Copycat. Erica Spindler
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who’s playing games?” She heard him exhale. “Here are the rules. I won’t talk to anyone but you, Kitt. May I call you Kitt?”
“Sure. What should I call you?”
He ignored her question. “Nice name. Kitty. Kitten. Feminine. Sexy. Doesn’t fit a cop, though.” Another pause, another deep inhale. “Of course, everybody calls you Detective. Or Lundgren. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right,” she said. “But here’s the thing, I’m not working the Entzel murder. I’ll transfer you to the team who is.”
He ignored her. “Rule number two. Don’t expect anything for free. And don’t expect it to be easy. Everything costs. I determine payment.”
His voice was deep. Relatively youthful. The smoking hadn’t yet altered that. She would place his age between twenty-five and thirty-five. “Is there a rule number three?”
“There may be. I haven’t decided yet.”
“And if I don’t want to play by your rules?”
He laughed. “You will. Or more little girls will die.”
Shit. Where the hell was everyone? “All right. Just give me a reason to believe you’re anything more than a crank. Something to take to my chief—”
“Goodbye, Kitten.”
He hung up. She swore and dialed the Central Reporting Unit. Because all the department calls were routed through a switchboard, a trace had to be manually initiated on a per call basis. However, the number of each call that came into the RPD switchboard was automatically trapped.
“This is Lundgren in Violent Crimes. I just received a call to my desk. I need the number, ASAP.”
She hung up and two minutes later CRU called her back. It was Brian himself. “It was a cell number, Kitt. What’s up?”
A cell number. Unlike a call made from a landline, which could be trapped in ten seconds of continuous connection, one from a cell took five minutes. If the guy was smart, he also knew that all new cellular phones included a GPS chip that allowed a call’s location to be pinpointed within ten minutes. Older models, without the new technology, would take hours.
She glanced at her watch. She would guess the call had lasted no more than three minutes. Which meant this guy understood trace technology.
“Guy claimed he was the SAK,” she said. “The original SAK. Said Julie Entzel’s murder isn’t his.”
Brian whistled. “Obviously, you want a name and address to go along with that number?”
“ASAP.” She glanced toward her sergeant’s office and saw he was still out. “Call me back on my cell.”
She hung up, collected her notes and headed for Sal’s office. She paused as she saw Riggio and White entering the squad room. She pointed toward Sal’s office. “You’ll be interested in this.”
She reached the deputy chief’s, the other two detectives right behind her. She tapped on his open door.
He looked up, waved them in. Kitt didn’t waste time on a preamble. “I just received a call from someone claiming to be the SAK.” Seeing she had everyone’s attention, she continued, “He also claimed he did not kill Julie Entzel.”
“Why was he calling you?”
This came from Riggio, and Kitt met her gaze. “He wants me to find this copycat and stop him.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Sal frowned. “What else did you get from him?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s a smoker. I guess his age to be between twenty-five and thirty-five. He told me—” She glanced at her notes. “‘Someone ripped me off. Copied me. And I don’t like it.’”
“Did you initiate a trace?”
“Everyone was at lunch or out on call. When I tried to put him on hold, he told me to stop playing games.”
“You called CRU—”
“The minute he hung up. Call came from a cell phone. I’m waiting to hear back on the owner’s name.”
“The caller, did he say anything else?”
“He gave me two rules. Said if I didn’t follow them, more little girls would die.”
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?”