Copy Cat

by Erica Spindler

  Considering both she and M.C. fit that relatively rarified category, she didn’t particularly like the option.

  Sal frowned, obviously unimpressed with her suggestions. “Maybe neither of them are. Maybe Brian’s murder had nothing to do with your investigation.”

  He turned his gaze to her. “Kitt, I want you to retrace Brian’s steps yesterday, from the time you spoke with him until you found him dead. Get into his computer, see what files he accessed. I want a log from his cell and desk phones. Get Allen to assist you.”

  “You want me on it as well, Sal?” M.C. asked.

  “No. You stay on the Copycat. When we’re finished, call down to ID. They should have a bead on the cell phone number already.”

  As if on cue, Kitt’s phone buzzed. It was Sorenstein in ID. She listened, thanked him, then turned back to the group when she had ended the call. “The phone belonged to a dead guy. He was killed in a car wreck over the weekend. With everything going on, the family hadn’t realized it was missing.”

  “Our UNSUB seems to have a pretty good grasp on acquiring untraceable numbers,” M.C. said. “Nobody can call this one dumb.”

  Sal sent M.C. an irritated glance. “But how did he get the device?”

  “Could be someone at the scene, like an EMT. Or someone at the hospital. Could be our UNSUB lifted it before the wreck even happen-”

  “I don’t give a damn about all the ways he could have gotten it. I want to know definitively how he got it!”

  He all but roared the last at them and they both jumped to their feet. Sal rarely raised his voice, but when he did, it was advantageous to take note and respond.

  They exited the deputy chief’s office. “Why share a trophy with you now?” M.C. asked. “It’s like he wanted to prove something to you.”

  “I think he did. He was all about our being in a competition. That’s what the perfect crime is to him. Not just getting away with it, but outmaneuvering us. Outthinking us. Winning.”

  “And is he?”

  “Hell, yes!” She felt her frustration rise, her anger with it. As she did, she recalled something else he’d said. About her being emotionally involved. That he had the advantage because of it.

  She told M.C., who nodded. “That’s it, then. He gave you the trophy as a way to stir your emotions. He’s counting on you not thinking as clearly because of it.”

  “He’s a smart SOB.” She narrowed her eyes. “But not smart enough.”

  They reached Kitt’s desk. M.C. perched on a corner while Kitt paced. “So, what do we have?” M.C. asked. “All the pieces?”

  “Two killers. Nine murders, six of them children, three of them grandmothers. A span of eight years.”

  “Thanks for narrowing it down, partner. It’s all so much clearer to me now.”

  “Sarcasm suits you.”

  “Thanks.” M.C. rolled her eyes. “Can we break it down a little more?”

  “Demanding, aren’t we?”

  “An Italian princess. Just ask my mother.”

  Kitt relaxed slightly, pulled out her chair and sat.

  M.C. grabbed a legal tablet. “What do we know about the SAK and his crimes?” she asked.

  “He killed three ten-year-old girls. He has claimed responsibility for the murders of three elderly women. The means of death between the girls and the grandmothers was completely different.”

  “Ying and yang.”

  “He claims his victims are not emotional choices. That they are intellectual ones.”

  “He’s proud of his crimes. Calls them perfect.”

  “We’re painting a portrait of a guy who’s out to prove himself. To the world.”

  “Or to someone in particular.”

  “Mother? Father? Someone who criticized and belittled him.”

  Kitt felt the stirrings of excitement. This was him. The one she had come to know through their phone calls. “The duct tape to the mouth. Symbolic for shutting this person up. With the Angels, adding the lip gloss-also bringing attention to the mouth.

  “It’s why control is so important to him,” Kitt said. “There was a time in his life he was powerless. That’s why he became so angry every time I challenged him.”

  “And yet he preys on the powerless.”

  “Classic self-loathing.”

  “Along comes this Copycat.”

  “He knows who the Copycat is. From the joint, maybe.”

