Erica Spindler: Copycat

She had come away from the affair, heart intact and an important lesson learned: playing hide-the-salami with a superior was not the way to be taken seriously. She’d vowed to never put herself in that position again.

M.C. crossed to the lieutenant and was immediately joined by her partner, Detective Tom White. Tom was a thirtysomething African-American, tall and slim with elegant features. He and his wife had just had their third child, and the nights of interrupted sleep showed on his face. All in all, Tom was a damn fine detective and a good man, and though their partnership was new, it was solid. He respected both her skills and instincts without any of that annoying “Me Tarzan, You Jane” crap.

During her year in the Violent Crimes Bureau, M.C. had gone through a number of partners. She was, admittedly, intense and ambitious. She recognized that about herself. She recognized that a little softening around the edges would endear her to her fellow officers, but she just couldn’t bring herself to change. If she felt she was right, she fought for it—no matter who thought otherwise. Even a superior, like Brian Spillare.

Warm and fuzzy was for baby ducks and bunnies.

“This looks familiar, doesn’t it?” she said.

The lieutenant nodded. “Unfortunately, very familiar.”

Five years ago, a series of three murders had sent the city, a town located ninety miles west of Chicago on the edge of corn country, into a panic. The nature of the crimes and the fact that the victims were all blond-haired, blue-eyed girls, murdered in their own bedrooms while family members slept nearby, had struck the very heart of the community’s sense of safety. M.C. had been working patrol at the time; they’d gotten calls for every bump in the night.

Then the killings stopped. And after a time, life had returned to normal.

Now it appeared he might be back.

She narrowed her eyes on Brian. He no longer worked in the Detective Bureau, but had been promoted and was supervisor of the Central Reporting Unit, or CRU for short. The CRU took all calls to the RPD, was responsible for all accident reports and registered all sex offenders.

But she understood his interest in this murder. He had been one of the lead detectives assigned to the original case. The other had been Kitt Lundgren.

M.C. struggled to recall the details of the case, of Detective Lundgren’s part in it. Solving the Sleeping Angel murders had been the department’s biggest priority; Lundgren’s leadership had been the talk of the RPD. The detective had become obsessed with catching the perpetrator. She’d let other cases slide, had defied her supervisor and was rumored to have let the killer slip through her fingers. M.C. recalled stories of bungled crime scenes, alcohol abuse and ultimately, forced leave.

A leave Lundgren had only recently returned from. One that had included a stint in rehab.

M.C. frowned. “Lundgren’s a head case.”

“True,” Brian said. “But with what she’s been through, she’s earned it. Cut her some slack.”

Tom White stepped in. “Pathologist’s here.”

The coroner’s office employed two full-time forensic pathologists. They went to the scene of every death, made the official pronouncement of death, examined and photographed the body and brought it to the morgue for autopsy.

This one, Frances Roselli, the older of the two, was a small, neat man of Italian descent.

“Frances,” Brian said, crossing to him. “It’s been a while.”

“Lieutenant. Not long enough, no offense.”

“None taken. You know Detectives Riggio and White.”

He nodded in their direction. “Detectives. What’ve we got?”

“Dead child,” M.C. said. “Ten years old. She appears to have been suffocated.”

He looked to Brian, as if for confirmation. “Sounds like the Sleeping Angel Killer’s MO.”

“Unfortunately, that’s what it looks like.”

The pathologist sighed. “I could have lived the rest of my life without another one of those cases.”

“Tell me about it.” Brian shook his head. “Press is going to be all over us.”

M.C. looked at her partner. “Let’s get the door-to-door of the neighborhood started. See if anybody saw or heard anything unusual last night.”

Tom agreed. “I’ll get a couple uniforms on it.”

“The house is for sale. I want a list of every Realtor and every prospective buyer who’s been through.”

“Looks like it’s been freshly painted, as well,” Tom said. “Let’s get the names of painters and handymen who’ve been within a hundred feet of the place.”

M.C. nodded, then turned to the pathologist. “When will you have a report?”

“As early as tonight.”

“Good,” she said. “Expect a call.”

Tuesday, March 7, 2006 8:40 a.m.

Kitt double-parked her Ford Taurus in front of the modest home. To keep the curious away and provide parking for official vehicles, the first officers had cordoned off the street a hundred feet in both directions. She saw the coroner’s Suburban, the crime-scene van, a half-dozen patrol units and an equal number of unmarked squad cars.

She swept her gaze over the home—a small blue box, probably not even a thousand square feet of living space. Outsourcing and downsizing had hit Rockford hard. Industries like Rockwell International and U.S. Filter, once major area employers, were gone. Other, smaller outfits continued to limp along, but the forecast looked bleak. Last total she heard, the area had lost thirty thousand manufacturing jobs. A drive through town supported that figure—there was one empty factory after another.

Kitt had lived in Rockford, a meat-and-potatoes kind of community with a large Italian and Swedish population, all of her forty-eight years. In truth, she’d never even toyed with the idea of leaving, even after Sadie died and her marriage ended. Rockford was her home. She liked living here. Folks didn’t put on airs, fabulous pizza could be found every second block, and if she craved a bit of glitz and glamour, Chicago was just over an hour away.

Frankly, she rarely craved the glitz and glamour. She was one of those people who found comfort in middle-class familiarity.

She climbed out of her vehicle, and the gray, chilly day enveloped her. She shivered and hunched deeper into her jacket. In northern Illinois, winters were hard, springs slow to come and summers too short. But the falls were glorious. She figured the residents deserved it for sticking out the rest of the year’s weather.

She crossed to the crime-scene tape and ducked under it, then headed directly for the first officer. She signed the scene log, ignoring the curious glances of her fellow officers. She didn’t blame them for their interest; she had only returned from forced leave eight weeks ago and had been assigned nothing but no-brainer assault-and-battery cases.

Until this morning, uncertain of her own emotional strength, she had been fine with that. Grateful Sal Minelli, the deputy chief of detectives, had allowed her back. She’d melted down on the job, big-time. She’d jeopardized cases, endangered her fellow officers and the department’s reputation.

Sal had championed her, as had Brian. She would be forever in their debt. What would she have done otherwise? She was a cop. It was all she had ever been.

No, she thought. Once upon a time, she had been a wife. And a mom.

She shook the thought off. The memories that came with it. The ache.

Kitt stepped into the house. It was warm inside. The child’s parents huddled on the couch. Kitt didn’t make eye contact. She swept her gaze over the interior. Pin neat, cheap furnishings. Sculptured carpeting that had obviously seen its day; walls painted a handsome sage color.