Copycat (32 page)

Tuesday, March 21, 2006
5:05 p.m.

T
he department employed only one individual fluent in American Sign Language, or ASL—Jimmy Ye was an officer with the Community Service Unit.

He had agreed to come up to the VCB and take a look at the Copycat crime-scene photos to see if he could interpret them. ID had taken shots from every possible angle of the victims' posed hands; Kitt spread the photos out for him as Sergeant Haas looked on. “What do you think, Jimmy? Could it be sign language?”

He studied the photos. “It could be.”

“Presuming it is, what's he saying?”

“That's a little tougher.” He picked up one of the close-up shots. “ASL is a visual-spacial language. Its grammatical system includes facial movements and the use of space surrounding the signer.”

“Which means what?”

“Without animation, we're only getting part of the language. It'll be difficult to assess the killer's intent—I can only guess.”

“Disclaimer noted. Give it your best shot, then.”

He indicated the shot of Julie Entzel. “This girl has her right hand pointing to her chest, the left one outward. Very simply, she could be saying ‘I' or ‘Me' with her right—”

Kitt cut him off. “
She's
not saying anything, Jimmy. It's the killer who's speaking to us. She was just the vehicle.”

He looked taken aback at being corrected. She supposed she could have let it pass, but felt it kept the focus correct—and honored the victim.

“Right. Sorry, Detective. The other hand is pointing outward. This is an example of using space around the signer to describe a person or thing not present.”

Kitt wasn't blown away. “Me, you. Me and you.”

“Not necessarily. It could also mean ‘He,' ‘She' or ‘It.' You can't apply the rules of English grammatical structure to American Sign Language. ASL has a topic-comment syntax.”

“Plain English, please,” Sergeant Haas said, sounding irritated.

“As verbal communicators, we express ourselves, our ideas and emotions, in pieces of sentences. In single words spoken with emotion. In phrases and ways that butcher the traditional subject-object-verb structure. And in response to the topic.”

Jimmy laid the photo down. “So he may be trying to say me and you. Or she and I. Or I am he. We don't—”

“I am he,” Kitt said, trying it out, running it through her head. “He's telling us who he is. The one. The SAK.”

The sergeant nodded. “It could be. Let's move on to Marianne Vest.”

Jimmy hesitated. “I don't know. I—”

“Best guess.”

For long moments, he studied the photos. “Okay, what I think he's signing is individual letters here. A
W
and an
E
. Her right hand is posed with the three middle fingers up and spread and the thumb and pinkie folded across the palm—a
W
. The left is in a loose fist, palm facing out. An
E
.”

“Couldn't the right mean three?” Kitt asked. “Like the number?”

“A way of telling us there would be a third victim?” Haas offered.

“It could be. But not if this guy is using ASL. The number three is signed with the thumb and first two fingers, back of the hand out.”

He signed both for them and Kitt immediately understood. “I am he,” Kitt murmured. “Now ‘We.' What about the Webber girl?”

JimmyYe seemed to be settling into the task. He selected several of the photographs and looked them over. Each of Catherine Webber's hands had been molded into what appeared to Kitt to be a number one—the index finger straight up, the others folded into the palm, forming a fist.

But the positioning of each in space was very different. The left, back of the hand out, the right positioned centrally, finger near the mouth, palm facing left.

“The left hand is signing the number one, right?” Sergeant Haas said.

“Yes. The right hand's a bit more difficult. It's in the
D
position, but I'm thinking it's the word ‘Be.'”

“Why?”

“Watch.” Jimmy signed it for them—hand in the
D
position, then he moved his hand straight out, away from his mouth.

“If we're meant to read it from right to left, it's saying what? To be one?” Kitt looked at Jonathan Haas. “With the victim?”

Sal arrived and crossed to them. “Joe's with his lawyer. What've you got so far?”

Kitt explained. When she had finished, Jimmy Ye jumped in. “As I explained, these interpretations are best guesses.”

“Noted.” He moved his gaze over the photos. “I am he. Or me and you.”

“Or read the Vest and Webber scene together,” Jimmy said. “We are one.”

Sergeant Haas's cell phone buzzed. He excused himself to answer.

