Authors: Erica Spindler
Monday, March 13, 2006
8:00 a.m.
K
itt sipped the just-brewed coffee. The rest of the day before had slipped by without incident. She had spent a good part of it wrangling with herself over whether the SAK had been in her house or not and whether she should share her suspicions with M.C. or Sal.
She had decided against sharing. The last thing she needed was anything that made her look overwrought or would shake their confidence in her state of mind.
She was shaken enough, thank you very much. M.C. arrived then, looking slightly bleary-eyed.
“How was your day off?” Kitt asked.
“Frankly, it sucked. I spent it doing laundry, cleaning and paying bills.”
“The fun never stops for us cops. The kid's lawyer left a message.”
“Yeah? What'd he have to say?”
“That Todd's innocent, of course.”
“I like the kid for this. He's the best we've got.”
“Actually, I think the Fun Zone's the best
lead
we've got. It links the victims, something we were never able to do with the original SAK murders. By the way, Sal authorized an undercover officer working the place. He thought you'd be the perfect choice.”
That brought M.C. fully awake. “The perfect choice? I scare the crap out of most kids. Plus, if I have to spend another ten minutes in that place, I won't be responsible for my actions.”
“That's what I told him. Reminded him, too, that both of us have been on TV in regards to the case.”
“And?”
“He's putting Schmidt on it.”
“Lucky Schmidt. So he gets the previous security tapes, too?” When Kitt nodded, she added, “I suppose I owe you for that one.”
“What're partners for?”
Before M.C. could comment, Kitt's desk phone rang. “Detective Lundgren.”
“Are you running in circles, dear one?”
Him.
Kitt signaled M.C. The other woman was immediately on the phone to CRU, initiating the trace.
“Who is this?”
“You know who this is. Your beloved Peanut.”
Kitt gritted her teeth at his sly tone. “I wondered when you'd call. Thought maybe you were welching on our deal.”
“I don't welch on my deals.”
“Good. We gave you what you wanted, now it's your turn. Give us the Copycat.”
M.C., still on with CRU, bent and jotted
cell phone
on the folder on the desk in front of her.
Dammit. She had to keep him on five minutes to get the trace.
“How does it feel having another girl's death on your hands?” she asked.
“Not on mine. Yours, Kitten.” He laughed. “Besides, I don't care if my hands have blood on them. A child's blood. But you care.”
“My conscience is clear.”
“Is it? What of your daughter? Is her blood on your hands?”
It took everything she had to stay focused. He wanted her to lose it. He got off on being in control. She wouldn't give him what he wanted.
“This isn't about me,” she said. “You promised information, I expect you to keep that promise.”
He laughed again, the sound somehow reptilian. “How's the investigation going?”
“We're following some very strong leads.”
“Who? That kid from the Fun Zone?”
That blindsided her. She fought to keep from revealing it. “How do you know about Todd?”
“I know everything. I'm omnipotent.”
“I'm sorry, did you say you're impotent?”
She darted a glance at M.C. who put a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
Kitt supposed it wasn't a very good idea to piss him off, but she wanted to test his limits. Locate his buttons, see how he responded to her challenging his authority.
In the process, she learned what made him tick.
“Don't do that again,” he told her, voice shaking slightly.
He was angry.
He took himself very seriously.
She glanced at M.C. and pointed at her watch. The other woman held up three fingers.
Two more to go.
Piece of cake, she told herself, though the truth was, two minutes seemed an eternity right now.
“Sorry. My sense of humor gets away from me sometimes.”
“Just see that it doesn't again.”
Word had spread through the bureau and a group of her colleagues gathered around. Kitt gave them little more than a glance. “We could meet, you and I. Get to know each other better.”
“I don't think that'd be a good idea, Kitten.”
“I'd come alone. We could have a drink or two. Talk.”
“I'm worried about
your
health, Kitten. Not mine. I know you're trying to trace this, so don't play games. Loves Park Self-Storage. Unit seven.”
He ended the call. Kitt jumped to her feet. “Did we get it?” M.C. held up a hand, then swore. “No. You were just shy of five.”
“Dammit!” Kitt grabbed her jacket. “I want a search warrant for that self-storage unit.”
“Under way.”
“Get me two cruisers, minimum. Call ID. Have them meet us there.”
Monday, March 13, 2006
9:40 a.m.
L
oves Park was a small community that sat adjacent to Rockford, on the north side. The running joke held that women from Loves Park all had big hair, and the men, big pickup trucks.
Kitt wasn't certain how the gag had gotten started, the trip from one community into the other was seamless save for a small sign announcing the change. Simply, Rockford held itself in higher esteem than its neighbor; it had been that way as long as she could remember.
Loves Park Self-Storage, it turned out, was located between a Chinese restaurant and a burger joint. As Kitt climbed out of her vehicle, the smell of grease hit her hard. Not even ten in the morning and somebody was frying something. She had no doubt that a number of the guys they'd brought with themâthree patrol units and most of the ID Bureauâwere already wondering about lunch: Chinese or burgers?
If they were still here at noon. Who knew? The locker could be empty. The tip could be a ruse. Obviously “Peanut” got his jollies from making her jump through hoops.
But the storage unit could contain anything. The key to the investigation. A direct lead to the Copycat. Or one back to the SAK.
“Hoping Santa brings you everything you're wishing for?” M.C. said from the other side of the car.
“You know it's true. Shall we?”
They made their way around the vehicles and fell into step together. Behind them, she heard the rest of the team arriving.
Delivering a search warrant was a mixed bag. It could be an exhilarating moment. Triumphant. Because, as a cop, you knew
this was it.
That this scumbag, who had done whatever, was about to get nailed. You just
knew
it. A cop's instincts.
