Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

When M.C. called, Kitt was on her third cup of coffee and still trying to shake the cobwebs out. She had stayed up most of the night, reviewing Brown’s file. Picking it apart. Nothing in it suggested great skill or intelligence. A two-time loser, he seemed to have been picked up for everything he’d ever done. He more than likely would have spent most of his life behind bars if not for lawyers and legal loopholes.

“Yo,” Kitt answered.

Her partner didn’t mince words. “They found Brown. But before you get too excited, he’s dead.”

It took Kitt a moment to process that. When she had, she hurried to the bathroom. “How?”

“Only know where. Paige Park.”

“Son of a bitch!” She pulled down her pajama bottoms and sat on the toilet. “You on your way out there?”

“Pulling myself together. Are you peeing? That’s so gross.”

“It was an emergency.” She stood, flushed and crossed to the sink. “So sue me.”

“I’ll think about it. See you out there.”

Twenty minutes later Kitt pulled up next to M.C.’s Explorer. Anna Paige Park was located on the far north side of town. If a body was going to surface in a park in Rockford, Paige Park would head the list.

Kitt climbed out of her battered Taurus, clutching a travel mug of coffee. Her partner stood beside her vehicle, hands stuffed into the pockets of her down vest.

“You look like hell,” M.C. said.

“Here’s a clue, so do you.”

She smiled grimly. “I blame the job. It sucks.”

“How’s a girl going to get her beauty sleep?” M.C.’s smile was sudden and took Kitt by surprise. “Exactly.”

They crossed to the first officer and signed the log. Outdoor sites posed specific investigative problems. Rain and wind destroyed evidence. Wild animals had been known to decimate crime scenes, including the body. Weather conditions altered the decomposition process.

When it came to crime-scene investigation, nothing beat the two C’s-control and containment.

“What’ve we got?” she asked.

“Body in a gully, just beyond that ridge of trees. Jogger and his golden retriever found him. One Buddy Brown. Wallet was on him. Cash in the wallet.”

“How much?”

“Enough to buy a fifth of something cheap or dinner at McDonald’s.”

Robbery hadn’t been a motive.

“Anything else?”

“Looks like he was killed at another location and dumped here.”

“Great.”

“All the appropriate parties are on their way. My partner’s with the body.”

They nodded and started for the ridge, consisting of thick pines and spindly hardwood trees. Pine straw, leaves and other natural debris crackled under their feet-the same debris with which the killer had attempted to conceal the body.

Kitt and M.C. started down the hill. The uniform lifted a hand in greeting and they crossed to him, introducing themselves.

“You two are the first.”

“Lucky us.” Kitt crossed to the body, squatted down beside it. He lay faceup on a black tarp. The killer hadn’t bothered digging a hole, had simply covered him with the leaves.

He hadn’t been too worried about the body being uncovered.

She recognized Brown from the pictures in his file. Medium-size man-midtwenties. Medium complexion. Brown eyes and hair.

She gazed at him, working to picture him as the one who had taunted her, calling himself Peanut. The man who had arrogantly described his crimes as “perfect.”

He looked like every other, quite ordinary, penny-ante criminal.

“He’s been dead a while,” M.C. said, squatting beside her.

“Mmm.” The decomposition process was, indeed, well under way.

“Got a guess?”

“Too many variables, I know I’ll be off. But it wasn’t yesterday, that’s for certain.”

Which meant Buddy Brown had not been the one on the phone with her.

Which changed things dramatically once again.

Exactly when he had died would be established by the pathologist. Kitt moved her gaze over the victim. “No gunshot wound, no blood.”

From behind them came the sound of ID arriving. Kitt glanced over her shoulder. Sorenstein and Snowe. The pathologist, Frances Roselli.

She stood, M.C. with her. “Day late and a dollar short,” she called. “Couldn’t drag yourselves out of the sack?”

“Bite me,” Sorenstein answered. “It’s Saturday.”

As they neared, Kitt saw that with the exception of the pathologist, the men looked a bit green. The smell of the victim was not helping their condition.

“Overdo it last night?” she teased. “No one to blame but yourself.”

“Kiss mine,” Snowe grumbled.

“This your suspect?” Sorenstein asked. “The ex-con?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Bad news travels fast.”

“Neck was broken,” pathologist said. He squatted and pointed. “See the angle of the head?”

“Think that’s what killed him?”

“Doesn’t make much sense to break somebody’s neck after they’re already dead, but you never know.”

“How long you think he’s been this way?”

For a long moment, the pathologist was quiet. “It’s been dry. Cool. That’d slow the process. I’m thinking two to three weeks, depending. Autopsy will give us a more specific time.” He glanced at Sorenstein. “And whatever’s feasting on this sorry shit.”

Snowe laughed. “Ready to go buggy, buddy?”

Sorenstein hunched deeper into his jacket. “Damn, I hate this job.”

Kitt and M.C. backed off to let the others do their thing.

Two to three weeks? Three weeks ago Julie Entzel had been alive.

M.C. turned to her. “What now?”

“Figure out the connection between the SAK, Copycat and Buddy Brown.”

“And you,” M.C. added.

And me, Kitt silently agreed.

Monday, March 20, 2006

8:40 a.m.

Kitt entered the PSB. She crossed the lobby, heading straight for the elevators and caught one that took her to the second floor. It’d been a busy weekend. Roselli had performed the autopsy and determined that Brown had, indeed, been dead two weeks, give or take a few days. That excluded him from the Copycat killings and the calls to her.

The man’s neck had been broken. It had taken both strength and skill on the part of the killer. Since the autopsy hadn’t turned up any defensive wounds, he had taken Brown by surprise.

Which suggested Brown had known his murderer.

Kitt felt strongly that the two men had met in prison, that Buddy Brown had been killed by her caller, who was, indeed, the Sleeping Angel Killer.

The SAK had taken up residence with Buddy Brown, either before or after he had killed him. ID had sent the lip gloss to the lab for comparison to the samples taken from the SAK and Copycat victims, and ID was dusting the clippings for prints.

Kitt yawned widely as she exited the elevator. They had done a search for inmates who had served time with Brown and were now free. She and M.C. had spent much of Sunday tracking the men down.

She reached the bureau, greeted Nan and headed for the coffeepot.

Nan returned the greeting. “Detective Riggio’s in Interrogation Number One. They’ve just begun.”

Kitt looked over her shoulder at the woman. “Who’s just begun what?”

“Questioning the suspect. Sergeant Haas and Detective Riggio.”

“The suspect? In what case?”

The secretary looked at her as if she had lost her mind. “The Copycat killings.”

The case they were working nearly round the clock.

Who the hell had Riggio brought in?

Kitt finished doctoring her coffee and started that way. “Thanks, Nan.”

“Oh, Detective?”

She glanced back. The receptionist held up several message slips. “Shall I hold on to these?”