Copycat (28 page)

Tuesday, March 21, 2006
9:20 a.m.

W
here was Kitt?
M.C. checked her watch for what seemed like the dozenth time since she had considered Kitt undeniably late. She had expected her in first thing, considering the events of the night before.

A pall hung over the department. One of their own had been cut down.

M.C. hadn't slept much, for a complicated set of reasons. Every time she'd closed her eyes, she'd relived the murder scene. She recalled Brian in life, that he had a family. She worried about her argument with him and what she should do. Go to her superiors, come clean about her and Brian's history together and their argument, or hope they never became wise to it.

Brian's murder had her spooked. If he had been killed because he'd asked a fellow officer the wrong question, that left both her and Kitt vulnerable. Particularly Kitt.

She had called her home and cell phone. The woman had answered neither. Again, weird.

M.C. drummed her fingers on her desktop, considering other scenarios. She could have fallen off the wagon and be home, sleeping it off.

After all, just a week ago Kitt had lapsed, blaming the emotional trauma of discovering Joe was going to be a stepfather. Last night Kitt's good friend and former partner had been murdered. Kitt felt partly responsible. Enough emotional trauma to send even a teetotaler running for the bottle.

It beat the hell out of the first scenario—Kitt lying just inside her own doorway, shot twice in the chest.

Screw it, she decided, standing. She'd just take a little road trip over to Kitt's to check on her.

She got no further than the decision when her cell phone buzzed. She answered without looking at the display, certain Kitt was calling.

“Riggio here.”

She learned immediately she was wrong. “I missed you last night,” Lance said.

She smiled. “I missed you, too.”

“I hoped you'd call. Waited until the wee hours.”

“Things took a turn for the worse here. I couldn't get away.”

“What about today?”

“I don't know, but it doesn't look good.” Sergeant Haas appeared in the doorway. “I've got to go. I'll call you.”

She hung up, then turned her attention to her superior. “What's up, Sarge?”

“Sal wants to see you in his office. Now.”

M.C. didn't like his tone. Too official. “Kitt's not in yet.”

“We don't need Kitt for this one.”

When they reached the deputy chief's office, she saw why not. Sal wasn't alone. A detective she recognized from Internal Affairs was with him.

The question about whether she should come clean about her argument with Brian had become moot. They already knew.

Another realization followed on the heels of that one:

Kitt had told them about it.

That's why she was late this morning. Why she hadn't answered her cell phone. She hadn't wanted to face M.C. until after IA finished with her.

Bitterness mixed with betrayal. She supposed she deserved it, after the way she had gone behind Kitt's back about Joe. She had been naive to believe they had worked through that.

“Come in, Detective Riggio. This is Detective Peters, from Internal Affairs.”

She nodded in greeting. “I recognize Detective Peters. We spoke during the Caldwell investigation.”

“That's right,” the man agreed, the barest smile shaping his mouth. “Have a seat.”

She sat and folded her hands in her lap.

“Do you have any idea what this meeting might be about, Detective?”

Tell the truth and look paranoid or guilty? Or play it dumb and cool? Both came with advantages and risks.

She took the middle road. “One of the investigations I'm working on would be my best guess.”

“And they are?”

“The Copycat killings and Lieutenant Spillare's murder.”

“A rather small caseload.”

“But intense.”

“Indeed.” The man steepled his fingers. “How would you categorize your relationship with Lieutenant Spillare?”

“Good. Until recently.”

“Until recently,” he repeated. “Could you tell us what happened to change your relationship?”

“The lieutenant began hitting on me. When I refused his advances, he began following me.”

“That would be sexual harassment.”

“I suppose it would.”

“Why didn't you approach one of your superiors. Or us?”

“I thought I could handle it myself.”

His gaze sharpened. “And did you?”

“If you're asking did I kill him, the answer is ‘hell no.' We argued. Yesterday, in fact.”

Sal spoke up. “Why didn't you come to me with this last night? You had to know how your argument would be overheard. And how it would look. It's just plain stupid, Riggio!”

