Copycat

“You’re serious?”

“Absolutely. I told him to bring it on.” He took a swallow of his beer. “So what’s your story?”

“I’m the youngest of six. And the only girl.”

“I’m sitting next to royalty, then.” He mock bowed. “Princess Mary Catherine.”

“In the form of a cop.”

He held up his glass in a mock toast. “To a fellow rebel and outsider.”

An outsider? She had never thought of herself quite that way, but it certainly fit. She was one of them and loved, but different. And not just because she didn’t fit the mold of her ancestors. Her profession made her different, as well. The way she lived. The violence and inhumanity she saw on a daily basis.

“Is this a private party, or can anybody join in?”

That came from Brian, who seemed to have given up on the bartender. Deciding she’d had enough, she stood. “It’s your party now, guys. I’m beat.”

As she walked away, she looked back at Lance Castrogiovanni. He caught her glance and smiled. She returned the smile, wondering if she would see him again—and hoping that she would.

11

Thursday, March 9, 2006 7:20 a.m.

Kitt stood at the grave site, shivering in the early-morning chill. The stone read:

Our Beloved “Peanut” Sadie Marie Lundgren September 10, 1990—April 4, 2001

Kitt visited Sadie at least once a week. Laid fresh flowers on her grave, removed the dead ones. Today it was daisies.

She looked up at the gray sky, longing suddenly for real spring. Bright sun and blue sky.

“Something bad’s happened, sweetheart. He’s back. That man who killed those girls. And I’m—”

She struggled to speak past the lump that formed in her throat. Even after all the time that had passed, she still choked up at moments like this.

“I’m afraid,” she went on. “For other girls. But for me, too. I can’t … start drinking again. I can’t let it … let him take over my life.

“Not that I have—” She shook her head and bit off the thought. She wouldn’t go there. Wouldn’t burden her sweet child with her problems.

“I hope you’re happy. That it’s good there.” She paused. “I think about you every day, baby. I love you.”

She bent and straightened the flowers, hating to go. Wishing with all her heart that staying would bring her daughter back. Finally she forced herself to take a step back from the grave site. To turn, walk away.

Her cell phone rang as she reached the walkway. She simultaneously answered and glanced back.

“Lundgren here.”

“Hello, Kitt.”

The hair at the back of her neck prickled. The Sleeping Angel Killer. How had he gotten her cell number?

“I’m at a disadvantage,” she said. “You know my name but I don’t know yours.” “You know who I am.”

“I know who you say you are.”

“Yes.” He paused. “So, did you arrange what I asked?”

“I talked to my chief.”

“And?”

“He’s taking your request seriously.”

“But not seriously enough to give you the case.”

“PDs don’t work that way.”

“Another girl’s going to die,” he said. “You can stop it.”

“How?” she asked, heart beating faster. “How can I stop it?”

“I committed perfect crimes. This one’s a cheap imitator. He’ll move fast. Too fast. He won’t plan. The Copycat doesn’t know my secrets.”

“What secrets?” She gripped the phone tightly, working to keep excitement from her voice. To keep it cool, even. “Tell me, so I can help.”

“I know your secret, Kitt.”

His voice had turned sly. She frowned. “What secret would you be referring to?”

“You could have caught me. But you were drunk. That’s why you fell. It was a stupid mistake on my part. But I didn’t make another, did I?”

Kitt couldn’t speak. The past rushed up, choking her. A call had come into the department. A mother, insisting her daughter was being targeted by the SAK. That she was being stalked.

During that time, they had gotten so many calls like that, hundreds. The department checked them all out, but they simply didn’t have the manpower to watch every nine- and ten-year-old girl in Rockford.

But something about this mother’s claim, about this girl … she’d had a feeling. The chief had refused to fund it, had reminded Kitt of her fragile emotional state.

They had buried Sadie the week before.

So, she had broken one of the cardinal rules of police work—she’d gone solo. Set up her own after-hours stakeout.

Night after night she had sat outside that girl’s house. Just her and her little flask. The flask that chased the cold away.

