34

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

9:30 p.m.

Kitt sat alone at the computer terminal. M.C. had left several hours ago for a date. With “the funny guy,” as she had called him. The detective shift had ended at 6:30 p.m. and the Violent Crimes Bureau had emptied almost on the hour. Slow crime day, apparently.

She and M.C. had spent a good part of the day searching the cold-case files. They had started with 2001, the year of the original SAK murders, and searched through to present day.

Nothing had jumped out at them. Gang killings. Prostitutes found dead. The occasional Jane or John Doe. Nothing that appeared serial in nature. Nothing that seemed to fit the SAK’s profile.

So, Kitt had decided to search backward in time, thinking the “others” the SAK spoke of had been pre-Sleeping Angels.

Kitt glanced at the clock. Her head, neck and shoulders ached. Her eyes burned.

She longed to pack up and go home.

But to what? Her empty house? The television? She couldn’t even head out to one of the bars frequented by other cops. She didn’t trust herself around alcohol. Not now. Not after the night before.

Kitt refocused on the terminal. Another thirty minutes and she’d call it a night. By the time she got home, she would be exhausted. She could make herself a peanut-butter sandwich and a cup of chamomile tea, then go to bed.

And sleep. If she was lucky. If not, she could turn to the sleeping pills her doctor had prescribed-or stare at the ceiling for hours.

April 3, 1999. Marguerite Lindz. Eighty-two. Bludgeoned to death.

Kitt stared at the entry, frowning. There had been another elderly woman beaten to death. She had read the entry just minutes ago.

She surfed back until she found it. February 6, 1999. Rose McGuire. Seventy-nine. Bludgeoned to death.

Kitt took a deep breath, working to control her rush of excitement. Old women beaten to death couldn’t be more different from the Sleeping Angel murders; the crimes being related was improbable at best.

She scrolled back in time. And found another, Janet Olsen. Exact same MO.

That was three. There could be more, though her instincts told her there wouldn’t be. She initiated a global search, then while the computer chomped on that, she went for the official case records.

Kitt collected the files, then swung past the vending machines on the way back to her desk. She got herself a pack of snack crackers and a Diet Coke. Files tucked under her arm, she ripped open the package and stuck one of the cracker sandwiches into her mouth.

As she munched on it, she read the package label. Partially hydrogenated oil. High-fructose corn syrup. Yellow dye #6. M.C. was right. She had to stop eating this garbage. It was loaded with trans fat and sugar, no protein, all bad carbs.

Tomorrow. She’d start eating well then.

By the time she returned to the terminal, the search was complete, and no other similar killings had been found.

That meant there had been three. Same as the original Sleeping Angel killings.

Kitt settled into her desk chair and opened the first woman’s file. Janet Olsen. Seventy-five. Beaten to death in her home. No sign of sexual assault. Robbery had not been a motive.

The same held true for the other two victims. Killer had duct-taped their mouths.

Kitt took a swallow of her cola, washing down the last cracker. The investigating detectives had identified the cases as being serial in nature but had never discovered a link between them. The killer left the scenes strangely clean. The lack of physical evidence had hindered the investigations and the cases had gone cold.

Kitt drew out the crime-scene photos. The scenes were grisly. Bloody. The killer had beaten the women to the point of being unrecognizable, the shiny silver duct tape grotesque on their pulverized faces.

He had applied the tape postmortem.

Kitt straightened. She set her Diet Coke can down with a thud. So, he hadn’t applied the tape to silence them.

They had already been silenced. Permanently.

Kitt stood. She began to pace. Mentally comparing the crimes. The SAK applied lip gloss postmortem. This killer applied tape.

To the mouth. The mouth. What did it mean?

She could see why no one had considered these cases related to the Sleeping Angel deaths. They couldn’t be more different-the crimes or the choice of victims.

In their differences was a pattern: old versus young; violent versus serene; ugly versus beautiful.

There were similarities as well: three victims; the postmortem attention to the victim; the lack of evidence.

Acting on a hunch, she crossed to her desk, jotted down the dates of the three murders, then pulled out a calendar.

The “Granny” murders had each been eight weeks apart. Exactly.

The SAK murders had been six.

This guy was one highly organized asshole.

The son of a bitch. The chicken-shit. He built himself up by preying on the weak.

The images from the photos filled her head. The old ladies first, then the little girls.

Fury took her breath.

Shaking with it, she grabbed her cell phone, then the Copycat case files. She opened it, found what she was looking for-a list of every cell number “Peanut” had called her from.

She stared at the numbers, heart racing. Every call had been made from a different number; no doubt he had disposed of each device after use. Why would he keep them?

But hanging on to them didn’t expose him in any way.

Acting on emotion, not giving a damn that she was breaking protocol, Kitt punched in the last number he had called from. She banked on the fact that if he still had the device and it was on, that he would recognize her number and pick up.

The call went through. She waited, trembling with rage, while it rang. She hoped he hadn’t destroyed this phone and acquired another. She wanted the son of a bitch to answer. To hear his voice. So she could tell him exactly what she thought of him.

A moment later, she got her wish. “Calling me now? Kitten, I’m honored.”

“I was sitting here, looking at pictures of your handiwork. Thought I’d give you a call. Tell you how sickened I am by you. How disgusted.”

“That hurts. It really does.”

“Old ladies and little girls? And you’re proud of that?”

“So, you found them.”

They were his. “It wasn’t that difficult. Just look for victims who are too helpless to fight back.”

“Careful, Detective.”

“Is that what it’s all about? You find victims who can’t defend themselves and then you get to call your crimes ‘perfect’?”

“They are perfect. Picking out the right victim is the first step-”

She cut him off, voice vibrating with anger. Even as she warned herself to regain control of her emotions, she lashed out at him. “You’re pathetic. You actually believe your own schtick, don’t you.”

“I’ve had you and your entire department chasing your tails for years. I beat all of you! Police investigators? Detectives?” He all but spat the words at her. “Imbeciles! Idiots!”

“You’re a coward. You pick victims who can’t challenge you. Sleeping children and the geriatric? Why stop there? What about the handicapped?”

“Shut up.”

“Killing a paraplegic sounds like fun. They can’t fight or run away. Or how about sneaking up on a blind person? What a challenge!”

“You want me to level the playing field, Kitten?” His voice quaked with rage. “Pick someone healthier?”

“Yeah, I do. How about me, you bastard? Up the ante. Bring it on.”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll-” He bit the words back. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Because you don’t care about yourself. If you’re dead or alive. Isn’t that right?”

He hit a nerve; she fought from letting it show. “Obviously, yellow’s your favorite color. I have less than zero respect for you.”