They crossed to the first officer and signed the log. Outdoor sites posed specific investigative problems. Rain and wind destroyed evidence. Wild animals had been known to decimate crime scenes, including the body. Weather conditions altered the decomposition process.

When it came to crime-scene investigation, nothing beat the two C’s-control and containment.

“What’ve we got?” she asked.

“Body in a gully, just beyond that ridge of trees. Jogger and his golden retriever found him. One Buddy Brown. Wallet was on him. Cash in the wallet.”

“How much?”

“Enough to buy a fifth of something cheap or dinner at McDonald’s.”

Robbery hadn’t been a motive.

“Anything else?”

“Looks like he was killed at another location and dumped here.”

“Great.”

“All the appropriate parties are on their way. My partner’s with the body.”

They nodded and started for the ridge, consisting of thick pines and spindly hardwood trees. Pine straw, leaves and other natural debris crackled under their feet-the same debris with which the killer had attempted to conceal the body.

Kitt and M.C. started down the hill. The uniform lifted a hand in greeting and they crossed to him, introducing themselves.

“You two are the first.”

“Lucky us.” Kitt crossed to the body, squatted down beside it. He lay faceup on a black tarp. The killer hadn’t bothered digging a hole, had simply covered him with the leaves.

He hadn’t been too worried about the body being uncovered.

She recognized Brown from the pictures in his file. Medium-size man-midtwenties. Medium complexion. Brown eyes and hair.

She gazed at him, working to picture him as the one who had taunted her, calling himself Peanut. The man who had arrogantly described his crimes as “perfect.”

He looked like every other, quite ordinary, penny-ante criminal.

“He’s been dead a while,” M.C. said, squatting beside her.

“Mmm.” The decomposition process was, indeed, well under way.

“Got a guess?”

“Too many variables, I know I’ll be off. But it wasn’t yesterday, that’s for certain.”

Which meant Buddy Brown had not been the one on the phone with her.

Which changed things dramatically once again.

Exactly when he had died would be established by the pathologist. Kitt moved her gaze over the victim. “No gunshot wound, no blood.”

From behind them came the sound of ID arriving. Kitt glanced over her shoulder. Sorenstein and Snowe. The pathologist, Frances Roselli.

She stood, M.C. with her. “Day late and a dollar short,” she called. “Couldn’t drag yourselves out of the sack?”

“Bite me,” Sorenstein answered. “It’s Saturday.”

As they neared, Kitt saw that with the exception of the pathologist, the men looked a bit green. The smell of the victim was not helping their condition.

“Overdo it last night?” she teased. “No one to blame but yourself.”

“Kiss mine,” Snowe grumbled.

“This your suspect?” Sorenstein asked. “The ex-con?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Bad news travels fast.”

“Neck was broken,” pathologist said. He squatted and pointed. “See the angle of the head?”

“Think that’s what killed him?”

“Doesn’t make much sense to break somebody’s neck after they’re already dead, but you never know.”

“How long you think he’s been this way?”

For a long moment, the pathologist was quiet. “It’s been dry. Cool. That’d slow the process. I’m thinking two to three weeks, depending. Autopsy will give us a more specific time.” He glanced at Sorenstein. “And whatever’s feasting on this sorry shit.”

Snowe laughed. “Ready to go buggy, buddy?”

Sorenstein hunched deeper into his jacket. “Damn, I hate this job.”

Kitt and M.C. backed off to let the others do their thing.

Two to three weeks? Three weeks ago Julie Entzel had been alive.

M.C. turned to her. “What now?”

“Figure out the connection between the SAK, Copycat and Buddy Brown.”

“And you,” M.C. added.

And me, Kitt silently agreed.

48

Monday, March 20, 2006

8:40 a.m.

Kitt entered the PSB. She crossed the lobby, heading straight for the elevators and caught one that took her to the second floor. It’d been a busy weekend. Roselli had performed the autopsy and determined that Brown had, indeed, been dead two weeks, give or take a few days. That excluded him from the Copycat killings and the calls to her.

The man’s neck had been broken. It had taken both strength and skill on the part of the killer. Since the autopsy hadn’t turned up any defensive wounds, he had taken Brown by surprise.

Which suggested Brown had known his murderer.

Kitt felt strongly that the two men had met in prison, that Buddy Brown had been killed by her caller, who was, indeed, the Sleeping Angel Killer.

The SAK had taken up residence with Buddy Brown, either before or after he had killed him. ID had sent the lip gloss to the lab for comparison to the samples taken from the SAK and Copycat victims, and ID was dusting the clippings for prints.

Kitt yawned widely as she exited the elevator. They had done a search for inmates who had served time with Brown and were now free. She and M.C. had spent much of Sunday tracking the men down.

She reached the bureau, greeted Nan and headed for the coffeepot.

Nan returned the greeting. “Detective Riggio’s in Interrogation Number One. They’ve just begun.”

Kitt looked over her shoulder at the woman. “Who’s just begun what?”

“Questioning the suspect. Sergeant Haas and Detective Riggio.”

“The suspect? In what case?”

The secretary looked at her as if she had lost her mind. “The Copycat killings.”

The case they were working nearly round the clock.

Who the hell had Riggio brought in?

Kitt finished doctoring her coffee and started that way. “Thanks, Nan.”

“Oh, Detective?”

She glanced back. The receptionist held up several message slips. “Shall I hold on to these?”

“No, I’ll take them. Thanks.” She crossed back, took the messages and stuffed them into her jacket pocket. “I’ll be in Interrogation. If anyone needs me, I’ve got my cell.”

All five of the Violent Crimes interrogation rooms were located on the same hallway. In addition to a table and chairs, a door with a window, room one was fitted with a ceiling-mounted video recorder.

Kitt reached room one and peered through the window. M.C. was standing, blocking her view of the suspect. The sarge was sitting, expression impassive.

She lifted her hand to tap on the glass; M.C. moved. Kitt’s breath caught.

Joe. They were questioning Joe.

Disoriented, she stared through the window at her ex-husband. It couldn’t be Joe sitting in that chair. Not steady, even-tempered, kind Joe. Not her Joe.

Kitt shifted her gaze to the other woman. When had M.C. decided to do this? And did she really think she was going to let her get away with going behind her back this way?

She tapped on the window, struggling to stem her sudden rush of anger. The three looked her way. So angry she shook, Kitt kept her gaze trained on her partner. She didn’t think she could meet Joe’s eyes without losing it.

She motioned for M.C. to come outside. As soon as the door closed behind her, Kitt drew her away from it.

“You made it,” M.C. said. “I had Sergeant Haas sit in until you got here.”

“Cut the bullshit. What the hell’s going on?”

“I brought Joe in for questioning.”

“Without consulting me. We’re partners. I’m lead on this. That’s unacceptable.”

“I felt the element of surprise would work best.”

She felt herself flush. “My surprise? Or Joe’s?”

“Frankly? Both.” She lowered her voice. “When it comes to your ex, you have blinders on. You’ve made that pretty clear.”

“How do you figure?”