Copy Cat

by Erica Spindler

  Hours later, unable to sleep, she stood at her front window. She couldn’t stop thinking about the events of the day, couldn’t shake the question of whether Joe Lundgren’s involvement with Buddy Brown was more than that of employer and employee.

  As she gazed at the street, a car cruised slowly past her house. A Ford. Like the one that had pulled out after her earlier tonight, when she’d left the restaurant. And before, at Valerie Martin’s.

  An unmarked police car.

  Someone was keeping tabs on her.

  Who?

  Without turning on the porch light, she slipped out of the house and crossed to the far end of the porch. From that vantage point, she’d be able to answer that question when the driver passed under the streetlight.

  She didn’t have to wait long. As if the driver had simply made a loop of her block, he rolled by again. And as she had predicted, she got a clear look at the man behind the wheel.

  It was Lieutenant Brian Spillare.

  47

  Saturday, March 18, 2006

  8:10 a.m.

  When M.C. called, Kitt was on her third cup of coffee and still trying to shake the cobwebs out. She had stayed up most of the night, reviewing Brown’s file. Picking it apart. Nothing in it suggested great skill or intelligence. A two-time loser, he seemed to have been picked up for everything he’d ever done. He more than likely would have spent most of his life behind bars if not for lawyers and legal loopholes.

  “Yo,” Kitt answered.

  Her partner didn’t mince words. “They found Brown. But before you get too excited, he’s dead.”

  It took Kitt a moment to process that. When she had, she hurried to the bathroom. “How?”

  “Only know where. Paige Park.”

  “Son of a bitch!” She pulled down her pajama bottoms and sat on the toilet. “You on your way out there?”

  “Pulling myself together. Are you peeing? That’s so gross.”

  “It was an emergency.” She stood, flushed and crossed to the sink. “So sue me.”

  “I’ll think about it. See you out there.”

  Twenty minutes later Kitt pulled up next to M.C.’s Explorer. Anna Paige Park was located on the far north side of town. If a body was going to surface in a park in Rockford, Paige Park would head the list.

  Kitt climbed out of her battered Taurus, clutching a travel mug of coffee. Her partner stood beside her vehicle, hands stuffed into the pockets of her down vest.

  “You look like hell,” M.C. said.

  “Here’s a clue, so do you.”

  She smiled grimly. “I blame the job. It sucks.”

  “How’s a girl going to get her beauty sleep?” M.C.’s smile was sudden and took Kitt by surprise. “Exactly.”

  They crossed to the first officer and signed the log. Outdoor sites posed specific investigative problems. Rain and wind destroyed evidence. Wild animals had been known to decimate crime scenes, including the body. Weather conditions altered the decomposition process.

  When it came to crime-scene investigation, nothing beat the two C’s-control and containment.

  “What’ve we got?” she asked.

  “Body in a gully, just beyond that ridge of trees. Jogger and his golden retriever found him. One Buddy Brown. Wallet was on him. Cash in the wallet.”

  “How much?”

  “Enough to buy a fifth of something cheap or dinner at McDonald’s.”

  Robbery hadn’t been a motive.

  “Anything else?”

  “Looks like he was killed at another location and dumped here.”

  “Great.”

  “All the appropriate parties are on their way. My partner’s with the body.”

  They nodded and started for the ridge, consisting of thick pines and spindly hardwood trees. Pine straw, leaves and other natural debris crackled under their feet-the same debris with which the killer had attempted to conceal the body.

  Kitt and M.C. started down the hill. The uniform lifted a hand in greeting and they crossed to him, introducing themselves.

  “You two are the first.”

  “Lucky us.” Kitt crossed to the body, squatted down beside it. He lay faceup on a black tarp. The killer hadn’t bothered digging a hole, had simply covered him with the leaves.

  He hadn’t been too worried about the body being uncovered.

  She recognized Brown from the pictures in his file. Medium-size man-midtwenties. Medium complexion. Brown eyes and hair.

