Erica Spindler - Copycat

Kitt took a step backward, as if propelled by strong emotion. M.C. held her ground, though not without effort. They had all worked grislier crime scenes, seen bodies mutilated beyond recognition, victims who had been subjected to vile indignities, pre- and postmortem. But this child, the terror frozen on her face, was somehow more chilling, more horrible.

“This one saw him coming,” Snowe muttered.

M.C. cleared her throat. “If we’re lucky, she got a good whack at him. Scratched him, pulled out some hair.”

Snowe squatted, examining the oddly bent fingers. “Nothing to the naked eye. Pathologist will scrape the nails. Here he is now.”

She turned, grateful when she saw it was Frances Roselli on call. She wanted all the experience she could get.

The older man reached the bed, made a sound.

“It isn’t pretty, is it?”

He slipped off his glasses, cleaned them, then slipped them back on. M.C. sensed he was composing himself.

“You got your shots?” he asked Snowe.

He had, and he and the rest of the identification team moved on. He looked at M.C. and Kitt. “Detectives?”

“Anything jump out at you, other than her expression?” M.C. asked.

“Not yet,” he said. “I want to get her hands bagged, then I’ll give her a look-over.”

They thanked him and left him to his work.

“Talked to the mother yet?” Kitt asked.

“No. Let’s do it.”

Mrs. Vest was still in the kitchen, only now a tall, middle-aged man was with her. The pastor, M.C. decided, judging by the cross hanging from a chain around his neck and the Bible on the table in front of him.

“Mrs. Vest?” she asked. The woman looked up, her expression naked with pain. “We need to ask you a few questions. You think you’re up to that?”

She nodded, looking anything but.

“When did your daughter go to bed last night?”

“Nine. That was her … that was her regular time.”

“Did you tuck her in?”

Her eyes welled with tears and her lips quivered. She shook her head. “I didn’t … I was working, so I—”

She broke down sobbing. The pastor laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. M.C. noticed that Kitt looked away.

“So you what, Mrs. Vest?”

“I just … I just told her good-night.”

“Where were you working?”

“In bed.”

“And when did you turn out the lights?”

“Eleven.” M.C. had to strain to hear her small choked reply.

“When you turned out the lights, did you peek in on her?”

M.C. knew the answer by the woman’s tortured expression. Her heart went out to her. “Mrs. Vest, did you have company last night?”

“Company?” She pressed the crumpled tissue to her eyes. “I don’t understand?”

“A visitor.”

She shook her head. “It was just us. Janie, that’s my oldest, spent the night with her best frien—” She looked up at the pastor. “How am I going to tell her about … she doesn’t … dear God.”

M.C. waited, letting the woman cry, the pastor comfort her. When she appeared to have regained some composure, she asked again, “Did you have a visitor last night?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Do you have to do this now?” the pastor asked.

“We do,” Kitt replied softly. “I’m so sorry.” She squatted in front of her. “Mrs. Vest, I know how hard this is. But we need your help catching the person who did this. Just a couple more questions. Please?”

The woman nodded, clinging to the pastor’s hand.

M.C. continued. “There were two wineglasses on your nightstand, Mrs. Vest. You’re certain you didn’t have company?”

She stared blankly for a moment, as if she didn’t understand, then nodded. “They’re both mine. I didn’t … I’ve been so busy, I haven’t straightened up.”

“Did you hear anything last night?”

She shook her head, miserable.

“Think carefully. A car passing? A dog barking?”

“No.”

“Did you awaken at all in the night?”

Again, she indicated she hadn’t.

Kitt stepped in. “Had your daughter expressed any concern about being followed? Or mention a feeling of being watched? Or having seen the same stranger more than once?”

That had been the case with one of the original SAK victims, as well as the almost-victim whose house she had staked out. When the mother answered “No,” she tried again.

“Anything odd occur over the past weeks? Notice any strange cars in the neighborhood? An unusual number of solicitors or other calls? Sales people coming to the door? Hangups?”

Nothing. There was nothing.

Later, as they left the scene, M.C. looked at Kitt, frustration pulling at her. “Who is this guy? Houdini?”

“He’s got no special powers,” she replied, sounding weary. “Only the ones we give him.”

M.C. stopped, faced her. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’re all so comfortable with our hectic lives, we don’t notice anything. We’re sleepwalking, for God’s sake! He depends on that. Without it he couldn’t hurt these gir—”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “Like that mother in there. Kicking herself. Wishing for a second chance. If my daughter was alive and this animal was still out there killing girls, I’d never take my eyes off her. Not tuck her in? She’d sleep with me! But it’s not an issue for me, is it? Not anymore.”

Kitt’s voice shook. She visibly trembled. Inside the house she’d handled herself with absolute professionalism, not revealing to M.C. even a glimpse of the depth of her pain. How close to the emotional edge she was.

Now M.C. saw; she didn’t know how to respond.

Kitt didn’t give her the chance to come up with anything. She spun on her heel and walked away.

Friday, March 10, 2006 3:00 p.m.

Kitt sat at her desk. Her stomach rumbled and her head hurt. She felt as if she had been chasing ghosts all day. Ghosts, plural. Not just a killer who seemed able to manage the impossible, but her own personal ghosts, the ones that tormented her.

She hadn’t had a face-to-face with Riggio since her emotional outburst. They had gone different ways—she to canvas the neighborhood, Riggio to interview the father, sister and others who’d had a relationship with the victim.

Kitt dreaded their meeting. M.C. had probably spoken with both Sal and Sergeant Haas by now; she herself had provided all the ammo needed to undermine their confidence in her.

Hell, she’d undermined her confidence in herself.

Kitt brought a hand to her head and massaged her aching temple. It was laughable, really. That first day, at the Entzel murder, she’d warned Riggio that “it wasn’t about her.”

But Riggio had maintained her cool objectivity; it was she who had lost it. She who had made it “about her.” How had she actually believed herself strong enough for this?

Her thoughts turned to the previous evening, the note she had found tacked to her door. She had bagged both the note and the tack, careful not to destroy any prints that might have been left on them. First thing, she had taken it to ID to have it dusted. Sergeant Campo, the ID supervisor, had arranged for one of the guys to go out and dust her door for prints. She didn’t think they’d find anything. “Peanut” was way too careful to make such a stupid mistake.

I’ll be in touch.

She shifted her gaze to her phone. But when would he call?

She realized her hands were trembling and dropped them to her lap. There’d been a time that telltale tremble would have sent her scrambling for a drink. Liquid calm. She had kept a flask in her glove compartment and another tucked into a boot in her locker.

No more. That was a part of her history she would never relive.