  “He calls you, Kitt. Wants you to catch him. Says he will help you.”

  “But the offer comes with strings,” Kitt continues. “He wants to toy with me. Watch me jump through hoops.”

  “He’s in control. Proving his superiority.”

  “And doing a damn good job of it, I might add.”

  “Why’d he choose you?” M.C. asked.

  “Because he saw me as vulnerable,” she said, though she hated the characterization. “He picks on the powerless.”

  “Yes.” M.C. got to her feet. “Winning’s so important to him, he stacks the deck. He calls it being ‘smart.’”

  “And the Copycat-”

  “There isn’t a Copycat, Kitt.” M.C. swung to face her. “He’s SAK and Copycat. It’s not about killing the girls. It’s about engaging you.”

  Kitt didn’t want to believe it, but it made sense. All the pieces fit together to create this scenario. “The hands-”

  “Mean nothing. They were a way to pull you in. Get you involved, assigned to the case.”

  It could be. A way to pull her in and keep them chasing their tails. “And the clean suit-”

  “Proves he’s smart. That he knows about evidence and investigation. How to get in and get out, what we’ll be looking for. The minutiae we can nail him with.”

  “He’s kept us running. He understands trace technology, what we can and cannot do.”

  “He used Buddy Brown. Led us to him, knew we would run with the lead. He may, or may not, have counted on us finding his body as quickly as we did.”

  They fell silent a moment. M.C. broke the silence first. “And Brian? How does he fit in?”

  “After I talk to Allen, I’ll head down to ID, see how the ballistics search is coming along, then start retracing Brian’s steps.” Kitt glanced at her watch. “I think we should take one last crack at the contents of the storage unit.”

  “Agreed. I’ll do it.” M.C. glanced at her legal pad, then back up at Kitt. “We’ve pretty much exhausted our options with the Angels, past and present. But what about the grandmothers?”

  “I reviewed the case files. Brian and Sarge were the original detectives assigned to the case. I spoke with Brian about it yesterday.”

  “What about questioning family and friends of the victims?”

  “It was on my short list.”

  “Since we’ve linked them to the SAK murders, there might be something there that makes sense now, that didn’t then.”

  “From my short list to yours?”

  “Bingo. Files?”

  Kitt retrieved them from her desk. “Call me crazy, M.C., but I feel we’re close to nailing him.”

  “Woman’s intuition?”

  “Damn right.” She handed her partner the files. “You want to argue about it?”

  “No way. God gave women ‘intuition’ to make up for childbirth.”

  “Spoken like a woman who’s never given birth. Intuition so doesn’t cover it.”

  59

  Tuesday, March 21, 2006

  11:55 a.m.

  Traditionally, comparing firearms evidence from one crime to another had been damn near impossible. An investigator had to actually suspect the same weapon had been used in the commission of different crimes, then compare the evidence. Difficult enough within a single jurisdiction, but outside it? To compare to regional, even national, crimes?

  The National Integrated Ballistic Information Network, or NIBIN, had changed all that. NIBIN was a national, networked database of fired cartridge casing and bullet images. By way of a microscope attached to the
system, images were scanned and stored within the system. An investigator could compare fired bullets and casings from a regional or national area.

  Even so, without a suspect weapon, bullet or casing, the comparisons could take weeks-and unlimited manpower. Because, no matter how quickly the system could bring up the comparison images, the firearms examiner still had to visually study them and determine if there was a hit.

  Sorenstein sat at the NIBIN terminal. Kitt crossed to stand behind him. Narrowing the type of gun the bullet had come from had been relatively easy. Now the tedious work began.

  “How’s it going?” she asked.

  “As well as can be expected. This one felt like a regional search. Figured I’d widen the net if I needed to.”

  She nodded. “Let me know if you get a hit.”

  “Goes without saying.”

  “Sal wants me to trace Brian’s steps. Do you know if you have a call log yet?”

  “Cell and landline. On Snowe’s desk.”