  She gazed at him, working to picture him as the one who had taunted her, calling himself Peanut. The man who had arrogantly described his crimes as “perfect.”

  He looked like every other, quite ordinary, penny-ante criminal.

  “He’s been dead a while,” M.C. said, squatting beside her.

  “Mmm.” The decomposition process was, indeed, well under way.

  “Got a guess?”

  “Too many variables, I know I’ll be off. But it wasn’t yesterday, that’s for certain.”

  Which meant Buddy Brown had not been the one on the phone with her.

  Which changed things dramatically once again.

  Exactly when he had died would be established by the pathologist. Kitt moved her gaze over the victim. “No gunshot wound, no blood.”

  From behind them came the sound of ID arriving. Kitt glanced over her shoulder. Sorenstein and Snowe. The pathologist, Frances Roselli.

  She stood, M.C. with her. “Day late and a dollar short,” she called. “Couldn’t drag yourselves out of the sack?”

  “Bite me,” Sorenstein answered. “It’s Saturday.”

  As they neared, Kitt saw that with the exception of the pathologist, the men looked a bit green. The smell of the victim was not helping their condition.

  “Overdo it last night?” she teased. “No one to blame but yourself.”

  “Kiss mine,” Snowe grumbled.

  “This your suspect?” Sorenstein asked. “The ex-con?”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Bad news travels fast.”

  “Neck was broken,” pathologist said. He squatted and pointed. “See the angle of the head?”

  “Think that’s what killed him?”

  “Doesn’t make much sense to break somebody’s neck after they’re already dead, but you never know.”

  “How long you think he’s been this way?”

  For a long moment, the pathologist was quiet. “It’s been dry. Cool. That’d slow the process. I’m thinking two to three weeks, depending. Autopsy will give us a more specific time.” He glanced at Sorenstein. “And whatever’s feasting on this sorry shit.”

  Snowe laughed. “Ready to go buggy, buddy?”

  Sorenstein hunched deeper into his jacket. “Damn, I hate this job.”

  Kitt and M.C. backed off to let the others do their thing.

  Two to three weeks? Three weeks ago Julie Entzel had been alive.

  M.C. turned to her. “What now?”

  “Figure out the connection between the SAK, Copycat and Buddy Brown.”

  “And you,” M.C. added.

  And me, Kitt silently agreed.

  48

  Monday, March 20, 2006

  8:40 a.m.

  Kitt entered the PSB. She crossed the lobby, heading straight for the elevators and caught one that took her to the second floor. It’d been a busy weekend. Roselli had performed the autopsy and determined that Brown had, indeed, been dead two weeks, give or take a few days. That excluded him from the Copycat killings and the calls to her.

  The man’s neck had been broken. It had taken both strength and skill on the part of the killer. Since the autopsy hadn’t turned up any defensive wounds, he had taken Brown by surprise.

  Which suggested Brown had known his murderer.

  Kitt felt strongly that the two men had met in prison, that Buddy Brown had been killed by her caller, who was, indeed, the Sleeping Angel Killer.

  The SAK had taken up residence with Buddy Brown, either before or after he had killed him. ID had sent
the lip gloss to the lab for comparison to the samples taken from the SAK and Copycat victims, and ID was dusting the clippings for prints.

  Kitt yawned widely as she exited the elevator. They had done a search for inmates who had served time with Brown and were now free. She and M.C. had spent much of Sunday tracking the men down.

  She reached the bureau, greeted Nan and headed for the coffeepot.

  Nan returned the greeting. “Detective Riggio’s in Interrogation Number One. They’ve just begun.”

  Kitt looked over her shoulder at the woman. “Who’s just begun what?”

  “Questioning the suspect. Sergeant Haas and Detective Riggio.”

  “The suspect? In what case?”

  The secretary looked at her as if she had lost her mind. “The Copycat killings.”

  The case they were working nearly round the clock.

