Copycat (11 page)

Her cell phone rang. She unclipped the device, brought it to her ear. “Lundgren here.”

“Kitt, it's Sal. Derrick Todd made an appearance. Officer Petersen picked him up.”

“Good. Stick him in an interrogation room. We're on our way.”

Saturday, March 11, 2006
Noon

D
errick Todd was an angry young man. Big on bad attitude. Small on smarts. Not to say he wasn't intelligent. M.C. had no idea if he was or not—he had enough brainpower for her not to have ruled it out yet.

He seemed like one of those kids who consistently made the wrong choice, then blamed somebody else for it.

This cycle always ended badly, in squandered opportunities, jail-time—or worse.

Kitt wandered in, carrying a coffee mug, a newspaper and a box of doughnuts. The doughnuts were a cliché, but that was the point. They figured Mr. Not-So-Bright probably had a chip on his shoulder about cops and would buy right into it.

As they had rehearsed, she dropped the latest edition of the
Register Star
on the table, well within Todd's line of vision. The headline screamed Copycat Or Not—Will He Strike Again? There was a picture of both little Julie Entzel and Marianne Vest. There were also smaller photos of the original SAK victims.

Most serials loved the limelight. They loved to read about themselves in the news. Loved reliving the act. Got off on it. And on the fact they had people in a panic and the cops on the run.

If he was the killer, once he saw the headline, he wouldn't be able to take his eyes off it. It was a psychological trick that had been developed by the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI. The trick also worked with items from the crime scene, photos of the victim, murder weapons.

The first time M.C. had tried it, the suspect had actually moved his chair to get a better view of the item, a lavender knit cap the victim had been wearing at the time of her murder.

They would start out easy, they had decided. Lull him into a false sense of security. M.C. would play the “bad cop,” Kitt the “good one.”

Kitt set the box of pastries smack on top of the paper. “Sorry I'm late,” she said. “I was taking a coffee break.”

“Cops,” the kid muttered.

“Excuse me?”

He rocked back in his chair, expression cocky. “You never disappoint, that's all.”

“Doughnut?” She motioned to the box. “Help yourself.”

“No thanks.”

“M.C.?”

“Sure.” She made a great show of choosing one, then taking a bite.

“Why am I here?”

“I think you know, Mr. Todd.”

“So I got a job at the Fun Zone. Big fuckin' deal.”

“Where were you last night, Mr. Todd?”

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“At a friend's.”

“Name?”

“Don't have one. Met her in a bar.”

No accounting for taste.
“Which bar?”

He hesitated. “Google Me.”

“You don't seem so sure about that.”

“I'm sure. Just don't want you pigs to know where I hang out.”

Another indication of low IQ: insulting people who carry guns
and
hold your fate in their hands.

Duh
.

M.C. glanced at Kitt. She was watching Todd intently, the expression in her eyes fierce. She could guess her thoughts:
Look at the paper, damn you.

But he didn't. Almost pointedly. Could he be on to them? She didn't think this one had the native intelligence to know what they were up to, but she needed to put it to the test.

“Kitt, can I have a word with you outside?”

The other woman met her eyes, immediately understanding what she was up to. They exited the interrogation room, locking the door behind them. They went around the corner to the surveillance room. There an assistant D.A., a thirtyish young man sporting Harry Potter spectacles and prematurely thinning hair, Sal and Sergeant Haas were watching the video monitor.

All homicide interrogations were videotaped, a relatively recent addition to the RPD's investigative arsenal. The videotape provided a permanent account of the interrogation to study at length later, and a means for the department to cover its ass against rights violations and brutality charges.

Other than a quick glance in their direction, the trio never took their eyes from the monitor. M.C. pulled up a chair; Kitt stood. Todd thrummed his fingers on the table. He stood and paced. He sat again, looked at the camera and flipped them the bird.

But he didn't give the paper more than a cursory glance.

“Maybe he can't read,” M.C. muttered.

“He's not the one,” Kitt said. “He's not going for it.”

“You don't know that for certain,” M.C. shot back.

“Yeah, I do. Dammit!”

“Hold on,” the assistant D.A. said, “he's taking the bait.”

M.C. swung back to the monitor. Sure enough, Todd was inching his chair closer to the paper. As they watched, he leaned forward, as if craning to read the headline around the box of doughnuts.

She held her breath.
Move the box. Get yourself a real good look at that paper. Read all about it, you bastard.

Instead, he spat into the box of pastries, then settled back into his seat, smiling.

“That little son of a bitch,” Sal muttered. “I was going to have one of those.”