  “Thanks.” Kitt crossed to the other detective’s desk and retrieved the logs. “Catch you later.”

  Sorenstein didn’t reply and Kitt exited the Identification Bureau and headed back upstairs. On the way, she got a call from CRU. She had a visitor-Valerie Martin.

  Joe’s fiancée.

  Guilt rushed over her. She had slept with another woman’s man. Never mind that she felt as if Joe still belonged to her, a ring said he didn’t.

  Had she found out about her and Joe? How could she have? Maybe Joe had told her. Broken their engagement. He hadn’t said that was what he was going to do, and they certainly hadn’t parted with any promises. He had forgiven her-but made it clear that it was more complicated than the two of them.

  Maybe he had come clean and begged Valerie’s forgiveness for the lapse.

  And Valerie had come to the PSB to kick her ass. Figuratively, of course.

  Kitt’s knees went weak. She could face a killer across a table, but the thought of facing Joe’s fiancée made her want to run fast and hide well.

  She told the desk officer to send her up. She would meet her at the elevators on two.

  Kitt was waiting when the elevator doors slid open and Valerie stepped off. She wore her nurse’s uniform. She looked shaken.

  “Hello, Valerie. How can I help you?”

  “I need to talk to you,” she said. “It’s really important. But…I’m on my lunch break. I don’t have a lot of time.”

  Kitt nodded. “Follow me.”

  She led her to an empty interrogation room. Neither her desk nor the break room would give them the kind of privacy this conversation required.

  They sat. Kitt thought about simply telling her everything-her love for Joe, how she had realized it. Then beg her forgiveness.

  Shame kept her from speaking.

  “I don’t know how to say this,” Valerie began, clasping her hands in her lap.

  Kitt saw that she still wore Joe’s ring. “Just say it, then.”

  She nodded, took a deep breath and began. “I lied to your partner. When she asked me about Joe. About our being together the night that little girl died.”

  Kitt struggled to shift gears. To place what she was saying. “What do you mean, you lied?”

  “Joe and I weren’t together all that night.”

  Joe’s alibi for the night of Julie Entzel’s murder. He didn’t have one, after all.

  How did she know Valerie was being truthful now?

  Kitt struggled to keep her thoughts from showing and to pull herself together. Fact was, ethically, she should turn this over to another detective right now.

  She should. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

  That didn’t mean she was so stupid as not to cover herself-or protect the investigation.

  “Valerie, because of the nature of this conversation, I need to both record it and take notes. Is that all right?”

  The younger woman hesitated a moment, then nodded. “As long as it doesn’t take much time.”

  “It won’t, I promise.”

  Within moments, Kitt had set up the video recorder and was sitting across from Valerie, a tablet on the table in front of her. “Could you repeat what you told me earlier?”

  She did, repeating it almost verbatim, adding, “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said, about Tami being in danger. And I couldn’t stop thinking about the girls who had died.”

  “Let’s start at the beginning, Valerie. Detective Riggio visited you while you were working at the hospital.”

  “That’s right. Highland Park Hospital. She asked me some questions about Joe. Whether we were together all night on March 6. I said we had been.”

  Kitt leaned forward slightly. “Now you’re saying that’s not true?”

  “Yes.” Valerie looked down at her hands, then back up at Kitt. Tears sparkled in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have lied. I just…all I could think about was protecting Joe.”

  “What made you think Joe needed protection?”

  M.C. had attempted to avoid this very thing by questioning Valerie before Joe had the opportunity to call her.

  “Joe had told me about that ex-con who was working for him. That you’d been asking questions. He’d said it was making him uncomfortable.”

  Valerie let out a shaky breath. “I knew there was no way Joe could have anything to do with…that. So I lied.”

  “And now? What caused your change of heart?”

  “I keep thinking about what you said, about Tami being in danger. And about…all those other girls. And I can’t live with myself.”