Kitt watched him go, then turned to Sal. “That works for me. Jimmy?”

He nodded. “Could be. Of course, I can't prom—”

She cut him off before he could provide another disclaimer. “One last question. Is it logical to assume that since the killer is using ASL, he's either deaf or has a family member who's deaf?”

“Not necessarily. Yes, ASL's the native language of deaf Americans as well as some hearing children born into deaf families. However, courses exist to learn ASL. As do immersion-study programs.”

Kitt didn't hide her disappointment. She had liked the scenario as it would dramatically narrow the field of suspects, a field that would include Valerie Martin. “How did you learn?”

“My wife's deaf. She taught me.” He paused. “Here's another option. Your guy's not familiar with ASL, but simply looking up English words in an English-ASL dictionary. They have them online. There's one that's actually animated. I could e-mail you the URL, if you want.”

“That'd be great, thanks.”

Sergeant Haas returned as Jimmy walked away. Kitt saw from his expression that the call hadn't pleased him. “Valerie Martin didn't return to work after lunch. The house was closed up tight, no vehicle in the garage. A neighbor directed them to the daughter's school. There, they learned her mother had checked her out just after lunch.”

Sal's expression turned grim. “Let's put out an all-radio bulletin for the woman and her daughter.”

“What about Joe?” Kitt asked.

“We keep him until his lawyer starts squealing. Then we'll have to book him or let him go.”

“He might have an idea where Valerie headed. I'm worried about Tami. If Valerie is guilty and doesn't suspect we're onto her, the girl could be in danger.”

“You want to talk to him?” Sal asked.

“I'll try. I don't think he'll be so happy to talk to me.” Her cell rang and she answered. “Lundgren, here.”

“It's Sorenstein. Good news. We've got us a match.”

Tuesday, March 21, 2006
5:40 p.m.

T
he gun used to kill Brian had also been used to kill a woman in Dekalb, a farming community about an hour southeast of Rockford. Dekalb had two claims to fame—it was the birthplace of supermodel Cindy Crawford and was home to the Northern Illinois University campus. Many locals would add “sweet corn” to the list as a third. In fact, the community sponsored the Cornfest every August, a big street party that hosted an annual two-hundred-thousand visitors who consumed seventy tons of sweet corn.

Kitt peered over Sorenstein's shoulder at the NIBIN monitor. “It's a good match,” he said. “Damn near perfect.”

Sure enough, the markings on the bullet taken from Brian's body corresponded to those from the bullet of a 1989 murder.

“While I waited for you, I took the liberty of accessing LEDS.”

LEDS was the state's Law Enforcement Data System. “So, what's the story?”

“A man named Frank Ballard killed his wife in 1989. He shot her between the eyes. He was arrested, tried and convicted, but the gun was never recovered. It was believed said weapon was the man's service revolver. Same make and model. Standard issue, .45 caliber Smith & Wesson.

“He was law enforcement?”

“That's right. Dekalb County sheriff's office deputy.”

Kitt's thoughts raced. Law enforcement. How had that weapon, used in a murder seventeen years ago, shown up here? Now?

And what, if anything, did it have to do with the SAK and Copycat investigations?

“Anything else?” she asked.

“That's about it. Here's a printout. Figured I'd leave the rest of the detecting up to you.” He grinned up at her. “Seems to me, I've earned a beer.”

“You did, Sorenstein. Thanks.”

His grin faded. “Brian was a friend. More than a friend. I want to nail the son of a bitch who did this.”

Kitt headed back up to the VCB. She found Sal and filled him in. “I'm going to talk to Joe, see if he has any ideas where Valerie's gone. Then I thought I'd give the Dekalb sheriff's office a call. See if I can get a little more information.”

“Keep me informed.” He started for his office, then stopped and looked back. “Heard from Riggio?”

“Left her a message an hour or so ago. I'll give her another call, see where she's at.”

A moment later, fingers crossed that the clown angle played out, she dialed her partner's cell. M.C. answered on the second ring.

“Hey, stranger,” Kitt said. “Long time, no see.”

“I was just listening to your message. Major developments?”

