 p.m.

  M.C. wouldn’t admit it to anyone but herself, but she was nothing but a big chicken. At least when it came to her mother. If she’d had her “big-girl pants” on, she would be able to call her mother and tell her she wouldn’t be at dinner. That she had a date.

  She would also be able to handle the grilling that followed her announcement with ease and aplomb.

  Instead, she was going to take the coward’s way out and get her big brother to do it for her.

  Michael took his last appointment at 5:00 p.m. and was home by 5:45, like clockwork. She always joked that he had trained his patients well.

  He lived in a beautiful, old residential neighborhood called Churchill Grove. He’d bought a house built in the twenties and had been renovating it little by little over the years.

  She climbed the colonial’s front steps, crossed to the door and rang the bell. He came to the door carrying a pint of ice cream and a spoon.

  “That stuff’ll make you fat,” she said.

  He swung open the door. “Want a bite? It’s Chunky Monkey.”

  “Appropriate, Michael.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Work through lunch again?”

  “Mmm.” He closed the door behind her, then gestured for her to follow him to the kitchen.

  The house smelled of lemon cleaner. “Service come today?”

  “Yes, thank God.” They reached the updated but still charming kitchen. She especially liked the retro black-and-white tile counters and floor.

  He returned the ice cream to the freezer, then faced her. “A visit from my favorite sister, what a treat.”

  Code for: I know you want something, spill it.

  “I’m your only sister, Michael.”

  “But you’re still my favorite. You want a beer?”

  “Thanks.”

  She watched as he moved around his small kitchen, totally comfortable. He took a bottle of Corona from the fridge, uncapped it and handed it to her. Then he got one for himself.

  “Beer on the heels of Chunky Monkey? Michael, please.”

  “Don’t knock it until you try it. How’s the investigation going?”

  “We’re working our butts off.”

  “I saw you had a new partner. That woman.”

  “Kitt Lundgren. She’s heading up the case now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  M.C. shrugged and took a swallow of the beer. “She was put on the case for reasons that had nothing to do with my abilities or hers. I’m living with it.”

  They stood in silence for several moments, her brother waiting, obviously, for her to share the reason for her visit. She knew that after she told him, he was going to ask a lot of questions.

  Talent for interrogation ran in the Riggio family.

  “I’m not going to be at dinner tonight. I was hoping you’d pass along the message to Mama.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “No good, Mary Catherine. Wednesday nights are not an option.”

  “Tell her I have a date.”

  “Is that the truth? You know I won’t lie for you.”

  He never would, even when they were kids. The rat. “Yes.”

  “With a guy?”

  He smirked at her and she slugged him. “Yes, with a guy.”

  “Bring him along. I’m sure Mama and the rest of the family would love to meet him.”

  “I’m sure they would. But I actually may want to see him again.”

  “You want to tell me about him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How about a name?”

  “Not yet.” She smiled. “Sorry.”

  “Just tell me, is it an Italian name? So I can pass something along to Mama.”

  M.C. laughed and took another sip of the beer. “Yes, for heaven’s sake. The name’s about as Italian as they come.”

  The rest of the date wasn’t. But that was another story.

  He rolled the bottle between his palms, expression in his dark eyes thoughtful. “You like this guy?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  He pursed his lips. “You don’t date much, Mary Catherine. Just be careful.”

  She pictured Lance and laughed. “I’m a cop, Michael. I’m trained in self-defense, am a second-degree black belt and carry a loaded Glock. You don’t need to worry about me out on a date.”

  He didn’t smile. “You and I both know, there are ways of being hurt that all the bullets and self-defense classes in the world can’t protect you from.”

  Tears pricked at her eyes. “That’s so sweet, Michael.” She hugged him. “I love you, too.”

  Michael had been right-she didn’t date much. Never had. She supposed she had been so busy rebelling against her gender that she hadn’t allowed herself much interest in the opposite sex. Certainly not the overwhelming interest many women had.

  Or maybe she had rebelled so much that the opposite sex hadn’t been interested in her.

  Whichever, her experience in that arena was relatively limited. “Relatively,” because she wasn’t totally inexperienced. She had dated, had a few steady boyfriends and sex.

  Even so, as she crossed the bookstore parking lot, she wondered what the hell she had been thinking, agreeing to go out with Lance. She should be at the
PSB with Kitt, buried in the case. Not traipsing off to a date with a guy who she knew almost nothing about except the fact that he could make her laugh.