At least that’s what she had told herself. It had been a lie, of course. The flask had been about chasing the pain away.

A week into it, she had seen him. A man who didn’t belong. She should have called for backup. Instead, she’d given chase.

Or tried. By that time, she had been stumbling drunk. She’d fallen, hit her head and been knocked unconscious. When she’d come to, he’d been long gone.

He had never given them another chance.

The chief had been furious. The SAK could have killed her. He could have taken her gun, used it on her or others.

Kitt refocused on the now, on what this meant: he was who he said. There were only two others within the department who knew the truth about that night, Sal and Brian.

Then another girl had died and the SAK had disappeared. Until now.

“Okay,” she said, “you’ve got me. Do you know who the Copycat is?”

He laughed coyly. “I might.”

“Then tell me. I’ll stop him.”

“What fun is there in that?”

She pictured the body of Julie Entzel. Recalled the sound of her parents’ grief. The way it echoed inside her.

“I don’t call any of this fun, you son of a bitch.”

He chuckled, seeming pleased. “But it’s my game now. And it’s time to say goodbye.”

“Wait! What should I call you?”

“Call me Peanut,” he said softly.

In the next instant, he was gone.

12

Thursday, March 9, 2006 7:25 a.m.

Kitt stood frozen, cell phone held to her ear. She struggled to breathe. Peanut. They’d given Sadie the nickname because she’d been so small. Because of the leukemia.

How dare that monster use her precious daughter’s name! It had sounded obscene on his lips. If he had been within her grasp, she would have been tempted to kill him.

Kitt reholstered the phone and walked quickly to her car. She unlocked it, slipped inside, but made no move to start the engine. He was playing with her.

Somehow, he had learned her cell number. Her daughter’s nickname. Which buttons to push.

What else did he know about her?

Everything. At least that was the presumption she needed to operate on. He had called this “fun.” His “game.” And like a masterful player, he had made it his business to educate himself on his competitor’s weaknesses.

She breathed deeply, calmer now, putting the call into perspective. She unclipped her phone and punched in Sal’s cell number. He answered right way.

“Sal, it’s Kitt. He contacted me again. I’m on my way in.”

Kitt arrived at the PSB just after Sal. She caught him waiting at the elevator. The car arrived, and they stepped inside. He punched two and turned to her.

“Well?”

“He’s the real deal, Sal. He knew about that night, about my falling. Why I fell.”

His mouth tightened. “Go on.”

“He said another girl is going to die.”

The elevator stopped on the second floor; they stepped off and headed down the hall to the Violent Crimes Bureau.

“When?”

“He was speaking metaphorically. Said the Copycat was going to move too fast. That whoever was copying his crimes was going to make mistakes.”

They reached the bureau. Nan held out a stack of message slips with a cheery “Good morning.”

He returned her greeting and began to thumb through the slips. “Anything urgent?” he asked the woman.

“The chief needs to push your meeting back thirty minutes. And Detective Allen’s down with the flu. His wife called.”

The deputy chief nodded. “I want Riggio and White. In my office, ASAP. Is Sergeant Haas in yet?”

“In his office.”

“Send him in as well.”

“Will do.” Nan turned to her. “Detective Lundgren, you have a message as well. An old friend. Said he’d try you later.”

Kitt frowned. The woman handed her the pink message slip. “Called himself ‘Peanut.’ Said to tell you he was looking forward to seeing you on television.”

Kitt didn’t comment, but by the time they had all assembled in Sal’s office, she shook with anger. This brazen bastard was starting to piss her off.

Sal began. “The man claiming to be the Sleeping Angel Killer contacted Detective Lundgren again. This time on her cell phone.” He turned toward her. “Detective, you want to fill everyone in?”

She took over, recounting the brief conversation, minus the incriminating comments about her fall. “He told me to call him ‘Peanut.’”

Sal looked sharply at her. “Your daughter’s nickname?”

She kept her voice flat. “Yes. He called the bureau this morning as well.” She handed the message slip to Sal. “This was waiting for me here.”

Sal swore. She shifted her gaze to the rest of the group. “Point is, he knows details of the original case and investigation that he couldn’t, unless he is who he claims.”

