Copycat

Kitt stepped into the house. It was warm inside. The child’s parents huddled on the couch. Kitt didn’t make eye contact. She swept her gaze over the interior. Pin neat, cheap furnishings. Sculptured carpeting that had obviously seen its day; walls painted a handsome sage color.

She followed the sound of voices to the girl’s bedroom. Too many people in this small room. Detective Riggio should be doing a better job controlling traffic.

She wasn’t surprised to see Brian, though he was no longer part of the detective unit. As if getting wind of her presence, Mary Catherine Riggio turned and stared at her. In the eighteen months she had been away, a handful of officers had made rank of detective; of them one, Mary Catherine Riggio, had joined the VCB. From what she’d heard, the woman was smart, ambitious and uncompromising. All to a fault.

Kitt met her eyes, nodded slightly in acknowledgment, then continued toward the bed.

One look at the victim told her it was true: he was back.

Kitt swallowed hard against the guilt that rushed up, threatening to drown her. Guilt at not having nailed the son of a bitch five years ago, about allowing him to kill again.

She wanted to look away but couldn’t. Despair overwhelmed her. Her daughter’s image filled her head, memories of her last days.

A cry crept up from the depths of her being. She held it in. Her daughter’s death and the Sleeping Angel murders had become weirdly, irrevocably intertwined in her mind.

She knew why. She and her shrink had discussed this one ad nauseam: the first Sleeping Angel murder had occurred as Sadie was slipping away. Her fight to keep her daughter alive had mirrored her fight to stop the SAK, to keep the other girls alive.

God help her, she’d lost both battles.

Kitt suddenly realized that this victim’s hands were positioned differently than the others had been. In the original killings, each victim’s hands had been folded primly on her chest. This one’s were posed strangely, the fingers curled, one seeming to point to her own chest, the other out, as if at another.

It might mean nothing. A variation in the killer’s ritual. After all, five years had passed since the last known victim.

She didn’t think so. The SAK she had hunted had been precise, his scenes had never varied and he had never left the police anything to work with.

Excited, she turned and called Brian over. Riggio and White came with him.

The other woman didn’t give her a chance to speak. “Hello, Detective Lundgren.”

“Detective Riggio.”

“I appreciate you coming out to offer your perspective.”

“Thank you, Detective,” Kitt said, though Mary Catherine Riggio looked anything but appreciative. Kitt shifted her attention to her former partner. “The hands are different.”

Brian nodded, expression admiring. “I’d forgotten.” He looked at M.C. “In all the previous murders, the hands were positioned the same way. Folded on the chest, near the heart.”

Roselli looked over his shoulder at them. “Actually, the hands present a very interesting scenario.”

M.C. frowned. “Why?”

“Clearly, the positioning is unnatural. In which case, the killer posed them postmortem.”

“No surprise there. What’s so—”

“Interesting? How long he waited to do it after the death.”

“I don’t understand,” Kitt said. “He had to act fast, before rigor mortis set in.”

The pathologist shook his head. “Wrong, Detective. He had to wait until after rigor mortis set in.”

For several seconds, no one spoke. M.C. broke the silence first. “What kind of window are we talking about?”

“A small one. Depending on temperature, rigor mortis sets in two to six hours after death. Since the furnace is running and the house is relatively warm, my guess is it took three to four hours.”

Kitt couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Are you saying he sat here and waited for her to get stiff?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And for his patience to pay off, the body had to be discovered before rigor mortis broke at ten to twelve hours after death.”

Brian whistled. He looked at Kitt. “The hand position is extremely important to him.”

“He’s making a bold statement. An arrogant one.”

“Most killers get in and out, as quickly as possible.”

“Most smart ones,” Kitt corrected. “And the original SAK was damn intelligent.”

“So, what does the positioning mean?”

“Me and you,” White offered.

Kitt nodded. “Us and them. In and out.”

“Or nothing,” M.C. said, sounding irritated.

“Doubtful. Considering the risk he took to pose them.” Brian glanced at Kitt. “Anything else jump out at you as different?”

