Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

“Where’d he go?”

“RVC.”

Rock Valley College was a local junior college. Many a high school senior from the area attended “The Rock,” as they called it, before moving on to a four-year university. The school also drew older students, looking to better their chances in the work force.

“When was this?”

He thought a minute. “Four, four-and-a-half years ago.”

Kitt glanced at M.C. She was watching the man carefully, gauging his truthfulness by his body language and eye movement.

“Then what happened?”

“He approached me about a job. I promised I’d see if there was anything available at one of my business endeavors. The Fun Zone had an opening. I recommended Mr. Zuba consider him for it.”

“And that’s it?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t tell your manager to hire Mr. Todd on your recommendation alone?”

“Without a background or criminal check? That would be very stupid, don’t you think?”

“I do, Mr. Dale. But somehow that’s what happened.”

“I certainly don’t know how.” He glanced away, then back at her. “Some sort of communication foul-up, I suppose.”

Kitt’s hackles rose. He sounded almost bored. “That communication foul-up may have cost two young girls their lives.”

He blinked quickly, three times. She had hit a button with that one. Why? Guilt? Or fear?

“So, you had no idea that Derrick Todd had run afoul of the law after leaving your original employ?”

“Would I have recommended him if I had?”

He all but bristled with indignation. Kitt cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t know, Mr. Dale. Would you have?”

“I have nothing more to tell you, Detectives. If I could help you more, I would.”

Yeah, right. And pigs fly.

They thanked the man and headed for M.C.’s car. When they were buckled in and on their way, Kitt looked at M.C. “Did you notice he never commented on the reason we were investigating Todd? Never expressed regret, concern or denial?”

“Yeah, I noticed. He was too busy covering his own ass. Prick.”

Kitt nodded as they turned onto Riverside Drive. “If it turns out Todd is guilty of the Copycat murders, Dale’s making certain your friend ZZ takes the fall.”

“He had his story down pat, no doubt about it. What a sweetheart.”

“Let’s run Mr. Dale through the computer, see if he’s as fine and upstanding as he’d like us to believe.”

M.C. nodded. “But first, let’s swing by the Fun Zone and have another chat with ZZ. Give him a little heads-up. See if his story changes.”

They arrived at the Fun Zone before the doors officially opened for the day. ZZ and his employees were busy readying themselves for the Saturday onslaught of screaming kids.

He looked anything but happy to see them.

“Could we have a word in private?”

He nodded. “Come on back.”

When they reached his office, M.C. didn’t mince words. “ZZ, we have a problem. Your boss insists he only recommended you look at Todd. Not that you hire him. And certainly not that you skip any of the screening process.”

ZZ blanched. “That’s not true. He told me quite clearly that he was ‘hired.’ That he could personally vouch for him.”

“That’s not his story. I’m sorry.”

Visibly upset, he ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know why he would say that.”

M.C. held his gaze. “ZZ, you gotta be straight with me here. ’Cause if Derrick Todd turns out to be a killer, it’s going to get ugly. Real ugly. If you’ve twisted the story to save your own ass, you’d better tell me now.”

“I didn’t. I swear.”

Kitt studied the man. Why would he lie? Besides, they had questioned him cold; Dale had been primed by ZZ. That had given him plenty of time to prepare his story.

“Thank you, ZZ. We’ll be in touch.”

“Wait!” The manager looked confused. “Why do you think Mr. Dale said that?”

“Maybe you should take that up with him?”

His expression changed, realization coming over him. He knew. His boss was setting him up, just in case.

Hang the little guy out to dry. No big mystery there.

Kitt felt bad for the man. Reality checks sucked, big-time.

Her cell phone rang. She unclipped the device, brought it to her ear. “Lundgren here.”

“Kitt, it’s Sal. Derrick Todd made an appearance. Officer Petersen picked him up.”

“Good. Stick him in an interrogation room. We’re on our way.”

Saturday, March 11, 2006

Noon

Derrick Todd was an angry young man. Big on bad attitude. Small on smarts. Not to say he wasn’t intelligent. M.C. had no idea if he was or not-he had enough brainpower for her not to have ruled it out yet.

He seemed like one of those kids who consistently made the wrong choice, then blamed somebody else for it.

This cycle always ended badly, in squandered opportunities, jail-time-or worse.

Kitt wandered in, carrying a coffee mug, a newspaper and a box of doughnuts. The doughnuts were a cliché, but that was the point. They figured Mr. Not-So-Bright probably had a chip on his shoulder about cops and would buy right into it.

As they had rehearsed, she dropped the latest edition of the Register Star on the table, well within Todd’s line of vision. The headline screamed Copycat Or Not-Will He Strike Again? There was a picture of both little Julie Entzel and Marianne Vest. There were also smaller photos of the original SAK victims.

Most serials loved the limelight. They loved to read about themselves in the news. Loved reliving the act. Got off on it. And on the fact they had people in a panic and the cops on the run.

If he was the killer, once he saw the headline, he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off it. It was a psychological trick that had been developed by the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI. The trick also worked with items from the crime scene, photos of the victim, murder weapons.

The first time M.C. had tried it, the suspect had actually moved his chair to get a better view of the item, a lavender knit cap the victim had been wearing at the time of her murder.

They would start out easy, they had decided. Lull him into a false sense of security. M.C. would play the “bad cop,” Kitt the “good one.”

Kitt set the box of pastries smack on top of the paper. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I was taking a coffee break.”

“Cops,” the kid muttered.

“Excuse me?”

He rocked back in his chair, expression cocky. “You never disappoint, that’s all.”

“Doughnut?” She motioned to the box. “Help yourself.”

“No thanks.”

“M.C.?”

“Sure.” She made a great show of choosing one, then taking a bite.

“Why am I here?”

“I think you know, Mr. Todd.”

“So I got a job at the Fun Zone. Big fuckin’ deal.”

“Where were you last night, Mr. Todd?”

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“At a friend’s.”

“Name?”

“Don’t have one. Met her in a bar.”

No accounting for taste. “Which bar?”

He hesitated. “Google Me.”

“You don’t seem so sure about that.”

“I’m sure. Just don’t want you pigs to know where I hang out.”

Another indication of low IQ: insulting people who carry guns and hold your fate in their hands.

Duh.

M.C. glanced at Kitt. She was watching Todd intently, the expression in her eyes fierce. She could guess her thoughts: Look at the paper, damn you.

But he didn’t. Almost pointedly. Could he be on to them? She didn’t think this one had the native intelligence to know what they were up to, but she needed to put it to the test.

“Kitt, can I have a word with you outside?”