M.C. frowned. “Last time he called them his ‘perfect’ crimes as well. Obviously, that’s important to him.”

“He’s arrogant,” Kitt said. “He’s pissed that this guy is copying his work—”

White stepped in. “And being damn sloppy about it.”

“In his opinion,” Riggio murmured.

“Yes.” Kitt paused a moment. “I asked him if he knew who the Copycat was. He said ‘maybe.’”

Sal steepled his fingers. “Do you think he really does and is being coy? Or that he suspects but isn’t certain?”

“At this point, I’m not certain. If I had to wager a guess, I think he’s being coy.”

“Because he’s playing a game with you,” Riggio agreed. “His words.”

“Yes. A game he called ‘fun.’”

“If the Copycat makes the mistakes Peanut claims he will, we’ll get him.”

Kitt flinched at the other detective’s use of Sadie’s nickname, though she acknowledged that she had better get used to it. This wouldn’t be the last time.

“But another girl will die,” White offered. “Maybe more than one.”

Kitt cleared her throat. “We’re forgetting another thing here. If he’s telling me the truth, we have two killers to catch. The SAK and his copycat.”

The room grew silent. Sergeant Haas looked at his superior. “What’s your recommendation, Sal?”

“Give him what he wants. Play along.”

Riggio jumped in. “With all due respect, Chief, I disagree.”

The deputy chief turned to her. “He called here, this morning. Said he was looking forward to seeing Kitt on TV.”

“On television?” White asked. “What did he mean by that?”

“Press conference,” Sal offered. “For whatever reason, he wants Kitt working the case and he wants proof we complied with his demand.”

Riggio spoke up. “Clearly, this man’s made it his business to educate himself about Detective Lundgren. He’s gone to great lengths to involve her in this ‘game.’” She looked at Kitt. “My question is, why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Seems to me, that’d be an important thing to find out.”

“Agreed.” Sal moved his gaze between the group. “Tom, I’m temporarily reassigning you. Riggio, it’s you and Kitt on this one. Kitt’s lead.”

Riggio made a sound of protest. “Lead? This is my case. Let her assist, but don’t—”

“My decision’s final. Sorry, Riggio.” He turned to Kitt. “Are you up to this? It’s only round one and he’s calling himself by your daughter’s nickname.”

“I can handle it.”

He nodded. “Then, let’s get busy. Call a press conference for this afternoon. Keep it simple. A straightforward FYI.”

They filed out of the office. When they cleared the chief’s hearing range, Kitt stopped Riggio. “This is going to get intense. It’ll be important we work together, as a team.”

“You don’t need to lecture me, Detective. I have my priorities straight.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“With that said, do you really think you’re ready to lead a major homicide investigation?”

“I said I’m ready, and I am.”

Riggio shook her head. “Do you even know what that means anymore? The pressure of being under the departmental microscope? The press hounding you? The public demanding results? And we’re not talking just any case, the case?”

Kitt didn’t flinch, though a small seed of doubt bloomed inside her. “I’m ready,” she said again.

Riggio leaned toward her. “It’s my ass on the line with this one, too. I need a partner I trust watching my back.”

“I’ll be watching it,” Kitt muttered. “Better than any partner you’ve ever had.”

“Somehow, I have a hard time believing that.”

Kitt watched Riggio walk away. She didn’t blame the woman for her skepticism. Would she want her for a partner? With her history? Would she be able to trust?

Hell, no.

But none of this was her doing. A killer had singled her out for fun and games. He had demanded her participation, for what reason she didn’t yet know.

She could have turned him down. Or pretended to play along. But she hadn’t even considered either an option. From the moment another child had turned up dead, she’d wanted on the case.

Was she making a good, objective choice here? Or was she letting her own need to nail this guy rule her, thus jeopardizing the case?

Brian knew her better than anyone on the force. They had been partners for years; he had been with her as she’d slid deeper and deeper into the bottle—and into despair.

She trusted him completely. To be straight with her, no punches pulled.