M.C. looked at Kitt. “Let's take the gloves off.”

Kitt frowned slightly. “That's not the way we rehearsed it.”

“So?”

“So, we go the way we rehearsed it.”

M.C. made a sound of frustration. “He needs more heat.”

Kitt pulled rank. “We give it another minute or two. Then up our ante.”

M.C. wanted to argue, but saw Sal frown. He would not have his detectives arguing over methods, and certainly not at this important juncture. “Okay, let's go.”

They returned to the interview room. Todd grinned at them. “Doughnut, detectives?”

“You're a nasty little prick, aren't you?”

He shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Whatever,” she repeated, pulling a chair out, angling it to face him. “Funny you would patronize a place called Google Me. After all, you wouldn't want to be Googled, would you, Mr. Todd?”

“Fuck you.”

“Do you think that woman you spent the night with would have let you near her if she had known you're a registered sex offender? Or maybe she wasn't a woman at all. How old was this “friend” last night?”

Kitt stepped in before he could respond. She kept her tone low, without the edginess of her partner's. “Who at the Fun Zone hired you?”

“The owner. Sydney Dale.” He said the man's name on a sneer.

“No love lost there?” she asked. “Even though he gave an ex-con a job?”

“No love. You could say that. The guy's a dick.”

“When he hired you, did he know your history?”

He shrugged. “Don't know, don't care.”

M.C. took over. “Really? A children's play center seems a strange place for a child molester to work. Or maybe not so strange…at least from the pervert's point of view?”

His face turned red. “I'm not a child molester!”

“A jury disagreed, didn't they?”

She grabbed the newspaper and tossed the front page on the table in front of him. She tapped Julie and Marianne's photos. “Ever see either of these girls before?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

He stared at the paper. The headline. He put it all together. And looked ready to puke.

“Care now?”

“I never saw those girls.”

“Did you work Saturday, January 21?”

“I don't remember.”

“I can help with that,” Kitt said. “I had Mr. Zuba check your time card. You did.”

“How about Saturday, February 11?”

“I don't remember. Probably.”

“You did,” Kitt offered, cheerfully.

“So?”

He tried for his earlier confident attitude, but came off scared and queasy instead.

“Both those girls had birthday parties at the Fun Zone. Julie Entzel in January. Marianne Vest in February. That's a pretty big coincidence, don't you think? A convicted sex offender working at the place two murdered girls had their birthday parties?”

He went white. Sweat beaded his upper lips. “I want a lawyer.”

“I'll just bet you do, Mr. Todd.” M.C. straightened. “Come on, Kitt, let's get Mr. Innocence here an attorney. Obviously, he needs one.”

“I didn't do anything!”

Kitt took the motherly role. “Derrick, this looks bad. You know that. I want to help you. I want to catch whoever is hurting these girls. If you didn't do this—”

“I didn't, I swear! I never even saw those girls at the Fun Zone. There are birthdays there all the time!”

“So, why are you working at the Fun Zone? What are we supposed to think?”

“I needed a job!” he cried. “Dale owed me. That's all!”

“Dale owed you? What's that supposed to mean?”

“I know my rights! I'm not saying another fucking word until—”

“You get your lawyer,” M.C. finished for him, and stood.

Sunday, March 12, 2006
9:20 a.m.

O
ut of breath and sweating, Kitt slowed her pace. She had kept the promise she'd made to herself to get back in shape. On the couple of days she had wanted to sleep in, she pictured the much younger Mary Catherine Riggio and suddenly found the energy to get her forty-eight-year-old butt up and moving.

She knew it was ridiculous to try to compete with the other woman, but she couldn't help herself. She looked at Riggio and saw the detective she had been twenty years ago. Confident. Her entire career ahead of her. Her entire
life
ahead of her.

Kitt had been acutely aware of the differences between them during their interrogation of Todd. M.C. had insisted on charging forward. Taking control. Kitt had wanted to go slower, not push too hard.

Was that because it would have been the better approach? Or because she had been afraid of making a mistake?

Would she ever not feel as if she was groping around in the dark?

After their interrogation of Todd, the investigation had ground to a halt. He had been booked for violating the state's sex offender registration law. The search of his apartment and vehicle had turned up nothing to connect him to the Entzel and Vest murders.

She hadn't been totally surprised by that. On paper the kid looked like a good suspect, but her instincts, such as they were, told her he wasn't their guy.

For one, he hadn't gone for the bait. And two, if he had been guilty, he would have been on better behavior from the get-go.