She shook her head. “Not that I’ve noticed—yet.” She shifted her gaze to Detective Riggio. “Is anything missing from the scene?”

“Excuse me?”

“The original SAK didn’t take a trophy from his victim. Which, of course, doesn’t fit the typical profile of a serial killer.”

M.C. and White exchanged glances. “We’ll need the girl’s parents to carefully inventory her things,” she said.

White nodded and made a note in his spiral.

“You mind if I study the scene a bit more?” In an effort to earn the other woman’s good will, Kitt directed the question Riggio’s way, though asking Brian would have yielded an easy yes and, as the superior officer of the group, his decision would have been unarguable.

But Detective Riggio was lead on the case and, Kitt could tell, hungry to prove herself. She was one of those “ballbuster” women cops, a type Kitt had seen too often. Police work was still a boys’ club—women had to fight to be taken seriously. Until they were, they were relegated to second-class citizens. So, many contorted themselves into humorless hard-asses with a severe case of testosterone envy. In other words, a woman acting like a man. Hell, she’d done a turn as one herself.

She knew better now. She had learned what made a female cop an asset was the very fact she wasn’t a man. Her instincts, the way she responded and interacted—all were shaped by her gender.

“Go for it,” she said. “Let me know if anything jumps out.”

Nothing did, and forty minutes later, Kitt left the scene. It felt wrong to be leaving without questioning the parents, lining up the neighborhood canvas and other interviews.

Dammit, this should be her case! She’d worked her ass off to solve it five years ago, every nuance of this killer’s MO was burned onto her brain.

She’d also blown it. And it had been ugly.

“Lundgren!”

Kitt stopped and turned. Mary Catherine Riggio strode toward her, expression set. “I wanted a word with you before you left.”

No surprise there. She folded her arms across her chest. “Floor’s yours.”

“Look, I know your history. I know how important the SAK case was to you, and how it must feel to be shut out now.”

“Shut out? Is that what I am?”

“Don’t play games with me, Lundgren. It’s my case, and I’m asking you to put aside your personal feelings and respect that.”

“In other words, butt out.”

“Yes.”

Kitt cocked an eyebrow at the other woman’s arrogance. “May I remind you, Detective, I know every detail of the original SAK killings. Should this one prove to be a fourth, that knowledge would be invaluable to you.”

“May I remind you, Detective, that each and every one of those case details are already available to me.”

“But my instincts—”

“Are shot. And you know it.”

Kitt fought the urge to become defensive. Riggio would perceive it as weak emotionalism. “I know this guy,” she said instead. “He’s smart. Cautious. He plans his crimes down to the tiniest detail. He prides himself on his intellect, the fact that he keeps emotion out of his crimes.

“He stalks the children, learns their routines. Bedtimes. Location of their bedrooms. Spots the ones who are vulnerable.”

“What makes them vulnerable?”

“Different things. The parents’ situations. Socioeconomics.”

“How are you so certain?”

“Because for the past five years, I ate, drank and shit this son of a bitch. Catching him is nearly all I’ve thought about.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

Kitt couldn’t answer. The one time she’d gotten close, she had blown it.

Riggio leaned toward her. “Look, Lundgren, I have nothing against you. I’ve been a cop long enough to know how the job can get to you. How a case can get to you. But that’s not my problem. This is my case. Stand back and let me nail this guy.”

“I was so arrogant, once upon a time.”

Riggio turned to go. “Whatever.”

Kitt caught her arm. “Wouldn’t working together be a benefit? Wouldn’t my experience with the SAK be a benefit? If you spoke to Sal—”

“That’s not going to happen. I’m sorry.”

Kitt doubted that. She dropped her hand and stepped back. “You know, Riggio, it’s not about you. It’s about catching this guy, no matter what it takes.”

The other woman narrowed her eyes. “I’m well aware of what this is about, Detective Lundgren. I suggest you ask yourself if you are.”

“I’ll go to the deputy chief myself.”

“Have a ball. We both know what he’s going to say.”

Kitt watched the other detective walk away, then climbed into her car. Problem was, she suspected she did know what he would say. But that wasn’t going to stop her from trying.

