Copycat (29 page)

Tuesday, March 21, 2006
11:55 a.m.

T
raditionally, 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.

She told the desk officer to send her up. She would meet her at the elevators on two.

Kitt was waiting when the elevator doors slid open and Valerie stepped off. She wore her nurse's uniform. She looked shaken.

“Hello, Valerie. How can I help you?”

“I need to talk to you,” she said. “It's really important. But…I'm on my lunch break. I don't have a lot of time.”

Kitt nodded. “Follow me.”

She led her to an empty interrogation room. Neither her desk nor the break room would give them the kind of privacy this conversation required.

They sat. Kitt thought about simply telling her everything—her love for Joe, how she had realized it. Then beg her forgiveness.

Shame kept her from speaking.

“I don't know how to say this,” Valerie began, clasping her hands in her lap.

Kitt saw that she still wore Joe's ring. “Just say it, then.”

She nodded, took a deep breath and began. “I lied to your partner. When she asked me about Joe. About our being together the night that little girl died.”

Kitt struggled to shift gears. To place what she was saying. “What do you mean, you lied?”

“Joe and I weren't together all that night.”

Joe's alibi for the night of Julie Entzel's murder. He didn't have one, after all.

How did she know Valerie was being truthful now?

Kitt struggled to keep her thoughts from showing and to pull herself together. Fact was, ethically, she should turn this over to another detective right now.

She should. But she couldn't. Not yet.

That didn't mean she was so stupid as not to cover herself—or protect the investigation.

“Valerie, because of the nature of this conversation, I need to both record it and take notes. Is that all right?”

The younger woman hesitated a moment, then nodded. “As long as it doesn't take much time.”

“It won't, I promise.”

Within moments, Kitt had set up the video recorder and was sitting across from Valerie, a tablet on the table in front of her. “Could you repeat what you told me earlier?”

She did, repeating it almost verbatim, adding, “I couldn't stop thinking about what you said, about Tami being in danger. And I couldn't stop thinking about the girls who had died.”

“Let's start at the beginning, Valerie. Detective Riggio visited you while you were working at the hospital.”

“That's right. Highland Park Hospital. She asked me some questions about Joe. Whether we were together all night on March 6. I said we had been.”

Kitt leaned forward slightly. “Now you're saying that's not true?”

“Yes.” Valerie looked down at her hands, then back up at Kitt. Tears sparkled in her eyes. “I shouldn't have lied. I just…all I could think about was protecting Joe.”

“What made you think Joe needed protection?”

M.C. had attempted to avoid this very thing by questioning Valerie before Joe had the opportunity to call her.

“Joe had told me about that ex-con who was working for him. That you'd been asking questions. He'd said it was making him uncomfortable.”

Valerie let out a shaky breath. “I knew there was no way Joe could have anything to do with…that. So I lied.”

“And now? What caused your change of heart?”

“I keep thinking about what you said, about Tami being in danger. And about…all those other girls. And I can't live with myself.”

She wrung her hands. As she did, her diamond solitaire caught the light. It was a pretty ring, Kitt thought. Certainly bigger than the one she'd gotten. She and Joe had been kids when they'd gotten engaged; they'd had little but the roof over their heads.

Valerie glanced at her watch. “I'm still certain he couldn't have had anything to do with hurting a child. But I couldn't be party to the lie anymore.”

For long minutes after Valerie had left, Kitt sat in the interrogation room, staring at the empty doorway, trying to objectively evaluate Valerie's story. Something about it didn't ring true.

But was that because it wasn't—or because she didn't want it to be?

Kitt glanced down at the log of Brian's calls. A number leaped out at her. One she knew by heart.

She knew it by heart because, once upon a time, it had been hers as well.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006
12:30 p.m.

M.C.
started with Rose McGuire, the second victim, simply because she had lived in an assisted-living community rather than a private residence. Even though seven years had passed, M.C. hoped there might still be someone on staff from the time of the murder. If so, they would remember. An incident like that was not easily forgotten. In addition, it had no doubt resulted in sweeping changes in the center's security.