No joke.

As had been trusting Kitt.

Peters stood and crossed to stand directly before her. “I think Detective Riggio had her reasons. Isn't that right, Detective?”

Rather than cock her head back to meet his eyes, she stood. They were nearly nose-to-nose. “That is right, Detective Peters. You're very astute.”

If he noticed the edge in her voice, he didn't comment. She turned toward her superiors. “Brian and I had an affair, years ago. I was a rookie, he was a detective. It was a mistake and didn't last long. I really didn't want to share that. I'm not proud of it. That's why I didn't come forward.”

For a moment the men were silent. Then Sal spoke. “You weren't the first rookie to fall under Brian's spell, nor were you the last.”

She nodded. “With all due respect, knowing others were as stupid as me doesn't make me feel any better.”

Peters cleared his throat and redirected them. “Is it true that you threatened Lieutenant Spillare?”

“Actually, he threatened me. When I told him if he didn't back off, I intended to report him, he said he would spread that I slept my way into the VCB.”

“And how did you respond?”

“I told him he had better not.”

“And that's it?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't threaten to shoot him?”

“Absolutely not.”

“We'll need your weapon for ballistics testing.”

She slipped the Glock .45 from the holster and handed it over. She knew the drill. Upon firing, every gun created a sort of “fingerprinted” bullet, marks on the metal caused by tiny imperfections in the gun's barrel. And like human fingerprints, no two weapons left identical impressions on their bullets. Likewise, with cartridge casings.

To obtain the comparison casing or bullet, they would fire it into a box of thick gel, retrieve the bullet or casing, then compare it to any that had been recovered from the scene of Brian's murder.

Sal accepted her weapon. “You'll have it back this morning.”

“Thank you.” She moved her gaze between them. “Was there anything else?”

They said there wasn't and she exited the office. Word of her being questioned by IA—and no doubt why—had traveled fast. A number of other officers milled around Sal's office, hoping for some dish. A few of them had the decency to avert their gazes, but others openly stared at her.

This was just the kind of attention she had worked hard to avoid.

Recalling Kitt's advice about going with the flow, she shook off her irritation and passed by them with her head high.

She found that Kitt had made it in and was at her desk. “Returning to the scene of the crime?” she asked from the doorway.

Kitt looked up. “Excuse me?”

“You made it in. Finally.”

“I heard about Internal Affairs. How was it?”

M.C. ignored her question and crossed to Kitt's desk. “Where were you this morning?”

Kitt shifted her gaze slightly and M.C. frowned. “That's what I thought. Thanks a lot.”

“I'm totally lost now. You want to clue me in?”

“You wanted to get back at me for Joe, didn't you? I hope we're square now, because I don't think I'm up for another sneak attack.”

Kitt stood, placed her palms on the desk and leaned toward her. When she spoke, her voice was low and vibrated with anger. “You think I went to the sarge and Sal about your argument with Brian?”

“Didn't you?”

“It wasn't me, M.C. I don't go for that behind-the-back crap. I said what I needed to last night. If another issue comes up, you'll be the first to know.”

The other woman gazed at her a moment. “Then who?”

“Someone overheard you. Or Brian told someone about it, which I find pretty unlikely.” She lowered her voice. “How deep in shit are you?”

“Slap on the wrist for not stepping forward. They're going to run ballistics on my weapon. Most of all, I just look bad.”

“We all make mistakes. I certainly have.”

“That's reassuring.”

She said it deadpan and Kitt laughed. “I suppose it's not, is it?”

“No.”

“Look, Peanut called me last night. He—”

“Detective Riggio?”

They looked up. Sal stood in the doorway. He held out her Glock. “Your weapon.”

“That was fast.”

“Got the preliminaries back on the type of gun used to kill Lieutenant Spillare. The bullet was fired from a standard-issue, .45 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver.”

Most urban forces had begun switching from revolvers to the semiautomatic pistols in the 1970s. RPD officers had the choice between two, both .40 caliber—the Glock or the Smith & Wesson 4046.

