Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

Kitt stood, placed her palms on the desk and leaned toward her. When she spoke, her voice was low and vibrated with anger. “You think I went to the sarge and Sal about your argument with Brian?”

“Didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t me, M.C. I don’t go for that behind-the-back crap. I said what I needed to last night. If another issue comes up, you’ll be the first to know.”

The other woman gazed at her a moment. “Then who?”

“Someone overheard you. Or Brian told someone about it, which I find pretty unlikely.” She lowered her voice. “How deep in shit are you?”

“Slap on the wrist for not stepping forward. They’re going to run ballistics on my weapon. Most of all, I just look bad.”

“We all make mistakes. I certainly have.”

“That’s reassuring.”

She said it deadpan and Kitt laughed. “I suppose it’s not, is it?”

“No.”

“Look, Peanut called me last night. He-”

“Detective Riggio?”

They looked up. Sal stood in the doorway. He held out her Glock. “Your weapon.”

“That was fast.”

“Got the preliminaries back on the type of gun used to kill Lieutenant Spillare. The bullet was fired from a standard-issue,.45 caliber Smith amp; Wesson revolver.”

Most urban forces had begun switching from revolvers to the semiautomatic pistols in the 1970s. RPD officers had the choice between two, both.40 caliber-the Glock or the Smith amp; Wesson 4046.

She took her weapon and holstered it. “The old policeman’s favorite,” M.C. said, referring to the revolver. “An interesting choice.”

Sal nodded. “No self-respecting gangbanger or street thug’s going to choose the revolver.”

“Can we have a minute?” Kitt asked.

The deputy chief checked his watch. “Can it wait until after-”

“I heard from Peanut last night. He left a trophy from one of the original killings. A lock of blond hair, tied with a pink ribbon.”

Kitt had his full attention. He nodded tersely. “My office. Now would be good.”

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

10:40 a.m.

Once they had all assembled in Sal’s office, Kitt described the events of the evening before, starting with finding the package on the doorstep and finishing with Peanut ending their call.

“He claimed the hair was from one of the original Sleeping Angels. He wouldn’t tell me which one. Told me ‘DNA’ would tell the tale. ID has it and the phone already. They were going to photograph and catalog them, then send the hair to the crime lab.

“I asked him several questions point-blank,” she continued. “If he was the Copycat. If he knew who the Copycat was. He answered that he was not, but that he did know who he was. In addition, he claimed no knowledge of Brian’s murder.”

“What do you think?” Sal asked. “Was he being honest?”

“I think so. Let’s face it, he hasn’t had a problem claiming responsibility for other crimes.”

“But Brian was a cop,” Sal pointed out.

“And the Angels were children,” Kitt countered. “I accused him of being a cop himself. It unnerved him.”

That brought silence. After a moment, Sergeant Haas cleared his throat. “But if he didn’t kill Brian-”

“Maybe the Copycat did. Maybe the Copycat’s a cop. Maybe they both are.”

It was the first time she had considered it aloud. She suddenly realized that she had also speculated that the Copycat was a woman.

Considering both she and M.C. fit that relatively rarified category, she didn’t particularly like the option.

Sal frowned, obviously unimpressed with her suggestions. “Maybe neither of them are. Maybe Brian’s murder had nothing to do with your investigation.”

He turned his gaze to her. “Kitt, I want you to retrace Brian’s steps yesterday, from the time you spoke with him until you found him dead. Get into his computer, see what files he accessed. I want a log from his cell and desk phones. Get Allen to assist you.”

“You want me on it as well, Sal?” M.C. asked.

“No. You stay on the Copycat. When we’re finished, call down to ID. They should have a bead on the cell phone number already.”

As if on cue, Kitt’s phone buzzed. It was Sorenstein in ID. She listened, thanked him, then turned back to the group when she had ended the call. “The phone belonged to a dead guy. He was killed in a car wreck over the weekend. With everything going on, the family hadn’t realized it was missing.”

“Our UNSUB seems to have a pretty good grasp on acquiring untraceable numbers,” M.C. said. “Nobody can call this one dumb.”

Sal sent M.C. an irritated glance. “But how did he get the device?”

“Could be someone at the scene, like an EMT. Or someone at the hospital. Could be our UNSUB lifted it before the wreck even happen-”

“I don’t give a damn about all the ways he could have gotten it. I want to know definitively how he got it!”

He all but roared the last at them and they both jumped to their feet. Sal rarely raised his voice, but when he did, it was advantageous to take note and respond.

They exited the deputy chief’s office. “Why share a trophy with you now?” M.C. asked. “It’s like he wanted to prove something to you.”

“I think he did. He was all about our being in a competition. That’s what the perfect crime is to him. Not just getting away with it, but outmaneuvering us. Outthinking us. Winning.”

“And is he?”

“Hell, yes!” She felt her frustration rise, her anger with it. As she did, she recalled something else he’d said. About her being emotionally involved. That he had the advantage because of it.

She told M.C., who nodded. “That’s it, then. He gave you the trophy as a way to stir your emotions. He’s counting on you not thinking as clearly because of it.”

“He’s a smart SOB.” She narrowed her eyes. “But not smart enough.”

They reached Kitt’s desk. M.C. perched on a corner while Kitt paced. “So, what do we have?” M.C. asked. “All the pieces?”

“Two killers. Nine murders, six of them children, three of them grandmothers. A span of eight years.”

“Thanks for narrowing it down, partner. It’s all so much clearer to me now.”

“Sarcasm suits you.”

“Thanks.” M.C. rolled her eyes. “Can we break it down a little more?”

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

“An Italian princess. Just ask my mother.”

Kitt relaxed slightly, pulled out her chair and sat.

M.C. grabbed a legal tablet. “What do we know about the SAK and his crimes?” she asked.

“He killed three ten-year-old girls. He has claimed responsibility for the murders of three elderly women. The means of death between the girls and the grandmothers was completely different.”

“Ying and yang.”

“He claims his victims are not emotional choices. That they are intellectual ones.”

“He’s proud of his crimes. Calls them perfect.”

“We’re painting a portrait of a guy who’s out to prove himself. To the world.”

“Or to someone in particular.”

“Mother? Father? Someone who criticized and belittled him.”

Kitt felt the stirrings of excitement. This was him. The one she had come to know through their phone calls. “The duct tape to the mouth. Symbolic for shutting this person up. With the Angels, adding the lip gloss-also bringing attention to the mouth.

“It’s why control is so important to him,” Kitt said. “There was a time in his life he was powerless. That’s why he became so angry every time I challenged him.”

“And yet he preys on the powerless.”

“Classic self-loathing.”

“Along comes this Copycat.”

“He knows who the Copycat is. From the joint, maybe.”