Erica Spindler - Copycat

“What family?” She regretted the words the moment they passed her lips. She saw how much they hurt him.

She started to say so; he cut her off. “Why are you here?”

“I thought you’d want to know. About the little girl.”

“Why?”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Julie Entzel wasn’t our daughter, Kitt. None of those girls were. I’d never met even one of them. And that’s the part you never got.”

“Oh, I got that, Joe. But I feel a sense of responsibility that you, obviously, don’t. I feel a need to help. To do … something.”

“Don’t you think my heart breaks for that little girl, her folks? I know what it’s like to lose a child. That some monster could do such a thing sickens me.” He cleared his throat. “But she wasn’t Sadie. She wasn’t ours. You’ve got to move on with your life.”

“The way you have?” she shot back.

“Actually, yes.” He paused for a long moment. When he spoke again, his tone was flat. “I’m getting remarried, Kitt.”

For several seconds, she simply gazed at him, certain she had misheard. She must have. Her Joe, getting remarried?

“You don’t know her,” he went on, before she could ask. “Her name’s Valerie.”

Kitt’s mouth had gone dry. She felt light-headed. What? Had she expected him to pine for her forever?

Yes.

She struggled to keep her turmoil from showing. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone so seriously.”

“No reason you should have.”

No reason? She had a lifetime worth of reasons. “How long have you been dating?”

“Four months.”

“Four months? Not very long. Are you certain—”

“Yes.”

“When’s the big day?” Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears.

“We haven’t set one yet. Fairly soon. It’ll be a small service. Just a few family members and close friends.”

“I see.”

He looked frustrated. “Is that all you have to say?”

“No.” She stood, blinded by tears she would never allow him to see. “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

Wednesday, March 8, 2006 12:10 p.m.

Kitt sat at her desk, brown-bag lunch untouched, thumbing through the original Sleeping Angel case files. The information was available electronically, but she preferred to review hard copies.

She slipped out the scene photos of the first victim. Mary Polaski. It hurt to look at her. She had let this little victim down. She had let her family down.

Kitt forced such thoughts from her mind and studied the photos, comparing them to those of Julie Entzel. Why had he positioned the hands this way? Why take the chance of remaining at the scene for hours? What had been so important to him?

Her phone rang; Kitt reached for it without taking her gaze from the photos. “Detective Lundgren, Violent Crimes Bureau.”

“The Detective Lundgren who was in charge of the Sleeping Angel case five years ago?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“Actually, I think I can help you.”

The call didn’t surprise her; the morning newspaper headline had read: Sleeping Angel Killer Returns. What surprised her was the fact she hadn’t received one before now. “Always happy to have help. Your name?”

“I’m someone you’ve wanted to meet for a very long time.”

The sly amusement in his tone grated. She didn’t have time for wackos. Or for games. She told him so.

“I’m the Sleeping Angel Killer.”

For the space of a heartbeat she wondered if it could be true. Could it be this easy?

Of course it couldn’t.

“You’re the Sleeping Angel Killer,” she repeated. “And you want to help me?”

“I didn’t kill that little girl. The one in the paper today.”

“Julie Entzel.”

“Yeah, her.” She heard a hissing sound, as if he were taking a drag on a cigarette. She made a note. “Someone ripped me off.”

“Ripped you off?”

“Copied me. And I don’t like it.”

Kitt glanced around her. Everyone, it seemed, was either out on a call or at lunch. She stood and waved her free arm, hoping to catch the attention of someone walking by. She needed to initiate a trace.

“I want you to catch this asshole and stop him.”

“I want to help you,” she said. “But I’ve got another call coming in. Can you hold a moment?”

“Now who’s playing games?” She heard him exhale. “Here are the rules. I won’t talk to anyone but you, Kitt. May I call you Kitt?”

“Sure. What should I call you?”

He ignored her question. “Nice name. Kitty. Kitten. Feminine. Sexy. Doesn’t fit a cop, though.” Another pause, another deep inhale. “Of course, everybody calls you Detective. Or Lundgren. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right,” she said. “But here’s the thing, I’m not working the Entzel murder. I’ll transfer you to the team who is.”

He ignored her. “Rule number two. Don’t expect anything for free. And don’t expect it to be easy. Everything costs. I determine payment.”

His voice was deep. Relatively youthful. The smoking hadn’t yet altered that. She would place his age between twenty-five and thirty-five. “Is there a rule number three?”

“There may be. I haven’t decided yet.”

“And if I don’t want to play by your rules?”

He laughed. “You will. Or more little girls will die.”

Shit. Where the hell was everyone? “All right. Just give me a reason to believe you’re anything more than a crank. Something to take to my chief—”

“Goodbye, Kitten.”

He hung up. She swore and dialed the Central Reporting Unit. Because all the department calls were routed through a switchboard, a trace had to be manually initiated on a per call basis. However, the number of each call that came into the RPD switchboard was automatically trapped.

“This is Lundgren in Violent Crimes. I just received a call to my desk. I need the number, ASAP.”

She hung up and two minutes later CRU called her back. It was Brian himself. “It was a cell number, Kitt. What’s up?”

A cell number. Unlike a call made from a landline, which could be trapped in ten seconds of continuous connection, one from a cell took five minutes. If the guy was smart, he also knew that all new cellular phones included a GPS chip that allowed a call’s location to be pinpointed within ten minutes. Older models, without the new technology, would take hours.

She glanced at her watch. She would guess the call had lasted no more than three minutes. Which meant this guy understood trace technology.

“Guy claimed he was the SAK,” she said. “The original SAK. Said Julie Entzel’s murder isn’t his.”

Brian whistled. “Obviously, you want a name and address to go along with that number?”

“ASAP.” She glanced toward her sergeant’s office and saw he was still out. “Call me back on my cell.”

She hung up, collected her notes and headed for Sal’s office. She paused as she saw Riggio and White entering the squad room. She pointed toward Sal’s office. “You’ll be interested in this.”

She reached the deputy chief’s, the other two detectives right behind her. She tapped on his open door.

He looked up, waved them in. Kitt didn’t waste time on a preamble. “I just received a call from someone claiming to be the SAK.” Seeing she had everyone’s attention, she continued, “He also claimed he did not kill Julie Entzel.”

“Why was he calling you?”

This came from Riggio, and Kitt met her gaze. “He wants me to find this copycat and stop him.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Sal frowned. “What else did you get from him?”