6

Tuesday, March 7, 2006 Noon

Deputy Chief of Detectives Salvador Minelli listened quietly as Kitt presented her case. A strikingly handsome man, with silvering hair and at fifty-one, a nearly unlined face, he dressed with panache and walked with the barest hint of a swagger. These days, Sal—as almost everyone in the department called him—was as much a politician as a cop. In fact, most of those in the know felt he was the front-runner for the chief of police’s job when he retired in a couple of years.

Sal had been a very good friend to her. He had been her superior five years ago and had been as supportive as a man in his position could be, maybe more. He’d certainly gone to bat for her, facing the displeasure of the chief himself.

Perhaps it had been because he was the father of five. Perhaps because he came from a family that valued familial bonds above all else. He had seemed to understand how deeply painful the loss of Sadie had been.

“I know this guy,” Kitt argued. “I know the SAK case better than anyone, you know that. Give Detective Riggio the lead spot, no problem. Let me assist.”

He was quiet for long moments after she finished. He steepled his fingers. “Why are you doing this, Kitt?”

“Because I want this guy. I want him behind bars. Because I’d be an asset to the investigation.”

“I suspect Detective Riggio would disagree on the last.”

“Detective Riggio’s young and overconfident. She needs me.”

“You had your shot, Kitt. He slipped through your grasp.”

“This time he won’t.”

He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You know how important a fresh pair of eyes can be to a case.”

“Yes, but—”

He held up a hand, stopping her. “Detective Riggio’s good. Damn good.”

There was a time, she knew, he had said the same about her. She doubted that would be the case again. To a certain degree, she had become a liability. “She’s headstrong,” Kitt countered. “Too ambitious.” He smiled. “White’s a good ballast for that.” “How can I prove to you that I can handle it?” “I’m sorry, Kitt. You’re too close. Still too fragile.” “With all due respect, Sal, don’t you think I should be the one to make that determination?”

“No,” he said simply. He leaned forward. “Have you considered that working this case might overwhelm you and send you running back to the bottle?” “It won’t.” She met his gaze unflinchingly. “I’m sober. I have been for nearly a year. I intend to stay that way.”

He lowered his voice. “I can’t protect you again, Kitt. You know what I’m talking about.”

She’d let the SAK slip through her fingers. Sal had covered for her. Because he had felt partly responsible.

And because of Sadie.

“I’ll ask Riggio and White to keep you in the loop. Bounce things off you. It’s the best I can do.”

She stood, shocked to realize her hands were shaking. More shocked to realize that she longed for a drink to still them.

The urge she could never give into again.

“Thank you,” she said, then crossed to the door.

He stopped her when she reached it. She turned back. “How’s Joe?” he asked.

Her ex-husband. High school sweetheart. Former best friend. “We don’t talk much.” “You know how I feel about that.”

She did. Hell, she felt the same way.

“If you see him, tell him I said hello.” She told him she would and walked away, with Joe suddenly very much on her mind.

7

Tuesday, March 7, 2006 5:30 p.m.

“Hello, Joe.”

Her ex-husband looked up from the house plans on the desk in front of him. Although his blond hair had silvered over the years, his eyes were as blue as the day she had married him. Tonight, the expression in them was wary.

She supposed she didn’t blame him. These days, she never just “popped in.”

“Hello, Kitt,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

“Flo already left,” she said, referring to the woman who served as both his secretary and office manager. “So I came on in. How’s business?”

“Picking up. Thank God spring’s here.”

Joe owned his own home-construction business, Lundgren Homes. Northern Illinois winters were tough on builders. Home starts simply didn’t happen. The goal was to have several jobs closed in and ready for interior work by the time severe weather hit. Some winters, it had been pretty lean going.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I guess I am.” He passed a hand across his face. “Judging by the bulge, you’re back on the job.”

Her shoulder holster. Joe had never really gotten used to her wearing it. “Sal sends a hello.”

He held her gaze. “And the drinking, how’s—”

“Still sober. Eleven months and counting. I plan to stay that way.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Kitt.”