  They had arranged to meet in the bookstore’s café. It’d been a good, neutral choice and he had earned points for making it. The last thing she was interested in was a bum rush. She entered the bookstore, which seemed busy for a Wednesday night, and headed for the café.

  He had already arrived, she saw. He sat at a table with a clear view of the entrance.

  He stood when he saw her. She smiled, waved and crossed to him.

  “Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

  “No problem.”

  He pulled a chair out for her, a gentlemanly gesture that surprised her. “I had to stop at my brother’s to get him to pass along my regrets to Mama.”

  “Mama?”

  “Wednesday nights are pasta night at my mother’s house.”

  “You gave up dinner with your family? I’m sorry, you should have told me you had plans.”

  She shook her head. “Believe me, it wasn’t a hardship. Let’s just say, Wednesday nights can be a…trial.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  He delivered the line deadpan, but she laughed. Because, of course, she had heard his act and knew he understood exactly what she was talking about.

  “Michael, my brother, suggested I bring you.”

  “We could still go.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

  “We’re talking enough material for a new act, aren’t we?”

  “Enough for two new acts. Plus, chances are, I’d never see you again. I’ve never had a boyfriend who survived a meal with my family.”

  He fell into his comedy schtick, pretending to pick up a mike, face an audience. “I met my girlfriend’s family for the first time last night. My God, this family puts the ‘fun’in dysfunctional. Mama’s an Italian tank with breasts. And one eyebrow. She doesn’t use tweezers to pluck that monster, she pulls out hedge trimmers. No, wait. That’s for her mustache.”

  M.C. laughed. “You have met my mother.”

  He grinned. “I want to hear more, but after I get us some coffee.”

  For the next hour, their conversation volleyed between her telling him about her family and him keeping her in stitches with a running commentary on everyone and everything, sometimes dry and caustic, others screwball.

  It wasn’t until they announced the store was closing that M.C. realized how much time had passed.

  They stood, tossed their cups in the trash and started for the entrance.

  Outside, the night was mild, the sky starless. He walked her to her vehicle. There, she faced him.

  “This was a lot of fun. I don’t know when I’ve laughed so much.”

  “I don’t know when I’ve made anyone laugh so much.” He lowered his voice. “I wish it didn’t have to end,” he said.

  “Me, too.”

  “If I kissed you, would you pull a gun on me?”

  “I’ll pull the gun if you don’t kiss me.”

  So he did, softly, slowly. When he drew away, her knees were weak.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  God yes. “Starving.”

  “We could go to my favorite diner? Or…I have most of a Mama Riggio’s supreme pizza left in my fridge.”

  “My brothers’ restaurant.”

  “Best pizza outside the Chicago Loop.”

  She hesitated. She knew what she should do. But God help her, that’s not what she wanted to do.

  “I’m a sucker for pizza,” she said. “Especially when it’s the family recipe.”

  34

  Wednesday, March 15, 2006

  9:30 p.m.

  Kitt sat alone at the computer terminal. M.C. had left several hours ago for a date. With “the funny guy,” as she had called him. The detective shift had ended at 6:30 p.m. and the Violent Crimes Bureau had emptied almost on the hour. Slow crime day, apparently.

  She and M.C. had spent a good part of the day searching the cold-case files. They had started with 2001, the year of the original SAK murders, and searched through to present day.

  Nothing had jumped out at them. Gang killings. Prostitutes found dead. The occasional Jane or John Doe. Nothing that appeared serial in nature. Nothing that seemed to fit the SAK’s profile.

  So, Kitt had decided to search backward in time, thinking the “others” the SAK spoke of had been pre-Sleeping Angels.

  Kitt glanced at the clock. Her head, neck and shoulders ached. Her eyes burned.

  She longed to pack up and go home.

  But to what? Her empty house? The television? She couldn’t even head out to one of the bars frequented by other cops. She didn’t trust herself around alcohol. Not now. Not after the night before.

  Kitt refocused on the terminal. Another thirty minutes and she’d call it a night. By the time she got home, she would be exhausted. She could make herself a peanut-butter sandwich and a cup of chamomile tea, then go to bed.

  And sleep. If she was lucky. If not, she could turn to the sleeping pills her doctor had prescribed-or stare at the ceiling for hours.

