“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.”
“Will do.” Nan turned to her. “Detective Lundgren, you have a message as well. An old friend. Said he’d try you later.”
Kitt frowned. The woman handed her the pink message slip. “Called himself ‘Peanut.’ Said to tell you he was looking forward to seeing you on television.”
Kitt didn’t comment, but by the time they had all assembled in Sal’s office, she shook with anger. This brazen bastard was starting to piss her off.
Sal began. “The man claiming to be the Sleeping Angel Killer contacted Detective Lundgren again. This time on her cell phone.” He turned toward her. “Detective, you want to fill everyone in?”
She took over, recounting the brief conversation, minus the incriminating comments about her fall. “He told me to call him ‘Peanut.’”
Sal looked sharply at her. “Your daughter’s nickname?”
She kept her voice flat. “Yes. He called the bureau this morning as well.” She handed the message slip to Sal. “This was waiting for me here.”
Sal swore. She shifted her gaze to the rest of the group. “Point is, he knows details of the original case and investigation that he couldn’t, unless he is who he claims.”
M.C. frowned. “Last time he called them his ‘perfect’ crimes as well. Obviously, that’s important to him.”
“He’s arrogant,” Kitt said. “He’s pissed that this guy is copying his work-”
White stepped in. “And being damn sloppy about it.”
“In his opinion,” Riggio murmured.
“Yes.” Kitt paused a moment. “I asked him if he knew who the Copycat was. He said ‘maybe.’”
Sal steepled his fingers. “Do you think he really does and is being coy? Or that he suspects but isn’t certain?”
“At this point, I’m not certain. If I had to wager a guess, I think he’s being coy.”
“Because he’s playing a game with you,” Riggio agreed. “His words.”
“Yes. A game he called ‘fun.’”
“If the Copycat makes the mistakes Peanut claims he will, we’ll get him.”
Kitt flinched at the other detective’s use of Sadie’s nickname, though she acknowledged that she had better get used to it. This wouldn’t be the last time.
“But another girl will die,” White offered. “Maybe more than one.”
Kitt cleared her throat. “We’re forgetting another thing here. If he’s telling me the truth, we have two killers to catch. The SAK and his copycat.”
The room grew silent. Sergeant Haas looked at his superior. “What’s your recommendation, Sal?”