Copy Cat

by Erica Spindler

  “Flo already left,” she said, referring to the woman who served as both his secretary and office manager. “So I came on in. How’s business?”

  “Picking up. Thank God spring’s here.”

  Joe owned his own home-construction business, Lundgren Homes. Northern Illinois winters were tough on builders. Home starts simply didn’t happen. The goal was to have several jobs closed in and ready for interior work by the time severe weather hit. Some winters, it had been pretty lean going.

  “You look tired,” she said.

  “I guess I am.” He passed a hand across his face. “Judging by the bulge, you’re back on the job.”

  Her shoulder holster. Joe had never really gotten used to her wearing it. “Sal sends a hello.”

  He held her gaze. “And the drinking, how’s-”

  “Still sober. Eleven months and counting. I plan to stay that way.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Kitt.”

  He meant it, she knew. He had seen the alcohol almost destroy her. And though they’d divorced, he still cared for her. As she did him.

  She cleared her throat. “Something’s happened. The Sleeping Angel Killer…it looks like he’s back.”

  He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. She saw several different emotions chase across his face. “A little girl named Julie Entzel,” she continued. “They found her this morning.”

  “I’m sorry.” He shifted his gaze to the plans laid out in front of him. “Sal has you working the case?”

  “No, he thinks I’m too close. Too…vulnerable.”

  He looked back up at her. “But you don’t agree?”

  His tone had taken on an edge. She stiffened slightly, defensive. “I see you do.”

  He made a sound, part frustration, part anger. “You chose that case over our marriage. Over me. I’d call that ‘too close.’”

  “Let’s not start this, Joe.”

  He stood. She saw that his hands were clenched. “Even after the killings stopped, you couldn’t let it go. Even after Sal closed the case.”

  That was true. It had consumed her. Fueled her drinking, her defiance of direct orders. But she had not chosen it over him. She told him so.

  He laughed, the sound bitter. “That case became the focus of your life. I should have been your focus. Our marriage. This family.”

  “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.”

  8

  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?”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s a smoker. I guess his age to be between twenty-five and thirty-five. He told me-” She glanced at her notes. “‘Someone ripped me off. Copied me. And I don’t like it.’”

  “Did you initiate a trace?”

  “Everyone was at lunch or out on call. When I tried to put him on hold, he told me to stop playing games.”

  “You called CRU-”

  “The minute he hung up. Call came from a cell phone. I’m waiting to hear back on the owner’s name.”

  “The caller, did he say anything else?”

  “He gave me two rules. Said if I didn’t follow them, more little girls would die.”

  White stepped in before she could finish. “But he claims he didn’t kill Julie Entzel? How’s he so certain more girls will die?”

  “He didn’t tell me, so I can only suppose.”

  “Maybe he knows who the copycat is?” White offered.

  “Maybe,” Riggio agreed. “If we can believe anything he said.”

  Kitt cocked an eyebrow, growing annoyed with the other woman. “Would you like to hear the rest of what he said?”

  Riggio nodded tersely, and Kitt went on. “He gave me two rules. The first-he won’t talk to anyone but me.”

  “Please.”

  That came from Riggio. Kitt ignored her.

  “And the second?” Sal asked.

  “That nothing will be free. Or easy. The cost will be determined by him.”

  “He wants money?” That came from White.

  Kitt looked at him. “I don’t think that’s the kind of ‘cost’ he was referring to. But he didn’t ask for anything.”

  “Sure he did.” Sal moved his gaze between the three. “He asked that you work the case.” He picked up the phone and rang Nan Baker, the VCB secretary. “Nan, is Sergeant Haas back from lunch?” He paused. “Good. Get him in here.”

  Every bureau in the RPD had a senior officer. Sergeant Jonathan Haas was Violent Crime’s. He had been Brian’s partner before being promoted and was known around the bureau for being a solid cop.

  The tall, fair-haired sergeant arrived. He smelled of the burger and fries he must have had for lunch. It looked as if he had dribbled “secret sauce” on his tie. Though the differences between the two men’s personal styles was dramatic, Sal and Haas had a good relationship. In fact, early in both their careers, they had also been partners.

  As Sal began filling him in, Kitt’s cell rang. “Lundgren here.”

  “Kitt, Brian. Bad news. The number belongs to a prepaid cell phone. I have the name of the outlet that sold it.”

  Smarter than the average bear, obviously. “That’ll have to do. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  She ended the call. The sergeant turned to her. She greeted him, then filled the group in.

