Читать книгу Copycat - Erica Spindler, Erica Spindler - Страница 23

Friday, March 10, 2006 7:10 a.m.

M.C. parked in front of the single-story, ranch-style home. The first officers had already cordoned off the area; one stood at the perimeter, the other was in the house with the victim.

She’d gotten the call as she stepped out of the shower; she hadn’t even taken the time to dry her hair. She needed a shot of caffeine—badly—but would have to make due with the cup of instant coffee she had downed on the way across town.

She swung out of her vehicle, shivering as the cold morning air hit her wet head. She hunched into her jacket, irritated with the cold, longing for spring.

Tullocks Woods. An odd choice of neighborhood for the SAK—or his copycat—to choose, certainly different from the last. Located on the far west side, heavily wooded with large lots, the area was well removed from everything else.

A destination, M.C. thought, frowning. Neither a thoroughfare nor adjacent to one. An unfamiliar vehicle would stick out like a sore thumb.

She’d had a couple of high school friends who had lived here. They’d hosted parties down at the neighborhood clubhouse—the Powwow Club. One of them had gone on to write murder mysteries.

A murder here was hitting way too close to home.

She slammed her car door and started up the walk. Behind her, she heard the sound of others arriving. No doubt the ID guys. Lundgren. The brass.

M.C. recognized the first officer from the range. Jenkins. Real young. A great shot.

She signed the log. “What’ve we got?” she asked.

“Ten-year-old girl. Marianne Vest. Appears to have been suffocated.”

“Parents?”

“Divorced. Mother found her. She’s hysterical. Her pastor’s on the way. A neighbor’s with her now.”

“Anyone else home?”

“No. Big sister spent the night at her best friend’s house.”

“Lucky her. Anything else I should know?”

He hesitated. “No.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re certain?”

“It’s just, it’s—” He shifted his gaze. “It’s pretty horrible.”

She nodded. “Let’s keep access to the inner scene as limited as possible. Any questions about that direct them to me. Or Detective Lundgren.”

M.C. said the last grudgingly; she heard it in her own voice and wondered if he did, too. She stepped into the house. It smelled of burned toast. The mother sat at the kitchen table, hunched over a cup of coffee, expression blank with shock.

The neighbor stood awkwardly behind her, looking ill.

M.C. turned right, heading down a hallway. Finding the victim’s bedroom wasn’t difficult—an officer stood outside the door.

She reached him and nodded. “Anybody else been in?”

“No, Detective.”

“Did you touch anything?”

“Took her pulse, that’s it.”

M.C. glanced toward the child’s bed. From this position she could see the victim’s hands were once again posed oddly, the right hand with the three middle fingers extended, the left in a fist.

She experienced a quiver of excitement, of expectation. They had a fresh scene. A new, best chance for catching this guy.

Maybe this time he’d slipped up.

“Morning, Detective Riggio.”

She turned. Detective Scott Snowe. The first detective from ID. No doubt the chief would send the entire bureau. Snowe had his camera and video recorder. He wanted to get his initial shots before the room filled up. And before anything was disturbed.

“Detective.”

Snowe motioned toward the bedroom. “This is a pretty fucked-up way to start the weekend. So much for TGIF.”

“No joke. You want to get your shots?”

“If you don’t mind. I’ll be quick.”

“Have at it.”

He stopped just inside the door. “Lundgren’s on her way in. She and a Channel 13 news van pulled up at the same time.”

“How’d the press hear so fast?”

It was a rhetorical question and the detective didn’t answer.

While he went to work, she quickly inventoried the other bedrooms. There were three in total. The teenager’s looked as if a tornado had struck. The master was only slightly less chaotic, but for different reasons. Baskets of clean clothes, yet to be folded. Several stacks of paperback books on the nightstand. Romances. Mysteries. Typical genre stuff. Two empty wineglasses beside them.

M.C. frowned. Had the woman had company last night? She bent and without touching either of the glasses, sniffed. Wine, definitely. Both white.

She shifted her gaze to the other side of the bed. Clearly, if the woman had had company, they hadn’t slept on that half of the queen-size bed. It was neatly made—and covered with stacks of paperwork. She crossed to them. Mama Vest must be a Realtor. The paperwork consisted of flyers, listings, comps, things like that.

“Anything jump out as wrong?”

M.C. turned. Kitt stood in the doorway. “Not yet. You’re late.”

“The media’s all but erecting a big top out there. Or should be.”

“You wanted the job of ringmaster, you got it. Congratulations.”

To her credit, Kitt let that pass. “Apparently, the local affiliates of all three networks received an anonymous call about the murder.”

“Anonymous calls seem to be popular these days.”

“So do murders of ten-year-old girls. Is this another SAK copycat?”

“Looks that way, though I haven’t been in yet. Gave Snowe a few minutes to get his shots.” She paused. “He posed her hands again. Saw that from the doorway.”

Kitt nodded, and together, they headed for the victim’s bedroom. M.C. noticed that the other woman was limping. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You’re moving like a lame horse.”

Kitt sent her an irritated glance. “I went for a run last night. Had a message waiting for me when I got home. Thumbtacked to my front door.”

“Peanut?”

M.C. saw her wince at the name. “Yup. Said he saw me on TV and would be in touch. Bagged the note and brought it to ID this morning. Which, by the way, is why I’m late.”