She took her weapon and holstered it. “The old policeman's favorite,” M.C. said, referring to the revolver. “An interesting choice.”

Sal nodded. “No self-respecting gangbanger or street thug's going to choose the revolver.”

“Can we have a minute?” Kitt asked.

The deputy chief checked his watch. “Can it wait until after—”

“I heard from Peanut last night. He left a trophy from one of the original killings. A lock of blond hair, tied with a pink ribbon.”

Kitt had his full attention. He nodded tersely. “My office. Now would be good.”

Tuesday, March 21, 2006
10:40 a.m.

O
nce they had all assembled in Sal's office, Kitt described the events of the evening before, starting with finding the package on the doorstep and finishing with Peanut ending their call.

“He claimed the hair was from one of the original Sleeping Angels. He wouldn't tell me which one. Told me ‘DNA' would tell the tale. ID has it and the phone already. They were going to photograph and catalog them, then send the hair to the crime lab.

“I asked him several questions point-blank,” she continued. “If he was the Copycat. If he knew who the Copycat was. He answered that he was not, but that he did know who he was. In addition, he claimed no knowledge of Brian's murder.”

“What do you think?” Sal asked. “Was he being honest?”

“I think so. Let's face it, he hasn't had a problem claiming responsibility for other crimes.”

“But Brian was a cop,” Sal pointed out.

“And the Angels were children,” Kitt countered. “I accused him of being a cop himself. It unnerved him.”

That brought silence. After a moment, Sergeant Haas cleared his throat. “But if he didn't kill Brian—”

“Maybe the Copycat did. Maybe the Copycat's a cop. Maybe they both are.”

It was the first time she had considered it aloud. She suddenly realized that she had also speculated that the Copycat was a woman.

Considering both she and M.C. fit that relatively rarified category, she didn't particularly like the option.

Sal frowned, obviously unimpressed with her suggestions. “Maybe neither of them are. Maybe Brian's murder had nothing to do with your investigation.”

He turned his gaze to her. “Kitt, I want you to retrace Brian's steps yesterday, from the time you spoke with him until you found him dead. Get into his computer, see what files he accessed. I want a log from his cell and desk phones. Get Allen to assist you.”

“You want me on it as well, Sal?” M.C. asked.

“No. You stay on the Copycat. When we're finished, call down to ID. They should have a bead on the cell phone number already.”

As if on cue, Kitt's phone buzzed. It was Sorenstein in ID. She listened, thanked him, then turned back to the group when she had ended the call. “The phone belonged to a dead guy. He was killed in a car wreck over the weekend. With everything going on, the family hadn't realized it was missing.”

“Our UNSUB seems to have a pretty good grasp on acquiring untraceable numbers,” M.C. said. “Nobody can call this one dumb.”

Sal sent M.C. an irritated glance. “But how did he get the device?”

“Could be someone at the scene, like an EMT. Or someone at the hospital. Could be our UNSUB lifted it before the wreck even happen—”

“I don't give a damn about all the ways he could have gotten it. I want to know definitively how he got it!”

He all but roared the last at them and they both jumped to their feet. Sal rarely raised his voice, but when he did, it was advantageous to take note and respond.

They exited the deputy chief's office. “Why share a trophy with you now?” M.C. asked. “It's like he wanted to prove something to you.”

“I think he did. He was all about our being in a competition. That's what the perfect crime is to him. Not just getting away with it, but outmaneuvering us. Outthinking us. Winning.”

“And is he?”

“Hell, yes!” She felt her frustration rise, her anger with it. As she did, she recalled something else he'd said. About her being emotionally involved. That he had the advantage because of it.

She told M.C., who nodded. “That's it, then. He gave you the trophy as a way to stir your emotions. He's counting on you not thinking as clearly because of it.”

“He's a smart SOB.” She narrowed her eyes. “But not smart enough.”

They reached Kitt's desk. M.C. perched on a corner while Kitt paced. “So, what do we have?” M.C. asked. “All the pieces?”