The Walton B. Johnson Assisted Living Center had been named after the Rockford millionaire philanthropist whose brainchild the center had been. Or so the center's director informed M.C. as they walked to her office. It had been the first of its kind in the city, providing a much-needed living alternative for the elderly. His foundation continued to underwrite needy residents, up to ten percent of occupancy. Their newest, a man named Billy Hatfield, had moved in just that day.

They passed a line of wheelchairs filled with ladies—their gray hair ranging in shades of silver to lavender. Some napped, others waved at her and called greetings, others seemed to be grousing about something.

“What are they waiting for?” M.C. asked.

The director smiled. “Mr. Kenneth comes in to do hair on Mondays. Every Tuesday after lunch we put up the sign-up sheet. As you can see, Mr. Kenneth is very popular with the female residents.”

They reached the woman's office. A plaque on the door read Patsy Anderson, Director.

She unlocked the door and led M.C. inside. After they had both taken a seat, she asked, “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I was hoping you could tell me something about Rose McGuire.”

Her smile slipped. “Surely you don't mean—”

“I do, indeed, Ms. Anderson. We're looking into reopening the investigation.”

She didn't look pleased at the news. M.C. didn't blame her. If the case was reopened, it would attract media attention—which would be bad publicity for them.

Worse than she knew.

“That was so long ago.”

“Seven years.”

“I wasn't even on staff here. I was hired in 2002.”

“Is there anyone on staff who was?”

She frowned. “Offhand, I don't recall. I'd have to go into the personnel records.”

“Would you, please?”

“It'll take a bit of time.”

“When do you think you could have the information to me?”

She glanced at her desk clock. “End of the day, latest.”

“I'd appreciate that.”

“You know,” she went on, “the previous director retired, but she lives here in town. I bet she'd be happy to talk to you. She took the murder really hard. In fact, it's why she retired when she did. Why don't I call her, see if she's home and tell her you're coming over?”

Twenty minutes later, M.C. greeted Wanda Watkins, a small, energetic woman with a lovely silver bob and eyes so big they took up an inordinate amount of her face.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Watkins.”

“Call me Wanda. Come in.”

She led M.C. into her small living room. A big calico cat perched on the back of the floral sofa, another sprawled across the cushions.

Unfortunately, M.C. was allergic. She felt her nose twitch.

“My babies,” the woman said. She scooped up the one and shooed the other. “Please, sit.”

M.C. did. She took out her notebook and pen. “As Patsy told you over the phone, we're looking into reopening the investigation into Rose McGuire's murder. We have a possible new lead.”

“Thank God.” She stroked the cat. “It's been difficult, knowing her killer was never caught. Not just because he was still free, but because Miss Rose was such a sweet woman. Always a smile, never a complaint.”

Wanda leaned forward. “They're not all like that, you know. Some are cantankerous. Some bitter. They miss the independent lives they used to have, they don't feel well or they're just grieving having gotten old.” She smiled. “I loved them all, even the crabby ones.”

“You really liked your job.”

“I did. Very much.”

“Why'd you retire?”

“After Rose…I felt I should step down. Let someone younger take over.” Her eyes grew bright. “I felt, perhaps, if I had been more observant or more forward-thinking about security, it wouldn't have happened.”

Another of violent crime's victims—those left behind who blamed themselves.

“It wasn't your fault,” she said softly. “There was nothing you could have done.”

“I tell myself that but…You know how it goes.”

She did, indeed.
“How did the murderer get into the building? I noticed you had a keypad and call-box system. The main doors are kept locked twenty-four hours a day. Was anything different at the time of the murder?”

“We've added video surveillance, but that's it.” She shook her head. “We believe a resident let him in. They would do that, see some ‘nice person' at the door and buzz them in. We warned them not to…but they're so trusting.”

