Copycat

“Clearly, the positioning is unnatural. In which case, the killer posed them postmortem.”

“No surprise there. What’s so—”

“Interesting? How long he waited to do it after the death.”

“I don’t understand,” Kitt said. “He had to act fast, before rigor mortis set in.”

The pathologist shook his head. “Wrong, Detective. He had to wait until after rigor mortis set in.”

For several seconds, no one spoke. M.C. broke the silence first. “What kind of window are we talking about?”

“A small one. Depending on temperature, rigor mortis sets in two to six hours after death. Since the furnace is running and the house is relatively warm, my guess is it took three to four hours.”

Kitt couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Are you saying he sat here and waited for her to get stiff?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And for his patience to pay off, the body had to be discovered before rigor mortis broke at ten to twelve hours after death.”

Brian whistled. He looked at Kitt. “The hand position is extremely important to him.”

“He’s making a bold statement. An arrogant one.”

“Most killers get in and out, as quickly as possible.”

“Most smart ones,” Kitt corrected. “And the original SAK was damn intelligent.”

“So, what does the positioning mean?”

“Me and you,” White offered.

Kitt nodded. “Us and them. In and out.”

“Or nothing,” M.C. said, sounding irritated.

“Doubtful. Considering the risk he took to pose them.” Brian glanced at Kitt. “Anything else jump out at you as different?”

She shook her head. “Not that I’ve noticed—yet.” She shifted her gaze to Detective Riggio. “Is anything missing from the scene?”

“Excuse me?”

“The original SAK didn’t take a trophy from his victim. Which, of course, doesn’t fit the typical profile of a serial killer.”

M.C. and White exchanged glances. “We’ll need the girl’s parents to carefully inventory her things,” she said.

White nodded and made a note in his spiral.

“You mind if I study the scene a bit more?” In an effort to earn the other woman’s good will, Kitt directed the question Riggio’s way, though asking Brian would have yielded an easy yes and, as the superior officer of the group, his decision would have been unarguable.

But Detective Riggio was lead on the case and, Kitt could tell, hungry to prove herself. She was one of those “ballbuster” women cops, a type Kitt had seen too often. Police work was still a boys’ club—women had to fight to be taken seriously. Until they were, they were relegated to second-class citizens. So, many contorted themselves into humorless hard-asses with a severe case of testosterone envy. In other words, a woman acting like a man. Hell, she’d done a turn as one herself.

She knew better now. She had learned what made a female cop an asset was the very fact she wasn’t a man. Her instincts, the way she responded and interacted—all were shaped by her gender.

“Go for it,” she said. “Let me know if anything jumps out.”

Nothing did, and forty minutes later, Kitt left the scene. It felt wrong to be leaving without questioning the parents, lining up the neighborhood canvas and other interviews.

Dammit, this should be her case! She’d worked her ass off to solve it five years ago, every nuance of this killer’s MO was burned onto her brain.

She’d also blown it. And it had been ugly.

“Lundgren!”

Kitt stopped and turned. Mary Catherine Riggio strode toward her, expression set. “I wanted a word with you before you left.”

No surprise there. She folded her arms across her chest. “Floor’s yours.”

“Look, I know your history. I know how important the SAK case was to you, and how it must feel to be shut out now.”

“Shut out? Is that what I am?”

“Don’t play games with me, Lundgren. It’s my case, and I’m asking you to put aside your personal feelings and respect that.”

“In other words, butt out.”

“Yes.”

Kitt cocked an eyebrow at the other woman’s arrogance. “May I remind you, Detective, I know every detail of the original SAK killings. Should this one prove to be a fourth, that knowledge would be invaluable to you.”

“May I remind you, Detective, that each and every one of those case details are already available to me.”

“But my instincts—”

“Are shot. And you know it.”

Kitt fought the urge to become defensive. Riggio would perceive it as weak emotionalism. “I know this guy,” she said instead. “He’s smart. Cautious. He plans his crimes down to the tiniest detail. He prides himself on his intellect, the fact that he keeps emotion out of his crimes.

“He stalks the children, learns their routines. Bedtimes. Location of their bedrooms. Spots the ones who are vulnerable.”

“What makes them vulnerable?”

“Different things. The parents’ situations. Socioeconomics.”

“How are you so certain?”

“Because for the past five years, I ate, drank and shit this son of a bitch. Catching him is nearly all I’ve thought about.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

Kitt couldn’t answer. The one time she’d gotten close, she had blown it.