  April 3, 1999. Marguerite Lindz. Eighty-two. Bludgeoned to death.

  Kitt stared at the entry, frowning. There had been another elderly woman beaten to death. She had read the entry just minutes ago.

  She surfed back until she found it. February 6, 1999. Rose McGuire. Seventy-nine. Bludgeoned to death.

  Kitt took a deep breath, working to control her rush of excitement. Old women beaten to death couldn’t be more different from the Sleeping Angel murders; the crimes being related was improbable at best.

  She scrolled back in time. And found another, Janet Olsen. Exact same MO.

  That was three. There could be more, though her instincts told her there wouldn’t be. She initiated a global search, then while the computer chomped on that, she went for the official case records.

  Kitt collected the files, then swung past the vending machines on the way back to her desk. She got herself a pack of snack crackers and a Diet Coke. Files tucked under her arm, she ripped open the package and stuck one of the cracker sandwiches into her mouth.

  As she munched on it, she read the package label. Partially hydrogenated oil. High-fructose corn syrup. Yellow dye #6. M.C. was right. She had to stop eating this garbage. It was loaded with trans fat and sugar, no protein, all bad carbs.

  Tomorrow. She’d start eating well then.

  By the time she returned to the terminal, the search was complete, and no other similar killings had been found.

  That meant there had been three. Same as the original Sleeping Angel killings.

  Kitt settled into her desk chair and opened the first woman’s file. Janet Olsen. Seventy-five. Beaten to death in her home. No sign of sexual assault. Robbery had not been a motive.

  The same held true for the other two victims. Killer had duct-taped their mouths.

  Kitt took a swallow of her cola, washing down the last cracker. The investigating detectives had identified the cases as being serial in nature but had never discovered a link between them. The killer left the scenes strangely clean. The lack of physical evidence had hindered the investigations and the cases had gone cold.

  Kitt drew out the crime-scene photos. The scenes were grisly. Bloody. The killer had beaten the women to the point of being unrecognizable, the shiny silver duct tape grotesque on their pulverized faces.

  He had applied the tape postmortem.

  Kitt straightened. She set her Diet Coke can down with a thud. So, he hadn’t applied the tape to silence them.

  They had already been silenced. Permanently.

  Kitt stood. She began to pace. Mentally comparing the crimes. The SAK applied lip gloss postmortem. This killer applied tape.

  To the mouth. The mouth. What did it mean?

  She could see why no one had considered these cases related to the Sleeping Angel deaths.
They couldn’t be more different-the crimes or the choice of victims.

  In their differences was a pattern: old versus young; violent versus serene; ugly versus beautiful.

  There were similarities as well: three victims; the postmortem attention to the victim; the lack of evidence.

  Acting on a hunch, she crossed to her desk, jotted down the dates of the three murders, then pulled out a calendar.

  The “Granny” murders had each been eight weeks apart. Exactly.

  The SAK murders had been six.

  This guy was one highly organized asshole.

  The son of a bitch. The chicken-shit. He built himself up by preying on the weak.

  The images from the photos filled her head. The old ladies first, then the little girls.

  Fury took her breath.

  Shaking with it, she grabbed her cell phone, then the Copycat case files. She opened it, found what she was looking for-a list of every cell number “Peanut” had called her from.

  She stared at the numbers, heart racing. Every call had been made from a different number; no doubt he had disposed of each device after use. Why would he keep them?

  But hanging on to them didn’t expose him in any way.

  Acting on emotion, not giving a damn that she was breaking protocol, Kitt punched in the last number he had called from. She banked on the fact that if he still had the device and it was on, that he would recognize her number and pick up.

  The call went through. She waited, trembling with rage, while it rang. She hoped he hadn’t destroyed this phone and acquired another. She wanted the son of a bitch to answer. To hear his voice. So she could tell him exactly what she thought of him.

  A moment later, she got her wish. “Calling me now? Kitten, I’m honored.”

  “I was sitting here, looking at pictures of your handiwork. Thought I’d give you a call. Tell you how sickened I am by you. How disgusted.”

  “That hurts. It really does.”

  “Old ladies and little girls? And you’re proud of that?”

  “So, you found them.”

  They were his. “It wasn’t that difficult. Just look for victims who are too helpless to fight back.”