He meant it, she knew. He had seen the alcohol almost destroy her. And though they’d divorced, he still cared for her. As she did him.

She cleared her throat. “Something’s happened. The Sleeping Angel Killer … it looks like he’s back.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. She saw several different emotions chase across his face. “A little girl named Julie Entzel,” she continued. “They found her this morning.”

“I’m sorry.” He shifted his gaze to the plans laid out in front of him. “Sal has you working the case?”

“No, he thinks I’m too close. Too … vulnerable.”

He looked back up at her. “But you don’t agree?”

His tone had taken on an edge. She stiffened slightly, defensive. “I see you do.”

He made a sound, part frustration, part anger. “You chose that case over our marriage. Over me. I’d call that ‘too close.’”

“Let’s not start this, Joe.”

He stood. She saw that his hands were clenched. “Even after the killings stopped, you couldn’t let it go. Even after Sal closed the case.”

That was true. It had consumed her. Fueled her drinking, her defiance of direct orders. But she had not chosen it over him. She told him so.

He laughed, the sound bitter. “That case became the focus of your life. I should have been your focus. Our marriage. This family.”

“What family?” She regretted the words the moment they passed her lips. She saw how much they hurt him.

She started to say so; he cut her off. “Why are you here?”

“I thought you’d want to know. About the little girl.”

“Why?”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Julie Entzel wasn’t our daughter, Kitt. None of those girls were. I’d never met even one of them. And that’s the part you never got.”

“Oh, I got that, Joe. But I feel a sense of responsibility that you, obviously, don’t. I feel a need to help. To do … something.”

“Don’t you think my heart breaks for that little girl, her folks? I know what it’s like to lose a child. That some monster could do such a thing sickens me.” He cleared his throat. “But she wasn’t Sadie. She wasn’t ours. You’ve got to move on with your life.”

“The way you have?” she shot back.

“Actually, yes.” He paused for a long moment. When he spoke again, his tone was flat. “I’m getting remarried, Kitt.”

For several seconds, she simply gazed at him, certain she had misheard. She must have. Her Joe, getting remarried?

“You don’t know her,” he went on, before she could ask. “Her name’s Valerie.”

Kitt’s mouth had gone dry. She felt light-headed. What? Had she expected him to pine for her forever?

Yes.

She struggled to keep her turmoil from showing. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone so seriously.”

“No reason you should have.”

No reason? She had a lifetime worth of reasons. “How long have you been dating?”

“Four months.”

“Four months? Not very long. Are you certain—”

“Yes.”

“When’s the big day?” Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears.

“We haven’t set one yet. Fairly soon. It’ll be a small service. Just a few family members and close friends.”

“I see.”

He looked frustrated. “Is that all you have to say?”

“No.” She stood, blinded by tears she would never allow him to see. “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

8

Wednesday, March 8, 2006 12:10 p.m.

Kitt sat at her desk, brown-bag lunch untouched, thumbing through the original Sleeping Angel case files. The information was available electronically, but she preferred to review hard copies.

She slipped out the scene photos of the first victim. Mary Polaski. It hurt to look at her. She had let this little victim down. She had let her family down.

Kitt forced such thoughts from her mind and studied the photos, comparing them to those of Julie Entzel. Why had he positioned the hands this way? Why take the chance of remaining at the scene for hours? What had been so important to him?

Her phone rang; Kitt reached for it without taking her gaze from the photos. “Detective Lundgren, Violent Crimes Bureau.”

“The Detective Lundgren who was in charge of the Sleeping Angel case five years ago?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“Actually, I think I can help you.”

The call didn’t surprise her; the morning newspaper headline had read: Sleeping Angel Killer Returns. What surprised her was the fact she hadn’t received one before now. “Always happy to have help. Your name?”

“I’m someone you’ve wanted to meet for a very long time.”

The sly amusement in his tone grated. She didn’t have time for wackos. Or for games. She told him so.

“I’m the Sleeping Angel Killer.”

For the space of a heartbeat she wondered if it could be true. Could it be this easy?