M.C. didn’t comment. They reached the child’s room, stepped inside. Several more ID guys had arrived; they all stood silently by the bed.

Kitt and M.C. joined them. Snowe looked over at them, visibly shaken.

“I didn’t expect this,” he said.

M.C. didn’t have to ask what. The Sleeping Angel they had expected to find was, instead, a work of horror. The child’s once-beautiful face was screwed into a terrible scream.

Kitt took a step backward, as if propelled by strong emotion. M.C. held her ground, though not without effort. They had all worked grislier crime scenes, seen bodies mutilated beyond recognition, victims who had been subjected to vile indignities, pre- and postmortem. But this child, the terror frozen on her face, was somehow more chilling, more horrible.

“This one saw him coming,” Snowe muttered.

M.C. cleared her throat. “If we’re lucky, she got a good whack at him. Scratched him, pulled out some hair.”

Snowe squatted, examining the oddly bent fingers. “Nothing to the naked eye. Pathologist will scrape the nails. Here he is now.”

She turned, grateful when she saw it was Frances Roselli on call. She wanted all the experience she could get.

The older man reached the bed, made a sound.

“It isn’t pretty, is it?”

He slipped off his glasses, cleaned them, then slipped them back on. M.C. sensed he was composing himself.

“You got your shots?” he asked Snowe.

He had, and he and the rest of the identification team moved on. He looked at M.C. and Kitt. “Detectives?”

“Anything jump out at you, other than her expression?” M.C. asked.

“Not yet,” he said. “I want to get her hands bagged, then I’ll give her a look-over.”

They thanked him and left him to his work.

“Talked to the mother yet?” Kitt asked.

“No. Let’s do it.”

Mrs. Vest was still in the kitchen, only now a tall, middle-aged man was with her. The pastor, M.C. decided, judging by the cross hanging from a chain around his neck and the Bible on the table in front of him.

“Mrs. Vest?” she asked. The woman looked up, her expression naked with pain. “We need to ask you a few questions. You think you’re up to that?”

She nodded, looking anything but.

“When did your daughter go to bed last night?”

“Nine. That was her … that was her regular time.”

“Did you tuck her in?”

Her eyes welled with tears and her lips quivered. She shook her head. “I didn’t … I was working, so I—”

She broke down sobbing. The pastor laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. M.C. noticed that Kitt looked away.

“So you what, Mrs. Vest?”

“I just … I just told her good-night.”

“Where were you working?”

“In bed.”

“And when did you turn out the lights?”

“Eleven.” M.C. had to strain to hear her small choked reply.

“When you turned out the lights, did you peek in on her?”

M.C. knew the answer by the woman’s tortured expression. Her heart went out to her. “Mrs. Vest, did you have company last night?”

“Company?” She pressed the crumpled tissue to her eyes. “I don’t understand?”

“A visitor.”

She shook her head. “It was just us. Janie, that’s my oldest, spent the night with her best frien—” She looked up at the pastor. “How am I going to tell her about … she doesn’t … dear God.”

M.C. waited, letting the woman cry, the pastor comfort her. When she appeared to have regained some composure, she asked again, “Did you have a visitor last night?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Do you have to do this now?” the pastor asked.

“We do,” Kitt replied softly. “I’m so sorry.” She squatted in front of her. “Mrs. Vest, I know how hard this is. But we need your help catching the person who did this. Just a couple more questions. Please?”

The woman nodded, clinging to the pastor’s hand.

M.C. continued. “There were two wineglasses on your nightstand, Mrs. Vest. You’re certain you didn’t have company?”

She stared blankly for a moment, as if she didn’t understand, then nodded. “They’re both mine. I didn’t … I’ve been so busy, I haven’t straightened up.”

“Did you hear anything last night?”

She shook her head, miserable.

“Think carefully. A car passing? A dog barking?”

“No.”

“Did you awaken at all in the night?”

Again, she indicated she hadn’t.

Kitt stepped in. “Had your daughter expressed any concern about being followed? Or mention a feeling of being watched? Or having seen the same stranger more than once?”

That had been the case with one of the original SAK victims, as well as the almost-victim whose house she had staked out. When the mother answered “No,” she tried again.

“Anything odd occur over the past weeks? Notice any strange cars in the neighborhood? An unusual number of solicitors or other calls? Sales people coming to the door? Hangups?”

Nothing. There was nothing.

Later, as they left the scene, M.C. looked at Kitt, frustration pulling at her. “Who is this guy? Houdini?”

“He’s got no special powers,” she replied, sounding weary. “Only the ones we give him.”

M.C. stopped, faced her. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’re all so comfortable with our hectic lives, we don’t notice anything. We’re sleepwalking, for God’s sake! He depends on that. Without it he couldn’t hurt these gir—”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “Like that mother in there. Kicking herself. Wishing for a second chance. If my daughter was alive and this animal was still out there killing girls, I’d never take my eyes off her. Not tuck her in? She’d sleep with me! But it’s not an issue for me, is it? Not anymore.”

Kitt’s voice shook. She visibly trembled. Inside the house she’d handled herself with absolute professionalism, not revealing to M.C. even a glimpse of the depth of her pain. How close to the emotional edge she was.

Now M.C. saw; she didn’t know how to respond.

Kitt didn’t give her the chance to come up with anything. She spun on her heel and walked away.