“Two killers. Nine murders, six of them children, three of them grandmothers. A span of eight years.”

“Thanks for narrowing it down, partner. It's all so much clearer to me now.”

“Sarcasm suits you.”

“Thanks.” M.C. rolled her eyes. “Can we break it down a little more?”

“Demanding, aren't we?”

“An Italian princess. Just ask my mother.”

Kitt relaxed slightly, pulled out her chair and sat.

M.C. grabbed a legal tablet. “What do we know about the SAK and his crimes?” she asked.

“He killed three ten-year-old girls. He has claimed responsibility for the murders of three elderly women. The means of death between the girls and the grandmothers was completely different.”

“Ying and yang.”

“He claims his victims are not emotional choices. That they are intellectual ones.”

“He's proud of his crimes. Calls them perfect.”

“We're painting a portrait of a guy who's out to prove himself. To the world.”

“Or to someone in particular.”

“Mother? Father? Someone who criticized and belittled him.”

Kitt felt the stirrings of excitement. This was him. The one she had come to know through their phone calls. “The duct tape to the mouth. Symbolic for shutting this person up. With the Angels, adding the lip gloss—also bringing attention to the mouth.

“It's why control is so important to him,” Kitt said. “There was a time in his life he was powerless. That's why he became so angry every time I challenged him.”

“And yet he preys on the powerless.”

“Classic self-loathing.”

“Along comes this Copycat.”

“He knows who the Copycat is. From the joint, maybe.”

“He calls
you,
Kitt. Wants you to catch him. Says he will help you.”

“But the offer comes with strings,” Kitt continues. “He wants to toy with me. Watch me jump through hoops.”

“He's in control. Proving his superiority.”

“And doing a damn good job of it, I might add.”

“Why'd he choose you?” M.C. asked.

“Because he saw me as vulnerable,” she said, though she hated the characterization. “He picks on the powerless.”

“Yes.” M.C. got to her feet. “Winning's so important to him, he stacks the deck. He calls it being ‘smart.'”

“And the Copycat—”

“There isn't a Copycat, Kitt.” M.C. swung to face her. “He's SAK and Copycat. It's not about killing the girls. It's about engaging
you.
”

Kitt didn't want to believe it, but it made sense. All the pieces fit together to create this scenario. “The hands—”

“Mean nothing. They were a way to pull you in. Get you involved, assigned to the case.”

It could be. A way to pull her in
and
keep them chasing their tails. “And the clean suit—”

“Proves he's smart. That he knows about evidence and investigation. How to get in and get out, what we'll be looking for. The minutiae we can nail him with.”

“He's kept us running. He understands trace technology, what we can and cannot do.”

“He used Buddy Brown. Led us to him, knew we would run with the lead. He may, or may not, have counted on us finding his body as quickly as we did.”

They fell silent a moment. M.C. broke the silence first. “And Brian? How does he fit in?”

“After I talk to Allen, I'll head down to ID, see how the ballistics search is coming along, then start retracing Brian's steps.” Kitt glanced at her watch. “I think we should take one last crack at the contents of the storage unit.”

“Agreed. I'll do it.” M.C. glanced at her legal pad, then back up at Kitt. “We've pretty much exhausted our options with the Angels, past and present. But what about the grandmothers?”

“I reviewed the case files. Brian and Sarge were the original detectives assigned to the case. I spoke with Brian about it yesterday.”

“What about questioning family and friends of the victims?”

“It was on my short list.”

“Since we've linked them to the SAK murders, there might be something there that makes sense now, that didn't then.”

“From my short list to yours?”

“Bingo. Files?”

Kitt retrieved them from her desk. “Call me crazy, M.C., but I feel we're close to nailing him.”

“Woman's intuition?”

“Damn right.” She handed her partner the files. “You want to argue about it?”

“No way. God gave women ‘intuition' to make up for childbirth.”

“Spoken like a woman who's never given birth. Intuition
so
doesn't cover it.”