Erica Spindler: Copy Cat

M.C. frowned. “Lundgren’s a head case.”

“True,” Brian said. “But with what she’s been through, she’s earned it. Cut her some slack.”

Tom White stepped in. “Pathologist’s here.”

The coroner’s office employed two full-time forensic pathologists. They went to the scene of every death, made the official pronouncement of death, examined and photographed the body and brought it to the morgue for autopsy.

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.”

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.”