Erica Spindler - Copy Cat

“Let’s start at the beginning, Valerie. Detective Riggio visited you while you were working at the hospital.”

“That’s right. Highland Park Hospital. She asked me some questions about Joe. Whether we were together all night on March 6. I said we had been.”

Kitt leaned forward slightly. “Now you’re saying that’s not true?”

“Yes.” Valerie looked down at her hands, then back up at Kitt. Tears sparkled in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have lied. I just…all I could think about was protecting Joe.”

“What made you think Joe needed protection?”

M.C. had attempted to avoid this very thing by questioning Valerie before Joe had the opportunity to call her.

“Joe had told me about that ex-con who was working for him. That you’d been asking questions. He’d said it was making him uncomfortable.”

Valerie let out a shaky breath. “I knew there was no way Joe could have anything to do with…that. So I lied.”

“And now? What caused your change of heart?”

“I keep thinking about what you said, about Tami being in danger. And about…all those other girls. And I can’t live with myself.”

She wrung her hands. As she did, her diamond solitaire caught the light. It was a pretty ring, Kitt thought. Certainly bigger than the one she’d gotten. She and Joe had been kids when they’d gotten engaged; they’d had little but the roof over their heads.

Valerie glanced at her watch. “I’m still certain he couldn’t have had anything to do with hurting a child. But I couldn’t be party to the lie anymore.”

For long minutes after Valerie had left, Kitt sat in the interrogation room, staring at the empty doorway, trying to objectively evaluate Valerie’s story. Something about it didn’t ring true.

But was that because it wasn’t-or because she didn’t want it to be?

Kitt glanced down at the log of Brian’s calls. A number leaped out at her. One she knew by heart.

She knew it by heart because, once upon a time, it had been hers as well.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

12:30 p.m.

M.C. started with Rose McGuire, the second victim, simply because she had lived in an assisted-living community rather than a private residence. Even though seven years had passed, M.C. hoped there might still be someone on staff from the time of the murder. If so, they would remember. An incident like that was not easily forgotten. In addition, it had no doubt resulted in sweeping changes in the center’s security.

The Walton B. Johnson Assisted Living Center had been named after the Rockford millionaire philanthropist whose brainchild the center had been. Or so the center’s director informed M.C. as they walked to her office. It had been the first of its kind in the city, providing a much-needed living alternative for the elderly. His foundation continued to underwrite needy residents, up to ten percent of occupancy. Their newest, a man named Billy Hatfield, had moved in just that day.

They passed a line of wheelchairs filled with ladies-their gray hair ranging in shades of silver to lavender. Some napped, others waved at her and called greetings, others seemed to be grousing about something.

“What are they waiting for?” M.C. asked.

The director smiled. “Mr. Kenneth comes in to do hair on Mondays. Every Tuesday after lunch we put up the sign-up sheet. As you can see, Mr. Kenneth is very popular with the female residents.”

They reached the woman’s office. A plaque on the door read Patsy Anderson, Director.

She unlocked the door and led M.C. inside. After they had both taken a seat, she asked, “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I was hoping you could tell me something about Rose McGuire.”

Her smile slipped. “Surely you don’t mean-”

“I do, indeed, Ms. Anderson. We’re looking into reopening the investigation.”

She didn’t look pleased at the news. M.C. didn’t blame her. If the case was reopened, it would attract media attention-which would be bad publicity for them.

Worse than she knew.

“That was so long ago.”

“Seven years.”

“I wasn’t even on staff here. I was hired in 2002.”

“Is there anyone on staff who was?”

She frowned. “Offhand, I don’t recall. I’d have to go into the personnel records.”

“Would you, please?”

“It’ll take a bit of time.”

“When do you think you could have the information to me?”

She glanced at her desk clock. “End of the day, latest.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“You know,” she went on, “the previous director retired, but she lives here in town. I bet she’d be happy to talk to you. She took the murder really hard. In fact, it’s why she retired when she did. Why don’t I call her, see if she’s home and tell her you’re coming over?”

Twenty minutes later, M.C. greeted Wanda Watkins, a small, energetic woman with a lovely silver bob and eyes so big they took up an inordinate amount of her face.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Watkins.”

“Call me Wanda. Come in.”

She led M.C. into her small living room. A big calico cat perched on the back of the floral sofa, another sprawled across the cushions.

Unfortunately, M.C. was allergic. She felt her nose twitch.

“My babies,” the woman said. She scooped up the one and shooed the other. “Please, sit.”

M.C. did. She took out her notebook and pen. “As Patsy told you over the phone, we’re looking into reopening the investigation into Rose McGuire’s murder. We have a possible new lead.”

“Thank God.” She stroked the cat. “It’s been difficult, knowing her killer was never caught. Not just because he was still free, but because Miss Rose was such a sweet woman. Always a smile, never a complaint.”

Wanda leaned forward. “They’re not all like that, you know. Some are cantankerous. Some bitter. They miss the independent lives they used to have, they don’t feel well or they’re just grieving having gotten old.” She smiled. “I loved them all, even the crabby ones.”

“You really liked your job.”

“I did. Very much.”

“Why’d you retire?”

“After Rose…I felt I should step down. Let someone younger take over.” Her eyes grew bright. “I felt, perhaps, if I had been more observant or more forward-thinking about security, it wouldn’t have happened.”

Another of violent crime’s victims-those left behind who blamed themselves.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said softly. “There was nothing you could have done.”

“I tell myself that but…You know how it goes.”

She did, indeed. “How did the murderer get into the building? I noticed you had a keypad and call-box system. The main doors are kept locked twenty-four hours a day. Was anything different at the time of the murder?”

“We’ve added video surveillance, but that’s it.” She shook her head. “We believe a resident let him in. They would do that, see some ‘nice person’ at the door and buzz them in. We warned them not to…but they’re so trusting.”

“And now?” M.C. sneezed.

“Bless you. Can’t say. After Rose…died, we cracked down. Things may have become more lax. Time dims the memory.”

But not hers, obviously. Not about this.

M.C. thanked her and sneezed again. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m allergic to cats.”

Wanda handed her a box of tissues. “What a shame. You’re a dog person, then?”

She had never thought about it. “I guess I am.”

“Without my four-footed friends, I don’t know what I’d do.”

M.C. redirected her. “Who found Miss Rose?”

“I did, Detective.” She buried her fingers in the cat’s long fur. “We hadn’t heard from her that morning, so we called her apartment. When we didn’t get an answer, I offered to go check on her. That was, and still is, I believe, standard procedure. Her door was unlocked and…”