  Haas nodded. “I want to initiate a trace on every call that comes in to you, here and at home. And I want them all recorded.” He turned to Riggio. “Is the autopsy in?”

  “Yes, Sarge. I picked it up last night. No new information, unfortunately. She was smothered, just like the three original SAK victims. Nails were clean. No sign of sexual assault. No defense wounds. Only the hematoma to the forehead.”

  “Any help there?” Sal asked.

  “Pathologist believes it’s a thumbprint.”

  White stepped in. “This guy’s like a cat. Neighborhood canvas turned up zip.”

  Riggio took over. “Realtor promised to get back to me this morning with a list of everyone who’s been through the house.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “ID Bureau’s working on it. So far, everything’s consistent with the three original killings.”

  “Except for the hands,” Kitt said. “Big inconsistency there.”

  The room went silent.

  Detective Riggio broke the silence first. “We have no proof this caller’s not just another crank. The Register Star ran the story front and center this morning. This guy may have been the first to call in with a wild claim, but I hardly think he’ll be the last.”

  “Point noted, Detective Riggio. But I’m not willing to put my money on that. Are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Lundgren?”

  “Chief?”

  “Let us know if he contacts you again. Put in the trace orders now.”

  She nodded and unclipped her cell phone. “And if he does call, what do I tell him?”

  “Say whatever the hell you have to to keep him on the line.”

  Meeting concluded, they exited the office. Out of their superior’s earshot, Riggio leaned toward her. “Looks like you got what you wanted. You’re in the loop.”

  “You have a problem with that?”

  “Just don’t forget who’s lead on this one, Lundgren. It’s my case.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think you’d let me forget, Detective Riggio.”

  The woman looked as if she had more to say; Kitt didn’t give her the chance. “If you’ll excuse me, I have traces to order.”

  9

  Wednesday, March 8, 2006

  6:40 p.m.

  M.C. dreaded Wednesday nights. Specifically, six-thirty to eight-thirty. “The Pasta Hours,” she called them. That was when she-and all five of her siblings-assembled for a command performance at their mother’s table. There, they would be skewered, then grilled on every aspect of their lives.

  M.C. could feel the hot coals already-she was her mother’s favorite entrée.

  There wasn’t a single thing about M.C. that her mother approved of. Nothing, nada. The big zippo. It used to bother her, but no longer. She’d realized that if she had wanted to become the woman her mother wanted her to be, s
he could have.

  So, M.C. sucked it up week after week, only occasionally praying for a homicide that would keep her away.

  She pulled up in front of her childhood home, a two-story farmhouse, minus the farm. She parked, frowning as she thought of Kitt Lundgren and her anonymous caller.

  Could the woman have fabricated the story in an attempt to actively participate in the investigation? Would she go that far?

  Yes-if what she’d heard about Lundgren’s obsession with the case was true.

  The suspicion left M.C. feeling uneasy and she glanced toward the front porch. Michael and Neil stood there, deep in conversation. She smiled to herself. She’d affectionately nicknamed her five siblings: the Overachiever, the Suck-up and the Three Ass-kissers.

  Michael, the Overachiever, was the oldest. A chiropractor. In her mother’s world, the only thing better than one of her children being called “Dr. Riggio” was their being called “Father Riggio.” But Michael-and the rest of the Riggio boy-brood-enjoyed women and sex way too much for that particular calling, so Mama Riggio had contented herself with “her son, the doctor.”

  Neil, the Suck-up, taught math at Boylan Central Catholic High School, their alma mater, and coached the wrestling team. Very normal. He had also provided their mother with a daughter-in-law and her first and, to date, only grandchild.

  The three youngest of the boys, Tony, Max and Frank, had pooled their resources and Mama’s family recipes and opened Mama Riggio’s Italian Restaurant. The trio had just opened their second location and had plans for a third, in the suburbs closer to Chicago. The name of their restaurant had earned them the nickname the Three Ass-kissers.

  M.C. loved her brothers. Adored them, actually. Even the one whose brainchild it had been to decorate Mama Riggio’s with old family photographs, including one of her with braces, zits and really bad hair.

  A photo they jumped at every opportunity to point out.

  “And that’s our only sister, Mary Catherine. She’s unmarried, if you’re interested.”

  Big yuk.

  She climbed out of her SUV. “Hello, boys.”

  “Yo, M.C.,” Neil called. “Looking wicked.”

  “Thanks,” she called back, slamming the vehicle door. “Hoping to scare Mama.”