  She wrung her hands. As she did, her diamond solitaire caught the light. It was a pretty ring, Kitt thought. Certainly bigger than the one she’d gotten. She and Joe had been kids when they’d gotten engaged; they’d had little but the roof over their heads.

  Valerie glanced at her watch. “I’m still certain he couldn’t have had anything to do with hurting a child. But I couldn’t be party to the lie anymore.”

  For long minutes after Valerie had left, Kitt sat in the interrogation room, staring at the empty doorway, trying to objectively evaluate Valerie’s story. Something about it didn’t ring true.

  But was that because it wasn’t-or because she didn’t want it to be?

  Kitt glanced down at the log of Brian’s calls. A number leaped out at her. One she knew by heart.

  She knew it by heart because, once upon a time, it had been hers as well.

  60

  Tuesday, March 21, 2006

  12:30 p.m.

  M.C. started with Rose McGuire, the second victim, simply because she had lived in an assisted-living community rather than a private residence. Even though seven years had passed, M.C. hoped there might still be someone on staff from the time of the murder. If so, they would remember. An incident like that was not easily forgotten. In addition, it had no doubt resulted in sweeping changes in the center’s security.

  The Walton B. Johnson Assisted Living Center had been named after the Rockford millionaire philanthropist whose brainchild the center had been. Or so the center’s director informed M.C. as they walked to her office. It had been the first of its kind in the city, providing a much-needed living alternative for the elderly. His foundation continued to underwrite needy residents, up to ten percent of occupancy. Their newest, a man named Billy Hatfield, had moved in just that day.

  They passed a line of wheelchairs filled with ladies-their gray hair ranging in shades of silver to lavender. Some napped, others waved at her and called greetings, others seemed to be grousing about something.

  “What are they waiting for?” M.C. asked.

  The director smiled. “Mr. Kenneth comes in to do hair on Mondays. Every Tuesday after lunch we put up the sign-up sheet. As you can see, Mr. Kenneth is very popular with the female residents.”

  They reached the woman’s office. A plaque on the door read Patsy Anderson, Director.

  She unlocked the door and led M.C. inside. After they had both taken a seat,
she asked, “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me something about Rose McGuire.”

  Her smile slipped. “Surely you don’t mean-”

  “I do, indeed, Ms. Anderson. We’re looking into reopening the investigation.”

  She didn’t look pleased at the news. M.C. didn’t blame her. If the case was reopened, it would attract media attention-which would be bad publicity for them.

  Worse than she knew.

  “That was so long ago.”

  “Seven years.”

  “I wasn’t even on staff here. I was hired in 2002.”

  “Is there anyone on staff who was?”

  She frowned. “Offhand, I don’t recall. I’d have to go into the personnel records.”

  “Would you, please?”

  “It’ll take a bit of time.”

  “When do you think you could have the information to me?”

  She glanced at her desk clock. “End of the day, latest.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “You know,” she went on, “the previous director retired, but she lives here in town. I bet she’d be happy to talk to you. She took the murder really hard. In fact, it’s why she retired when she did. Why don’t I call her, see if she’s home and tell her you’re coming over?”

  Twenty minutes later, M.C. greeted Wanda Watkins, a small, energetic woman with a lovely silver bob and eyes so big they took up an inordinate amount of her face.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Watkins.”

  “Call me Wanda. Come in.”

  She led M.C. into her small living room. A big calico cat perched on the back of the floral sofa, another sprawled across the cushions.

  Unfortunately, M.C. was allergic. She felt her nose twitch.

  “My babies,” the woman said. She scooped up the one and shooed the other. “Please, sit.”

  M.C. did. She took out her notebook and pen. “As Patsy told you over the phone, we’re looking into reopening the investigation into Rose McGuire’s murder. We have a possible new lead.”

  “Thank God.” She stroked the cat. “It’s been difficult, knowing her killer was never caught. Not just because he was still free, but because Miss Rose was such a sweet woman. Always a smile, never a complaint.”