  Who the hell had Riggio brought in?

  Kitt finished doctoring her coffee and started that way. “Thanks, Nan.”

  “Oh, Detective?”

  She glanced back. The receptionist held up several message slips. “Shall I hold on to these?”

  “No, I’ll take them. Thanks.” She crossed back, took the messages and stuffed them into her jacket pocket. “I’ll be in Interrogation. If anyone needs me, I’ve got my cell.”

  All five of the Violent Crimes interrogation rooms were located on the same hallway. In addition to a table and chairs, a door with a window, room one was fitted with a ceiling-mounted video recorder.

  Kitt reached room one and peered through the window. M.C. was standing, blocking her view of the suspect. The sarge was sitting, expression impassive.

  She lifted her hand to tap on the glass; M.C. moved. Kitt’s breath caught.

  Joe. They were questioning Joe.

  Disoriented, she stared through the window at her ex-husband. It couldn’t be Joe sitting in that chair. Not steady, even-tempered, kind Joe. Not her Joe.

  Kitt shifted her gaze to the other woman. When had M.C. decided to do this? And did she really think she was going to let her get away with going behind her back this way?

  She tapped on the window, struggling to stem her sudden rush of anger. The three looked her way. So angry she shook, Kitt kept her gaze trained on her partner. She didn’t think she could meet Joe’s eyes without losing it.

  She motioned for M.C. to come outside. As soon as the door closed behind her, Kitt drew her away from it.

  “You made it,” M.C. said. “I had Sergeant Haas sit in until you got here.”

  “Cut the bullshit. What the hell’s going on?”

  “I brought Joe in for questioning.”

  “Without consulting me. We’re partners. I’m lead on this. That’s unacceptable.”

  “I felt the element of surprise would work best.”

  She felt herself flush. “My surprise? Or Joe’s?”

  “Frankly? Both.” She lowered her voice. “When it comes to your ex, you have blinders on. You’ve made that pretty clear.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Look at the facts, Kitt. Your ex-husband was Buddy Brown’s employer.”

  “So that makes him a killer?”

  M.C. ignored that. “While you two were married, your husband did not hire ex-cons. Your words.”

  “I said I didn’t think so. He may have.”

  “While you were married, magic tricks were simply a hobby. Now he entertains sick children with them.”

  “Please! It was a logical next step. He saw how his magic helped kids while Sadie was in the hospital.”

  “Highcrest Hospital rang a bell. So I spent some time digging through the case files. Three months ago, Julie Entzel’s cousin Sarah was a patient there. She spent a full week in the pediatric ward.”

  “You think Joe’s the Copycat?” The utter disbelief in her voice would have been comical in another situation.

  “And your caller. Yes.”

  “But I know this man,” Kitt argued. “I grew up with him, was married to him for nearly twenty-five years. What you’re suggesting is simply not possible.”

  M.C. leaned toward her. “Why, Kitt? That’s what I’ve wondered all along. Why involve you? This makes sense.”

  “Not to me.” Kitt grabbed at straws, thoughts whirling. “What about the clown at the leukemia event? He gave me the balloon, called me later. But Joe was there. He couldn’t-”

  “He saw the clown give you the balloon.” She held up a hand, stopping the denial. “And don’t ask about not recognizing his voice, we both know that anyone who can access a computer can buy a voice altering device online. And some of them are damn good.

  “He’s punishing you,” she went on. “For leaving him. For focusing on the case instead of him. For caring about the little girls more than him or your marriage. Choose any one to fill in the blanks; they all work.”

  Kitt spun away from the other woman. Joe knew everything about her. Her hopes and fears. He knew about her falling and hitting her head; that she had been drinking.

  He knew everything about her.

  No. This wasn’t possible.

  “I called Julie Entzel’s mother.”

  Kitt looked over her shoulder at M.C.

  “They saw Joe’s magic show. Little Julie was quite taken with it.”

  My God.

  It couldn’t be how it looked.