She found him in his office, also located on two, just down the hall from the shift commander.

She tapped on his door. “Hey, partner. Got a minute?”

“For you? Always.” He waved her in. She took a seat and he sent her one of his trademark broad smiles. “What’s up?”

“Wanted to run something by you.”

“Shoot.” He leaned back in his chair, waiting.

“The guy called me again.”

“The one claiming to be the SAK?”

“The very one. On my cell phone. Asked me to call him Peanut.”

Brian was quiet a moment, as if processing all the ramifications of that. “How are you with that?”

“Royally pissed off.”

He nodded. “Go on.”

She filled him in on the conversation, sharing how the man had proved his identity.

“Sal put you on the case.”

It wasn’t a question; she answered, anyway. “Yes.”

“And Riggio’s not happy about it.”

“An understatement.” Kitt shifted her gaze, frowning. “Which brings me to you. Am I doing the right thing, going along with this? Am I ready?”

“Seems to me you don’t have a choice. This guy’s brought you onboard, like it or not.”

“Maybe.” She stood, crossed to a wall of photos. There was one of the two of them, receiving a commendation from the mayor. That’d been more than a lifetime ago. There was one of Brian and Scott Snowe from ID at a press conference last year. She remembered it. She’d been on leave, had watched with everybody else—on the News at Five. They had obtained the fingerprints of a “floater” recovered from the Rock River by actually peeling the skin from the corpse’s hand intact. The victim had been identified as the missing wife of a prominent city official—and her identification had quickly led to the husband’s arrest for her murder.

The press had been all over it.

And Brian had gotten bumped to lieutenant.

She turned and faced him once more. “I don’t trust my instincts, Brian. I’m afraid to. Last time—”

“You saved that little girl’s life, Kitt.”

“But I let him get away. Another girl died.”

“Maybe two more would have died. You don’t know.”

“I screwed up.”

“Yeah, you did. But what about today?”

She made a sound of frustration. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Have you screwed up today?”

“Hell no.”

“Then let the past go. You were a great partner, Kitt. I counted on you, and until Sadie died and your world fell apart, you never let me down.”

“I’m not the cop I was back then. I don’t know if I ever will be.”

“So?” He leaned forward. “Has it occurred to you that you might be a better one?”

It hadn’t.

“You’re going to have to prove yourself, Kitt. To Riggio. To Sal and the rest of the department. But most of all, you’re going to convince you.”

“I have to do this, don’t I?”

“That’s the way I see it.” He paused; when he spoke again, his tone was low, deep with emotion. “Go slow. Trust your instincts, but not blindly. I’ll be here for you. Anything you need.”

She thanked him and stood. She wasn’t certain he’d given her the vote of confidence she longed for, but it would have to do.

In the end, the fact was, a killer had volunteered her for this game. She had no choice but to play.

13

Thursday, March 9, 2006 5:05 p.m.

He sat at the bar, ice-cold draft in front of him, bowl of pretzels and his pack of smokes beside that. He had arrived before the after-work crowd, to get the best seat in the house—directly in front of the TV that was mounted behind and above the bar.

He acknowledged excitement. Anxiety.

Would his Kitten come through for him this time?

He hoped so. He would be angry if she defied him again.

He lit a cigarette and sucked the smoke in. It had an instant calming effect on him. He smiled to himself, recalling watching her at her little daughter’s grave. It’d been sad. And curiously sweet. He supposed he should feel bad, spying on her. Using what he learned against her.

But he didn’t.

He was just that kind of guy.

Taking another drag on his cigarette, he glanced at his watch. It had been genius to ask her to call him Peanut. It had rattled her, big-time. As had calling on her cell phone. Both proved he meant business. That he knew his shit and wasn’t afraid to play dirty to get what he wanted.

Genius. He liked the sound of that.

Damn but he liked being him.

The News at Five began in earnest. Top story of the day: “The Return of the Sleeping Angel Killer.”

They showed a picture of Julie Entzel. Then of his Little Angels. Their narrative was over the top.

Typical media.

