They exited the deputy chief’s office. “Why share a trophy with you now?” M.C. asked. “It’s like he wanted to prove something to you.”

“I think he did. He was all about our being in a competition. That’s what the perfect crime is to him. Not just getting away with it, but outmaneuvering us. Outthinking us. Winning.”

“And is he?”

“Hell, yes!” She felt her frustration rise, her anger with it. As she did, she recalled something else he’d said. About her being emotionally involved. That he had the advantage because of it.

She told M.C., who nodded. “That’s it, then. He gave you the trophy as a way to stir your emotions. He’s counting on you not thinking as clearly because of it.”

“He’s a smart SOB.” She narrowed her eyes. “But not smart enough.”

They reached Kitt’s desk. M.C. perched on a corner while Kitt paced. “So, what do we have?” M.C. asked. “All the pieces?”

“Two killers. Nine murders, six of them children, three of them grandmothers. A span of eight years.”

“Thanks for narrowing it down, partner. It’s all so much clearer to me now.”

“Sarcasm suits you.”

“Thanks.” M.C. rolled her eyes. “Can we break it down a little more?”

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

“An Italian princess. Just ask my mother.”

Kitt relaxed slightly, pulled out her chair and sat.

M.C. grabbed a legal tablet. “What do we know about the SAK and his crimes?” she asked.

“He killed three ten-year-old girls. He has claimed responsibility for the murders of three elderly women. The means of death between the girls and the grandmothers was completely different.”

“Ying and yang.”

“He claims his victims are not emotional choices. That they are intellectual ones.”

“He’s proud of his crimes. Calls them perfect.”

“We’re painting a portrait of a guy who’s out to prove himself. To the world.”

“Or to someone in particular.”

“Mother? Father? Someone who criticized and belittled him.”

Kitt felt the stirrings of excitement. This was him. The one she had come to know through their phone calls. “The duct tape to the mouth. Symbolic for shutting this person up. With the Angels, adding the lip gloss-also bringing attention to the mouth.

“It’s why control is so important to him,” Kitt said. “There was a time in his life he was powerless. That’s why he became so angry every time I challenged him.”

“And yet he preys on the powerless.”

“Classic self-loathing.”

“Along comes this Copycat.”

“He knows who the Copycat is. From the joint, maybe.”

“He calls you, Kitt. Wants you to catch him. Says he will help you.”

“But the offer comes with strings,” Kitt continues. “He wants to toy with me. Watch me jump through hoops.”

“He’s in control. Proving his superiority.”

“And doing a damn good job of it, I might add.”

“Why’d he choose you?” M.C. asked.

“Because he saw me as vulnerable,” she said, though she hated the characterization. “He picks on the powerless.”

“Yes.” M.C. got to her feet. “Winning’s so important to him, he stacks the deck. He calls it being ‘smart.’”

“And the Copycat-”

“There isn’t a Copycat, Kitt.” M.C. swung to face her. “He’s SAK and Copycat. It’s not about killing the girls. It’s about engaging you.”

Kitt didn’t want to believe it, but it made sense. All the pieces fit together to create this scenario. “The hands-”

“Mean nothing. They were a way to pull you in. Get you involved, assigned to the case.”

It could be. A way to pull her in and keep them chasing their tails. “And the clean suit-”

“Proves he’s smart. That he knows about evidence and investigation. How to get in and get out, what we’ll be looking for. The minutiae we can nail him with.”

“He’s kept us running. He understands trace technology, what we can and cannot do.”

“He used Buddy Brown. Led us to him, knew we would run with the lead. He may, or may not, have counted on us finding his body as quickly as we did.”

They fell silent a moment. M.C. broke the silence first. “And Brian? How does he fit in?”

“After I talk to Allen, I’ll head down to ID, see how the ballistics search is coming along, then start retracing Brian’s steps.” Kitt glanced at her watch. “I think we should take one last crack at the contents of the storage unit.”

“Agreed. I’ll do it.” M.C. glanced at her legal pad, then back up at Kitt. “We’ve pretty much exhausted our options with the Angels, past and present. But what about the grandmothers?”

“I reviewed the case files. Brian and Sarge were the original detectives assigned to the case. I spoke with Brian about it yesterday.”

“What about questioning family and friends of the victims?”

“It was on my short list.”

“Since we’ve linked them to the SAK murders, there might be something there that makes sense now, that didn’t then.”

“From my short list to yours?”

“Bingo. Files?”

Kitt retrieved them from her desk. “Call me crazy, M.C., but I feel we’re close to nailing him.”

“Woman’s intuition?”

“Damn right.” She handed her partner the files. “You want to argue about it?”

“No way. God gave women ‘intuition’ to make up for childbirth.”

“Spoken like a woman who’s never given birth. Intuition so doesn’t cover it.”

59

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

11:55 a.m.

Traditionally, comparing firearms evidence from one crime to another had been damn near impossible. An investigator had to actually suspect the same weapon had been used in the commission of different crimes, then compare the evidence. Difficult enough within a single jurisdiction, but outside it? To compare to regional, even national, crimes?

The National Integrated Ballistic Information Network, or NIBIN, had changed all that. NIBIN was a national, networked database of fired cartridge casing and bullet images. By way of a microscope attached to the system, images were scanned and stored within the system. An investigator could compare fired bullets and casings from a regional or national area.

Even so, without a suspect weapon, bullet or casing, the comparisons could take weeks-and unlimited manpower. Because, no matter how quickly the system could bring up the comparison images, the firearms examiner still had to visually study them and determine if there was a hit.

Sorenstein sat at the NIBIN terminal. Kitt crossed to stand behind him. Narrowing the type of gun the bullet had come from had been relatively easy. Now the tedious work began.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“As well as can be expected. This one felt like a regional search. Figured I’d widen the net if I needed to.”

She nodded. “Let me know if you get a hit.”

“Goes without saying.”

“Sal wants me to trace Brian’s steps. Do you know if you have a call log yet?”

“Cell and landline. On Snowe’s desk.”

“Thanks.” Kitt crossed to the other detective’s desk and retrieved the logs. “Catch you later.”

Sorenstein didn’t reply and Kitt exited the Identification Bureau and headed back upstairs. On the way, she got a call from CRU. She had a visitor-Valerie Martin.

Joe’s fiancée.

Guilt rushed over her. She had slept with another woman’s man. Never mind that she felt as if Joe still belonged to her, a ring said he didn’t.

Had she found out about her and Joe? How could she have? Maybe Joe had told her. Broken their engagement. He hadn’t said that was what he was going to do, and they certainly hadn’t parted with any promises. He had forgiven her-but made it clear that it was more complicated than the two of them.

Maybe he had come clean and begged Valerie’s forgiveness for the lapse.

And Valerie had come to the PSB to kick her ass. Figuratively, of course.

Kitt’s knees went weak. She could face a killer across a table, but the thought of facing Joe’s fiancée made her want to run fast and hide well.