Copy Cat Read online

  This one, Frances Roselli, the older of the two, was a small, neat man of Italian descent.

  “Frances,” Brian said, crossing to him. “It’s been a while.”

  “Lieutenant. Not long enough, no offense.”

  “None taken. You know Detectives Riggio and White.”

  He nodded in their direction. “Detectives. What’ve we got?”

  “Dead child,” M.C. said. “Ten years old. She appears to have been suffocated.”

  He looked to Brian, as if for confirmation. “Sounds like the Sleeping Angel Killer’s MO.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s what it looks like.”

  The pathologist sighed. “I could have lived the rest of my life without another one of those cases.”

  “Tell me about it.” Brian shook his head. “Press is going to be all over us.”

  M.C. looked at her partner. “Let’s get the door-to-door of the neighborhood started. See if anybody saw or heard anything unusual last night.”

  Tom agreed. “I’ll get a couple uniforms on it.”

  “The house is for sale. I want a list of every Realtor and every prospective buyer who’s been through.”

  “Looks like it’s been freshly painted, as well,” Tom said. “Let’s get the names of painters and handymen who’ve been within a hundred feet of the place.”

  M.C. nodded, then turned to the pathologist. “When will you have a report?”

  “As early as tonight.”

  “Good,” she said. “Expect a call.”

  5

  Tuesday, March 7, 2006

  8:40 a.m.

  Kitt double-parked her Ford Taurus in front of the modest home. To keep the curious away and provide parking for official vehicles, the first officers had cordoned off the street a hundred feet in both directions. She saw the coroner’s Suburban, the crime-scene van, a half-dozen patrol units and an equal number of unmarked squad cars.

  She swept her gaze over the home-a small blue box, probably not even a thousand square feet of living space. Outsourcing and downsizing had hit Rockford hard. Industries like Rockwell International and U.S. Filter, once major area employers, were gone. Other, smaller outfits continued to limp along, but the forecast looked bleak. Last total she heard, the area had lost thirty thousand manufacturing jobs. A drive through town supported that figure-there was one empty factory after another.

  Kitt had lived in Rockford, a meat-and-potatoes kind of community with a large Italian and Swedish population, all of her forty-eight years. In truth, she’d never even toyed with the idea of leaving, even after Sadie died and her marriage ended. Rockford was her home. She liked living here. Folks didn’t put on airs, fabulous pizza could be found every second block, and if she craved a bit of glitz and glamour, Chicago was just over an hour away.

  Frankly, she rarely craved the glitz and glamour. She was one of those people who found comfort in middleclass familiarity.

  She climbed out of her vehicle, and the gray, chilly day enveloped her. She shivered and hunched deeper into her jacket. In northern Illinois, winters were hard, springs slow to come and summers too short. But the falls were glorious. She figured the residents deserved it for sticking out the rest of the year’s weather.

  She crossed to the crime-scene tape and ducked under it, then headed directly for the first officer. She signed the scene log, ignoring the curious glances of her fellow officers. She didn’t blame them for their interest; she had only returned from forced leave eight weeks ago and had been assigned nothing but no-brainer assault-and-battery cases.

  Until this morning, uncertain of her own emotional strength, she had been fine with that. Grateful Sal Minelli, the deputy chief of detectives, had allowed her back. She’d melted down on the job, big-time. She’d jeopardized cases, endangered her fellow officers and the department’s reputation.

  Sal had championed her, as had Brian. She would be forever in their debt. What would she have done otherwise? She was a cop. It was all she had ever been.

  No, she thought. Once upon a time, she had been a wife. And a mom.

  She shook the thought off. The memories that came with it. The ache.

  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 fo
ur 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.”