Copycat. Erica Spindler

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      “Yes.” He paused. “So, did you arrange what I asked?”

      “I talked to my chief.”

      “And?”

      “He’s taking your request seriously.”

      “But not seriously enough to give you the case.”

      “PDs don’t work that way.”

      “Another girl’s going to die,” he said. “You can stop it.”

      “How?” she asked, heart beating faster. “How can I stop it?”

      “I committed perfect crimes. This one’s a cheap imitator. He’ll move fast. Too fast. He won’t plan. The Copycat doesn’t know my secrets.”

      “What secrets?” She gripped the phone tightly, working to keep excitement from her voice. To keep it cool, even. “Tell me, so I can help.”

      “I know your secret, Kitt.”

      His voice had turned sly. She frowned. “What secret would you be referring to?”

      “You could have caught me. But you were drunk. That’s why you fell. It was a stupid mistake on my part. But I didn’t make another, did I?”

      Kitt couldn’t speak. The past rushed up, choking her. A call had come into the department. A mother, insisting her daughter was being targeted by the SAK. That she was being stalked.

      During that time, they had gotten so many calls like that, hundreds. The department checked them all out, but they simply didn’t have the manpower to watch every nine- and ten-year-old girl in Rockford.

      But something about this mother’s claim, about this girl … she’d had a feeling. The chief had refused to fund it, had reminded Kitt of her fragile emotional state.

      They had buried Sadie the week before.

      So, she had broken one of the cardinal rules of police work—she’d gone solo. Set up her own after-hours stakeout.

      Night after night she had sat outside that girl’s house. Just her and her little flask. The flask that chased the cold away.

      At least that’s what she had told herself. It had been a lie, of course. The flask had been about chasing the pain away.

      A week into it, she had seen him. A man who didn’t belong. She should have called for backup. Instead, she’d given chase.

      Or tried. By that time, she had been stumbling drunk. She’d fallen, hit her head and been knocked unconscious. When she’d come to, he’d been long gone.

      He had never given them another chance.

      The chief had been furious. The SAK could have killed her. He could have taken her gun, used it on her or others.

      Kitt refocused on the now, on what this meant: he was who he said. There were only two others within the department who knew the truth about that night, Sal and Brian.

       Then another girl had died and the SAK had disappeared. Until now.

      “Okay,” she said, “you’ve got me. Do you know who the Copycat is?”

      He laughed coyly. “I might.”

      “Then tell me. I’ll stop him.”

      “What fun is there in that?”

      She pictured the body of Julie Entzel. Recalled the sound of her parents’ grief. The way it echoed inside her.

      “I don’t call any of this fun, you son of a bitch.”

      He chuckled, seeming pleased. “But it’s my game now. And it’s time to say goodbye.”

      “Wait! What should I call you?”

      “Call me Peanut,” he said softly.

      In the next instant, he was gone.

      12

       Thursday, March 9, 2006 7:25 a.m.

      Kitt stood frozen, cell phone held to her ear. She struggled to breathe. Peanut. They’d given Sadie the nickname because she’d been so small. Because of the leukemia.

      How dare that monster use her precious daughter’s name! It had sounded obscene on his lips. If he had been within her grasp, she would have been tempted to kill him.

      Kitt reholstered the phone and walked quickly to her car. She unlocked it, slipped inside, but made no move to start the engine. He was playing with her.

      Somehow, he had learned her cell number. Her daughter’s nickname. Which buttons to push.

      What else did he know about her?

      Everything. At least that was the presumption she needed to operate on. He had called this “fun.” His “game.” And like a masterful player, he had made it his business to educate himself on his competitor’s weaknesses.

      She breathed deeply, calmer now, putting the call into perspective. She unclipped her phone and punched in Sal’s cell number. He answered right way.

      “Sal, it’s Kitt. He contacted me again. I’m on my way in.”

      Kitt arrived at the PSB just after Sal. She caught him waiting at the elevator. The car arrived, and they stepped inside. He punched two and turned to her.

      “Well?”

      “He’s the real deal, Sal. He knew about that night, about my falling. Why I fell.”

      His mouth tightened. “Go on.”

      “He said another girl is going to die.”

      The elevator stopped on the second floor; they stepped off and headed down the hall to the Violent Crimes Bureau.

      “When?”

      “He was speaking metaphorically. Said the Copycat was going to move too fast. That whoever was copying his crimes was going to make mistakes.”

      They reached the bureau. Nan held out a stack of message slips with a cheery “Good morning.”

      He returned her greeting and began to thumb through the slips. “Anything urgent?” he asked the woman.

      “The chief needs to push your meeting back thirty minutes. And Detective Allen’s down with the flu. His wife called.”

      The deputy chief nodded. “I want Riggio and White. In my office, ASAP. Is Sergeant Haas in yet?”

      “In his office.”

      “Send him in as well.”

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