Copycat

By Sandy James

Retired FBI agent Dr. Beau Peterson’s strange psychic ability enables him to connect with murder victims after their deaths, a talent that aided him in capturing the infamous Ryland Ripper. Now teaching criminal psychology at a local college, he is asked to work with his former partner, Cody Taylor, on a baffling new case—someone, whom the media dubs “Ripper Junior,” is mimicking the Ryland Ripper.

With each of Junior’s kills, Jordan Stafford falls into a trance, forcing her to see every hideous detail through his eyes. Beau reluctantly accepts her assistance in pursuing the dangerous serial killer, but in a macabre twist of fate, she becomes Junior’s new target. Beau, Jordan, and Cody must utilize all of their skills to prevent her from becoming Junior’s next victim.

“Sandy James weaves mystery and romance in her impossible to put down novel, Copycat. Filled with non-stop action and vivid detail, my pulse raced with anticipation from the first to the last page.” New York Times Bestselling Author Aleatha Romig

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandy James
• Release date: Dec 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781940295312

Sandy James

Sandy lives in a quiet suburb of Indianapolis and is a high school psychology teacher. Published through Forever Yours, Carina Press, as well as indie-published, she has been an Amazon #1 Bestseller multiple times and has won numerous awards including two HOLT Medallions.Please visit her website at sandyjames.com for more information or find her on Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest as "sandyjamesbooks."Represented by Danielle Egan-Miller of Browne & Miller Literary.

Book preview

She’s not dead.

Intuition and experience told him as much. Beau Peterson had seen that kind of reaction before, the most memorable being the burly officer at the blood drive for a wounded Dayton cop. The moment the phlebotomist had revealed the needle, the officer’s eyes had rolled back in his head and…boom. He’d been napping.

Just like this poor woman.

Having a student faint while he lectured was unexpected, especially considering Beau’s typical pupils. Their lust for gore, for graphic pictures and explicit descriptions sometimes exceeded his comfort level. But he shared all he’d seen in his years at the FBI. He’d never had a student faint.

Until now.

Perhaps the revelation of Ted Bundy’s taking victims’ heads to his apartment—added to his suspected necrophilia—had been too much for the young woman.

Beau’s first response was to quickly text the campus police, and then he fumbled for the forearm crutch he’d set aside. The projector remote was brushed aside and fell to the floor. After the back popped off, two batteries went rolling under the table. He ignored it all, needing to get to his distressed student. Before he could reach the brunette, the male student who’d been sitting next to her was on his knees, checking her wrist for a pulse.

He had to nudge the other concerned students aside. They’d crowded around the scene, gawking down at the guy now pinching her nose and getting ready to blow air into her mouth.

Stop that! Beau snapped. She’s breathing fine.

The guy sat back on his heels. She is?

Beau nodded before shooting a glare at his other students. There were only ten of them, but they’d packed themselves around her as tightly as subway riders at rush hour. Back up, everyone. Give her some air. