Copycat

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, she 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?