Other times, it made you feel lousy to be the law. Because of the innocent bystanders. Family members or loved ones who either had no clue what kind of creep they had been living with or were too young to have a clue.
She had experienced everything in between as well. Suspects who pulled weapons or tried to run, ambivalence, lawsuits.
They stepped into the leasing office. It wasn't much more than a desk, file cabinet and sitting area. Very small. Barely serviceable.
“Good morning,” Kitt said to the woman behind the desk, who not only did not have big hair, but sported a sleek little bob.
So much for stereotypes.
“Can I help you?” she asked, smiling.
“Afraid so.” She crossed to her and handed her the warrant. “I'm Detective Lundgren from the Rockford Police Department. This is Detective Riggio. I have a warrant to search unit seven.”
The young woman looked confused, then flustered. “I'm sorry. I don't understand.”
“A search warrant. For the contents of unit seven and that unit's renter information. It's all there on the warrant.”
“I'll have to call my boss and get his okay.”
She reached for the phone; Kitt noticed her hand was shaking. “Call him if you like,” Kitt said, “but a judge already gave me permission. By the way, the law requires you or the owner be present during the search. If you think that's going to present a problem, you might want to call someone else in.”
“Wait! I don't have a key to that padlock. How are you going to get in?”
Kitt stopped in the doorway and turned back. “Don't worry, we've got it covered.”
By the time she made it to number seven, one of her colleagues had already cut the lock and rolled back the metal door. The interior was dim, even with sunlight pouring through the open door. The three uniforms snapped on their flashlights.
“We're going to need scene lights,” Kitt said.
M.C. nodded. “I'll call.”
The unit, Kitt discovered, was very full. She shone her flashlight beam over the interior. The contents ran the gamut from furniture to bikes, boxes to books, even a dressmaker's mannequin.
For the next two hours, Kitt and the rest of the team carefully picked through the items, opening boxes, leafing through folded garments, books. Looking for the obvious. Photos. A family Bible or other inscribed items. Weapons. Body parts. A recognizable trophy.
There was something here. She felt it.
Or were those her shot instincts talking to her?
She crossed to Snowe. “What do you think?” she asked.
Snowe turned his ball cap backward on his head. “It's going to take days, even weeks, to get through everything in here.”
She had thought the same thing but had hoped for better.
“I don't have that kind of time.”
“We can't give you a miracle. Wish we could.”
“What about an inventory?”
“No analysis? Less time. A few days.”
Civilians watched television shows like
CSI
and figured every case got that kind of attention. If only it were so.
At any given time, an urban PD had hundreds of ongoing investigations, new crimes being committed continually and limited manpower and budget. Even cases as high profile as the SAK and Copycat killings faced time-and-money constraints.
“Do your thing,” she said. “I'm going to follow up on the renter.” Kitt motioned one of the uniforms over. “Get the renter's information and run it through the databases. I want to know who this guy is, where he lives and if he has any priors.”
Each patrol unit traveled with an MDT, or Mobile Data Terminal. It allowed them to access pretty much everything about a suspect but the size of his morning dump.
The man nodded. “You got it, Detective.”
M.C. sidled up to her. “We need to talk.”
Kitt felt herself stiffen. “That so?”
“I'm thinking this is a setup. Another hoop for you to jump through.”
Kitt fought the defensiveness that rose up in her. “Why?”
“It has the feel of a stage set to me. It's too perfect.”
Kitt moved her gaze over the contents, the picture they made. The dressmaker's mannequin, the two old Schwinn bikes, propped up against the far wall. The steamer trunk and cracked mirror.
Like a movie set.
One working hard to be part of a story.
“He's dicking with you, Kitt.”
“But there's something here. I feel it. He's planted it.”
“If he did, he buried it. To tie you up. Keep you chasing shadows.”
Chasing shadows. Sadie. Joe. The Sleeping Angels.
“You gotta ask yourself, why?” M.C. said.
Kitt resisted the idea. “Are you suggesting, Detective, that I not pursue this?”
“No. Justâ” M.C. looked away, then back. Kitt had the sense that she struggled with something. Or that she was stepping into an arena not only foreign to her, but uncomfortable as well.
“Just be careful,” she finished.
The other woman had surprised her. Concern was the last thing Kitt had expected her to want to communicate. “Thanks for caring,” she said gruffly, “but I don't think I have anything to worry about from either the SAK or his copycat. I'm not ten years old anymore. And these days I'm only blond because my hairdresser's a genius.”
M.C. didn't smile. “You can lose a lot more than your life, Kitt.”
They both knew many things could be taken from a victim besides her life.
What M.C. didn't realize was, Kitt had already lost most of them.
“Detective Lundgren? I've got him.”
The two women hurried out to the patrol car. “Andrew Stevens. Twenty-eight. Engineer with Sundstrand. Lives on Boulder Ridge Drive. Record's clean. Not even a traffic violation.”
“Great.” Kitt looked at M.C. “You in the mood to ride shotgun?”
“Absolutely.”
As they hoped they would, they caught Stevens at work. He possessed one of those broad, honest-looking faces that didn't mean squat.
“Is this about my wallet?” he asked, after they had introduced themselves.
“Your wallet?” Kitt asked.
He looked frustrated. “Was stolen. The day after Christmas. I reported it. Never heard a thing back.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Stevens. We're here about your storage locker.”
“What storage locker?”
“Loves Park Self-Storage. Unit seven. You rented it on January 3.”
He stared at them a moment, frowning. “I didn't rent a storage facility, my wallet was stolen. Can't you guys get anything right?”
Nice.
“I'm sorry you feel that way, sir.” Kitt handed him a copy of the rental agreement. “But according to this, you did.”
He scanned the document, frowning, then handed it back. “This isn't me. It can't be.”
“And why's that?” M.C. asked.
“I was in San Francisco on January 3. On my honeymoon.”