They cut to a breaking press conference. And there she was, his Kitten. He hung on her few words. They were exploring every lead. Studying all the evidence. They had no proof they were even dealing with the same killer.

Blah … blah … blah …

The other detective was with her, Mary Catherine Riggio. Taking a back seat. Standing quietly at his Kitten’s side. Expression set. Grim. Not a bit happy about this turn of events. About her sweet, career-making case being stolen out from under her nose. He almost laughed out loud.

Of course, not a word about a copycat. No mention of communication from someone claiming to be the SAK. No indeed.

She closed the brief conference by assuring the media that they would catch this monster, that he would not get away with this heinous murder.

But he already had.

He smiled to himself and stood. Good girl, Kitten. Stay tuned, there’s lots more fun to come.

14

Thursday, March 9, 2006 7:30 p.m.

Kitt had been attending Alcoholics Anonymous for eighteen months. The department shrink, and consequently her chief, had required her to complete a twelve-step program before they would allow her back on the job.

She truly hadn’t thought she needed it. That attending had been nothing more than a hoop the department wanted her to jump through. She hadn’t turned to alcohol until her life fell apart. She’d thought that made her different, not really an alcoholic.

Little by little, she had seen how wrong she was.

She had realized, too, she needed the support and understanding of fellow alcoholics. They had become a kind of surrogate family. They were privy to her most secret thoughts and feelings, the demons that chased her and the longings of her heart.

She had become particularly close to three of her fellow AA members: Wally, an unemployed machine-shop supervisor who lost his job and two fingers because of drinking on the job; Sandy, a homemaker whose kids had been taken away because of her drinking; Danny, the youngest of them, who had woken up to his problem after an auto accident in which his best friend was killed. Danny had been the one behind the wheel.

They’d grown close because of the alcoholism—and because they understood loss.

“Hello, love,” Danny said, taking the seat next to hers and sending her a goofy, lopsided grin.

She returned the smile. “You’re chipper tonight.”

“Life is good.”

“Must’ve gotten lucky,” Wally said from her other side.

“Been sober one year tonight.”

Sandy squeezed his hand. “Way to go.”

They chatted quietly while they waited for the meeting to begin. Sandy, it turned out, had had a positive meeting with her lawyer about establishing visitation time with her kids and Wally had gotten a job.

As the group leader opened the meeting, Danny leaned toward her. “Want to get a cup of coffee after?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Saw you on the news. Thought we should talk about it.”

From the tone of his voice, she knew he was concerned. Stand in line, my friend.

They didn’t speak about it again until they were sitting across from each other in a booth at a local eatery called Aunt Mary’s.

“I’m worried about you taking on that case, Kitt. You sure you’re ready?”

“Boy, that question’s getting old.”

“Maybe you should consider that people have a legitimate reason for asking it.” He leaned forward. “You know what your triggers are, Kitt. Don’t put yourself in that position.”

The pressure to perform. Being under the microscope. Stress. Despair. Hopelessness.

“The anniversary of Sadie’s death is coming up,” she said.

“I know, Kitt. And that’s exactly my point. You’re not ready for this.”

She stared into her cup of coffee a moment. “I have to do this, Danny. I can’t explain all the reasons—”

He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “You don’t have to. I know them.”

She gazed at their joined hands, suddenly uncomfortable.

Carefully, she slid her hand from under his. “It’s more than my personal reasons. I can’t discuss it, but it has to be me.”

He was silent a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Just know I’m here for you.”

He had been. They’d joined AA around the same time and had been through a lot together. She liked him. Counted on calling him friend.

He’d made it no secret that he would like to deepen their relationship. But she cherished his friendship too much to take a chance on a romance between them. Besides, at twelve years her junior, she felt like she’d be robbing the cradle.

“Joe’s getting remarried.”

Danny paused, a forkful of apple pie halfway to his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“It hit me hard. But I should be happy for him. He deserves happiness.”

“Screw that.” Danny set his fork down and leaned forward. “Wallow.”

She smiled at her friend. “I tell myself life goes on. It should go on. That I need to let go.”

“Let go,” he said softly. “You deserve happiness, too.”