Of course it couldn’t.

“You’re the Sleeping Angel Killer,” she repeated. “And you want to help me?”

“I didn’t kill that little girl. The one in the paper today.”

“Julie Entzel.”

“Yeah, her.” She heard a hissing sound, as if he were taking a drag on a cigarette. She made a note. “Someone ripped me off.”

“Ripped you off?”

“Copied me. And I don’t like it.”

Kitt glanced around her. Everyone, it seemed, was either out on a call or at lunch. She stood and waved her free arm, hoping to catch the attention of someone walking by. She needed to initiate a trace.

“I want you to catch this asshole and stop him.”

“I want to help you,” she said. “But I’ve got another call coming in. Can you hold a moment?”

“Now who’s playing games?” She heard him exhale. “Here are the rules. I won’t talk to anyone but you, Kitt. May I call you Kitt?”

“Sure. What should I call you?”

He ignored her question. “Nice name. Kitty. Kitten. Feminine. Sexy. Doesn’t fit a cop, though.” Another pause, another deep inhale. “Of course, everybody calls you Detective. Or Lundgren. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right,” she said. “But here’s the thing, I’m not working the Entzel murder. I’ll transfer you to the team who is.”

He ignored her. “Rule number two. Don’t expect anything for free. And don’t expect it to be easy. Everything costs. I determine payment.”

His voice was deep. Relatively youthful. The smoking hadn’t yet altered that. She would place his age between twenty-five and thirty-five. “Is there a rule number three?”

“There may be. I haven’t decided yet.”

“And if I don’t want to play by your rules?”

He laughed. “You will. Or more little girls will die.”

Shit. Where the hell was everyone? “All right. Just give me a reason to believe you’re anything more than a crank. Something to take to my chief—”

“Goodbye, Kitten.”

He hung up. She swore and dialed the Central Reporting Unit. Because all the department calls were routed through a switchboard, a trace had to be manually initiated on a per call basis. However, the number of each call that came into the RPD switchboard was automatically trapped.

“This is Lundgren in Violent Crimes. I just received a call to my desk. I need the number, ASAP.”

She hung up and two minutes later CRU called her back. It was Brian himself. “It was a cell number, Kitt. What’s up?”

A cell number. Unlike a call made from a landline, which could be trapped in ten seconds of continuous connection, one from a cell took five minutes. If the guy was smart, he also knew that all new cellular phones included a GPS chip that allowed a call’s location to be pinpointed within ten minutes. Older models, without the new technology, would take hours.

She glanced at her watch. She would guess the call had lasted no more than three minutes. Which meant this guy understood trace technology.

“Guy claimed he was the SAK,” she said. “The original SAK. Said Julie Entzel’s murder isn’t his.”

Brian whistled. “Obviously, you want a name and address to go along with that number?”

“ASAP.” She glanced toward her sergeant’s office and saw he was still out. “Call me back on my cell.”

She hung up, collected her notes and headed for Sal’s office. She paused as she saw Riggio and White entering the squad room. She pointed toward Sal’s office. “You’ll be interested in this.”

She reached the deputy chief’s, the other two detectives right behind her. She tapped on his open door.

He looked up, waved them in. Kitt didn’t waste time on a preamble. “I just received a call from someone claiming to be the SAK.” Seeing she had everyone’s attention, she continued, “He also claimed he did not kill Julie Entzel.”

“Why was he calling you?”

This came from Riggio, and Kitt met her gaze. “He wants me to find this copycat and stop him.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Sal frowned. “What else did you get from him?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s a smoker. I guess his age to be between twenty-five and thirty-five. He told me—” She glanced at her notes. “‘Someone ripped me off. Copied me. And I don’t like it.’”

“Did you initiate a trace?”

“Everyone was at lunch or out on call. When I tried to put him on hold, he told me to stop playing games.”

“You called CRU—”

“The minute he hung up. Call came from a cell phone. I’m waiting to hear back on the owner’s name.”

“The caller, did he say anything else?”

“He gave me two rules. Said if I didn’t follow them, more little girls would die.”