Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

“Detectives,” he said by way of greeting, then turned fully to Kitt. “Brief me.”

“Brian left me a message. I couldn’t get him on his cell, so I tracked him down here.”

“Here?”

“He and Ivy were separated. I called her, she told me where he was staying. I found him this way, checked his pulse and called in.”

Sal nodded and turned to the pathologist. “Anything you can tell us, Frances?”

“Judging by the gunpowder tattooing around the bullet wound, the shooter was standing no more than eighteen inches away.” He indicated the gunpowder particles imbedded in a circular pattern in the skin around the bullet hole. “I haven’t a doubt that’s what killed him. First bullet entered in the lung area, the second his heart. I’m guessing the order by the tattooing. First bullet hit and Lieutenant Spillare took a step backward. Changing the shot’s distance changed the gunpowder pattern.”

“How long ago?” Sal asked.

“Not long. A few hours. Temperature and stomach contents will help us pinpoint the time.” Roselli stood and removed his gloves. “He gets priority, of course.”

“He knew his killer,” Sergeant Haas said.

“I agree.” Sal turned to Kitt. “The scenario seems pretty clear. He opened the door and was shot.”

Considering the scenario and the fact she was the one who had found Brian, she came under suspicion. Kitt un-sheathed her weapon and held it, grip out, for the superior officers. “My weapon,” she said.

Every time a gun was discharged, particles of primer and burned gunpowder deposited on the hands of the shooter, as well as the barrel of the gun. Sergeant Haas took the gun, examined it for such residue, then handed it back. “Keep it for now.”

“Thank you, Sarge,” she said, and reholstered it. “There’s something else about tonight.” Kitt glanced her way and for one horrifying moment M.C. thought she was going to tell them about her affair with Brian. “About the message he left me. Could we step outside?”

They agreed and headed out onto the walkway. As it was far from private, they took the stairs to the first floor, then crossed to stand beside Kitt’s Taurus.

“This afternoon I approached Lieutenant Spillare with a theory. That the SAK was a cop.”

Sal narrowed his eyes and Sergeant Haas drew a sharp breath. “And what led you to this theory?”

She repeated what she had told M.C. earlier that evening. “I reviewed the tapes of my calls from Peanut. He knew about Derrick Todd, that we were ‘chasing our tails.’ He understands the process. That’s how he got away with his crimes. He takes great pride in that. As if he has something to prove to us. A chip on his shoulder.”

“He could be a crime or police buff. Or have family in law enforcement.”

“All true. But he could also be a cop, or former cop, with an ax to grind with the department, some sort of grudge.”

She paused, as if to give them a moment to comment. When they didn’t, she went on. “Brian offered to check employment records, see if any names popped up.”

She drew a breath, moved her gaze between the two men. “In his message, Brian said he had ‘nosed’ around. That he needed to talk to me.”

Her two superiors were silent a moment, as if digesting what she’d said. “You saved the message?”

“Absolutely.”

Sal swore suddenly. “Trace Lieutenant Spillare’s steps. I want to know who he talked to, every file he opened, every piece of paper he touched. If a cop’s responsible for this, I’ll tear him apart myself.”

Monday, March 20, 2006

11:57 p.m.

It was nearly midnight when Kitt arrived home. She pulled into her driveway, shut off the engine and sat. The sky rumbled ominously. The weather forecast had called for thunderstorms tonight; they had been threatening for hours.

Brian was dead. Her friend and confidant. Her champion.

And she had gotten him killed.

Tears burned her eyes and she didn’t fight them. They rolled down her cheeks. Slowly at first, building until the force of her sobs shook her.

He had made her laugh. Had reminded her daily of the good things about being a cop. He’d been like family.

Family. Three daughters, now fatherless.

Kitt pressed her lips together, thinking of Ivy. Sal had decided he should be the one to tell her. Sergeant Haas had offered to accompany him. More than likely, they were doing it now.

She brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. Why had she approached him with her “cop with a grudge” theory? Why hadn’t she investigated it herself?

Maybe it would be her in the morgue now, two bullet holes in her chest.

Better her than Brian. She wouldn’t have left anyone behind.

The minutes ticked past. As they did, her tears abated, her grief twisting into a kind of exhausted anger. The kind that brought thoughts of revenge, of finding the son of a bitch who pulled the trigger and making him pay.

She had used grief to fuel her anger many a time before. As a way to keep going, do her job, face a new day.

She climbed out of the car, made her way up the walk. A package waited for her on the front steps. A brown-paper grocery sack. As if some kindhearted neighbor had brought her a meal, and finding her not home, had left it for her. The way they had when Sadie died.

Kitt stared at the bag, anger building, tightening in her chest. A neighbor hadn’t left this. Peanut had. She knew without looking.

The bastard wanted to gloat.

She turned and strode back to her car for her investigation kit. It contained latex gloves and evidence bags, among other things. She unlocked the car, retrieved a pair of gloves and a couple of bags from the kit, then the flashlight from her glove box. She stuffed the bags into her jacket pocket, then tucked the Maglite under her arm. As she walked back to the porch stairs, she fitted the gloves on.

“Okay, you bastard,” she muttered. “Let’s go.”

She carefully opened the bag, then aimed the flash-light’s beam inside. A cell phone, she saw. She also saw by its blinking green light that it was on. And she had a message waiting.

She drew the device out of the bag. Her fingers brushed against something attached to its back.

She turned it over. A lock of blond hair, she saw. Tied with a slim pink ribbon.

A little girl’s pretty blond hair. The hair of an angel.

Her heartbeat quickened. Her breath with it. She worked to control both. What was she looking at? A lock of hair from one of the Sleeping Angel victims? Or from a future victim?

Or was this simply another of Peanut’s head games?

Kitt carefully loosened the tape, then removed the hair. After sealing it in an evidence bag, she flipped open the phone. It was a Verizon phone, same service she used. She accessed the message service, and a prerecorded voice asked for a password. Possibilities ran through her head: Peanut, Kitten, Sadie. He wanted her to be able to retrieve the message, so it would be something easy.

Angels.

Of course.

She punched in the password, exchanging letters for numbers-2-6-4-3-5-7.

The password accepted, the message began to play.

“You were wrong,” he said. “I did take trophies. I’m sharing one with you.”

Kitt began to shake. Revulsion rose up in her. As she held the phone to her ear, it rang.

“Hello, you son of a bitch,” she said.

“Kitten,” he admonished, “name calling? I thought we were friends.”

“Yeah,” she said, scanning the street, the dark cars and windows, the pools of shadows. He was here, somewhere. Watching her. Amused. “We are friends. Come on out and play.”

He laughed. “I’ve been waiting for you. Where’ve you been all night?”