Kitt quickly filled her in about Valerie, Joe and the ballistics match. When she didn't comment, Kitt went on, “What about the clown angle?”

“It was a bust. Sorry.”

Kitt admitted bitter disappointment. If the clown lead had panned out, Joe would have been a step closer to “free to go.” She would have at the very least been able to offer him some reassuring information.

Or was she simply wanting to reassure herself?

“You contacted all the family members who might remember—”

“Yes. Nothing. No clowns. No magic tricks, either.”

The last came out of left field. “I didn't know you were looking into that angle as well. If you'd told me, I could have saved you some time and trouble—Joe wasn't even doing magic back then.”

“You're not going postal on me, are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Just trying to go with the flow, take a joke. You know.”

“It's been a long day, hasn't it?”

“You have no idea.”

“I'm going to follow up on the ballistics match, see if I can get a lead on how that weapon made its way from Dekalb to here. Are you coming in?”

“Thought I'd swing by Mama's, give her my regrets in person.”

“Regrets?”

“Tuesday nights are pasta night with my family.”

“That's right.” Kitt glanced at her watch. “Look, I'm here. Go have dinner with your family. Besides, if I need you, I'll call.”

“What if I need you?”

Kitt laughed. “I'll leave my cell on all night, just in case you need saving from Mama Riggio.”

“I'm getting another call, Kitt. I've got to go.”

She hung up before Kitt could say goodbye. Perplexed, Kitt drew her eyebrows together. Something about M.C. had seemed off. Brittle. As if she had been working hard to be pleasant.

Was she pissed off about something?

Kitt holstered her phone and shifted her thoughts to Joe. She wished she'd had no part in today. But she had—and she had a job to do. If Joe was innocent, it would be proved so.

She prayed that when that happened, they could salvage what they had and make a fresh start.

She stepped into the interrogation room. Joe, who was now alone in the room, looked at her. She saw how angry he was. How hurt.

“Back for another pint of blood?” he asked.

“I'm sorry you feel that way, Joe.”

“How else could I feel? This was an ambush, Kitt.”

“I didn't mean it to be.”

“Please. I'm not stupid. ‘Just trust me,'” he said bitterly, mocking her. “And I did. What a fool.”

“When I said that I meant it. Circumstances changed and I had to—”

“You had to do your job.” He looked away, then back. “I wish I had a dollar for every time you said those exact words to justify your behavior. I'd be a rich man.

“I suppose what gets me,” he went on, “is that even after having known each other most of our lives, after loving—and burying—a daughter, you don't have a clue who I am.”

His words cut her to the quick. They hurt because she felt she
did
know him, because she loved him—and because even so, she had suspected him of being a part of this. And would continue to suspect him until evidence cleared him.

It was the nature of her job—and what that job had done to her.

What could she say to him?

She had no defense. She was guilty as charged.

“I love you, Joe. I always have.”

He made a sound of pain. “You always put being a cop before me. That's not going to change, is it? When this is over and it's clear I had nothing to do with this, it'll be something else. Some other case, some other victim.”

“That's not true! When this is over and you're cleared, we—”

“There is no ‘we.' I love you, Kitt. But I want more than you can give me. I have for a long time.”

She held a hand out. “Let's not talk about this. Not now. Please.”

Her words came out rough, broken.

Broken.
The way she felt inside.

She cleared her throat. Refocused. “Valerie's taken off. She didn't show up for work after she left here and she checked Tami out of school. I'm afraid for the girl.”

“Of course you are,” he said, tone bitter.

“I was hoping you might have some idea where they could have gone.”

He made a sound, part anger, part pain. “Check with Valerie's mother. She lives in Rockton. And she has a sister in Barrington.”

“You have names?”

“Mother's Rita Martin. Sister is Lori Smith.”

Detective White stuck his head into the room. “Lawyer's back, Kitt.”

She held a hand up, indicating he should give her a minute.

“Joe, I want you to know that I—”

He cut her off. “Forget about it. Go do your job. Catch your killer, because I'm not him.”

She passed his lawyer without looking at him. Her chest hurt so badly she could hardly breathe. She wondered if things could get any worse, then acknowledged she hoped the hell not.