  “Can you do this?” M.C. asked. “Or shall I keep the sarge in?”

  “I can do this, dammit. Give me a minute.” M.C. didn’t comment. Kitt heard the interrogation room door click shut. She closed her eyes. How did she get her arms around this? How did she even muster enough objectivity to go in there and ask the important questions?

  How the hell did she look Joe in the eyes?

  She flexed her fingers. Everything M.C. said was true. If the man sitting in that room was anyone else, she would have been in his face.

  Kitt sorted through the points M.C. had presented to her. He was a physical link to Buddy Brown. And between her and Brown. Now there was a connection between him and one of the victims. M.C. had provided a plausible motivation for the calls to her.

  He could have seen the clown as an opportunity to throw suspicion away from him.

  When she’d warned him that Tami might be in danger, she’d told him about the clown. The balloon. The clown’s call.

  He hadn’t said a word about having bought the child a balloon.

  The truth of that rushed over her in a chilling wave. No, none of it made sense to her. None of it jibed with the man she knew-and loved.

  But how often did family of the accused express shock, astonishment and disbelief over their loved ones’ actions?

  More often than not.

  Kitt drew in a deep, fortifying breath. It didn’t change her feelings about the way M.C. had gone behind her back. But she had a job to do, and she meant to do it. Although, if this went any further she would be out of it. With personal connections to a prime suspect, she would be pulled from the case. At this stage, however, she could be a big asset in the interrogation process.

  She crossed to the door, pulled it open. “Taking over, Sarge,” she said.

  He nodded and stood. On his way out, he squeezed her arm reassuringly. She wondered if he had been a party to M.C.’s deception and hoped he hadn’t been.

  “Hello, Joe,” she said, taking a seat across from him at the table.

  “Kitt?” She cringed at the relief in his voice. “What’s going on here?”

  “Just some questions. That’s all.”

  “You already asked me questions. Why here? I would have answered anything you asked at the office.”

  “Riggio here likes things official.”

  The bad cop, obviously.

  She smiled reassuringly, feeling like a fraud. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “Okay.” He nodded. “So let’s get this going, I’ve got a crew waiting for me.”

  Riggio began. “Your fiancée told us you met at
the hospital where she works.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What were you doing in the pediatric ward, Mr. Lundgren?”

  He frowned. “Valerie didn’t tell you? I perform magic tricks for the kids. I was there doing one of my shows.”

  Kitt stepped in. “When did you start doing that, Joe?”

  “A year or so ago. I was lonely…missed Sadie and-” He cleared his throat. “I had a lot of free time. To fill it, I worked on my magic. I remembered how the kids at the hospital had enjoyed it and approached the hospital about performing for the kids every couple of weeks.”

  “Is Highcrest the only hospital you visit?”

  “No. I go to The Ronald McDonald House. Children’s Hospital. I even performed at a couple of nursing homes.”

  Kitt saw M.C. make a note. She would check those places and see if any of the other victims had a connection to them.

  “Seems like all this philanthropy would take a lot of time away from work,” M.C. said.

  “Work isn’t everything, Detective. Life is about giving back.”

  “How would you respond if we said you had met one of the Copycat’s victims?”

  He looked from Kitt to M.C. “I’d say you’re mistaken.”

  “Julie Entzel. She saw one of your magic shows.”

  “At Highcrest Hospital.”

  The color drained from his face. “I didn’t know. I saw the picture in the paper…but I didn’t recognize her as one of the kids who…”

  His voice trailed off. Kitt recalled how he had said the Entzel girl “meant nothing to him.” That he didn’t even “know her.”

  He looked ill. M.C. changed direction. “Let’s talk about Buddy Brown.”

  He didn’t comment, just nodded. “How did he come to be working for you?” she asked.

  “He contacted me. And he had some experience. So, I hired him.”

  “He was up-front with you about his past?”

  “Yes.”

  “That didn’t worry you?”