Besides, the kid had been convicted of exposing himself to a minor. Fondling himself while he did. A logical next step might be sexually assaulting a child. But the SAK and Copycat victims hadn't been molested.

Her bungalow came into view. Someone sat on the front porch, waiting. As she drew closer, she saw it was Danny. Reading the paper and sipping from a Starbucks Venti-size cup.

“Hey you,” she said when she reached him.

He looked up and smiled. “I was just about to give up. Thirty minutes was my limit.”

She sat next to him. “I'm glad you didn't. Is that for me?” She indicated a second Starbucks cup.

“It is. Vanilla latte.” He handed it to her. “I guess I should have made it a sugar-free skinny?”

“I would have been pissed if you had. I'm exercising to keep up with the competition, not to lose weight.”

She sipped, making a sound of pleasure as the sweet, barely warm beverage flowed over her tongue.

“Your partner?”

“Mmm. Mary Catherine Riggio.”

“You say the name like she's a snake you're afraid is going to bite you.”

Kitt leaned back on her elbows. “I think she already has.”

He pursed his lips. “Want to talk about it?”

“Maybe. That for me, too?”

He handed her the pastry bag. “What's left of it. I got hungry waiting.”

She peered into the bag at the half-eaten muffin. “Not that I don't appreciate the thought, Danny, but I think I'll pass.”

“No problemo.” He grinned and helped himself to the last of the muffin.

“So, what's up?” she asked, eyeing him.

“Wanted to check on you. See how you're doing.”

“I haven't melted down, if that's what you're asking.” She winced at the defensive edge that had crept into her voice.

“I'm not waiting for you to fail, Kitt. I'm not expecting you to.”

“Just want to be here when I do, right?”

“No,” he chided gently at her sarcasm, “just want to be here if you need me. You know me better than that.”

She did. Damn.
“Sorry. So I guess the stress
is
getting to me.”

“Or the partner.”

The partner. Right.
Kitt took a swallow of the coffee. “She's young. And smart.”

“Attractive?”

“Yeah, that, too.”

“And this bothers you why?”

“I would think the reasons are quite obvious.”

“Not to me.”

“Be serious.”

“You're smart, Kitt. And, if I may say so, damn attractive.”

“You're my friend, you have to say that. And—” She held up a hand, stopping him. “I'm not young.”

“But you are wise.”

He delivered that with a grin. She groaned.
Great. The wise, grandmotherly one.
“I'm a screwup.”

“Now you're just feeling sorry for yourself.”

Kitt was quiet a moment, acknowledging that he was right. “I suppose the thing is, she makes it look effortless.”

“The work?”

“No. Believing in herself.”

He didn't comment, simply gave her a quick hug. “I need to go.”

She followed him to his feet. “So soon?”

“I promised a friend I'd help him move.”

She watched him walk away, then turned and crossed to her door. And found it unlocked.

She frowned. Surely she hadn't left it that way.

Had she?

She searched her memory, retracing her steps. She couldn't clearly remember locking it—but it was one of those things she did automatically. She was a cop, after all.

She examined the door and casing. There weren't any signs of the lock being jimmied or forced. Could she have been so distracted she'd forgotten?

She could have, Kitt realized, dismayed. She had better pull herself together.

She let herself in, pointedly locking the door behind her. A shower, then a good breakfast, she decided. The latte would hold her until then.

She peeled off her damp T-shirt as she entered the bedroom. She tossed it at the hamper, then froze, the hair at the back of her neck standing on end.

Her nightstand drawer stood partly open. The drawer she kept her gun in.

The blood began to pound in her head. An officer always carried a weapon. When she ran, she wore a fanny pack or an ankle holster. Today it was a fanny pack.

Still, she knew she had not left that drawer open.

Kitt crossed to the nightstand and slid the drawer the rest of the way open. Her journal. A pen. Several favorite photos of Sadie. The empty space where her Glock usually rested.

Someone had been in her house. Who? She pictured Danny, waiting on the front porch. Surely, not—

Peanut.

He knew where she lived. He was, obviously, adept at breaking and entering. He had decided to take his toying with her to a new level.

He could still be there.

She unzipped the fanny pack, removed the Glock and began a systematic search. In the end, she found nothing out of place save for the original drawer and her unlocked front door.

Was she imagining things? Had she left both the door unlocked and the nightstand drawer open?

Was she losing it? Again?

The hell of it was, she couldn't be certain. She didn't trust herself, her instincts. Which left her more uneasy than
knowing
a dozen monsters like the SAK had been in her home.