“And now?” M.C. sneezed.

“Bless you. Can't say. After Rose…died, we cracked down. Things may have become more lax. Time dims the memory.”

But not hers, obviously. Not about this.

M.C. thanked her and sneezed again. “Sorry,” she said. “I'm allergic to cats.”

Wanda handed her a box of tissues. “What a shame. You're a dog person, then?”

She had never thought about it. “I guess I am.”

“Without my four-footed friends, I don't know what I'd do.”

M.C. redirected her. “Who found Miss Rose?”

“I did, Detective.” She buried her fingers in the cat's long fur. “We hadn't heard from her that morning, so we called her apartment. When we didn't get an answer, I offered to go check on her. That was, and still is, I believe, standard procedure. Her door was unlocked and…”

Her mouth trembled. “I'm sorry, Detective, must I go on?”

M.C. didn't need her to paint a picture—she had seen the photos. “Can you tell me anything about the days leading up to Rose McGuire's death? Was there anything special that you remember? Anything different?”

She thought a moment. “We'd had the birthday party for the center just a few days before. I remember so clearly because Miss Rose was dancing. Believe me, some of those oldsters, as I called them, could really cut a rug.”

A birthday party?
The back of M.C.'s neck prickled.
Julie Entzel and Marianne Vest had also attended birthday parties before they were killed.

“Not like people from your generation,” Wanda Watkins continued, “just standing there and swaying. No offense, of course.”

“No offense taken.” M.C. sneezed twice, then grabbed a tissue. “The party was held at the center?”

“That's right. Other than Christmas, it was our biggest event of the year.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It was different every year, of course. But there was always some sort of show. Music and dancing. A special meal. Even a champagne fountain. Sparkling grape juice.” She leaned toward M.C. “Even though it was nonalcoholic, some of the residents still got tipsy.”

“That year, what was the entertainment? Do you remember?”

She screwed her face up in thought. “A clown. He was quite good.”

A clown.

Holy shit. Kitt had been right.

M.C. straightened. “Did you share this with the officers investigating at the time?”

“I'm sure I didn't. It never came up.”

“What was the clown's name?”

“I don't recall. It's been years.”

“Did you use a service?”

She shook her head. “We got a recommendation from someone.” She frowned in thought. “Who was that? The relative of one of the residents. But…I can't remember who.”

“Has the center used him since?”

“We tried the next year, but the number was no longer in service and we couldn't find a listing.”

“Could the name still be on file at the center? Or can you think of anyone who might recall his name? It could be important.”

Wanda would have had to be deaf to miss the urgency in M.C.'s voice. She looked stricken. “You don't think…surely that nice clown—”

M.C. cut her off. “Is there a chance the man's name is still on file at the center?”

“Probably not. When we couldn't reach him the next year, I'm sure we took his name out of the Rolodex. Keeping up-to-date records was an obsession of mine.”

“What about a record of payment?” M.C. asked, knowing that most businesses kept their financial records a minimum of seven years, if not indefinitely

She nodded. “I bet there would be. We weren't allowed to pay anyone cash.”

M.C. stood, excited. This could very well be nothing. But it didn't feel that way. It felt like a big something.

She thanked Mrs. Watkins and handed her one of her cards. “If you even get a glimmer of a recollection as to this clown's name, call. No matter the time. On my cell.”

The woman said she would and trailed her to the door. M.C. could tell she had questions, ones she knew better than to ask.

M.C. wouldn't answer, of course.

She hurried out into the bright day. She had to call Kitt. They had checked the Fun Zone's employees, but they hadn't asked the victims' parents if their children had been entertained by a performer from
outside
the Fun Zone. They also had to check with the Olsen and Lindz families to find out if they had also been entertained by a clown.

She dialed Kitt; got her message service. “Kitt, it's M.C. I think we've got him. A clown performed at a party at Rose McGuire's assisted-living community. I'm going to contact the other families, see if they remember a clown. I'll keep in touch.”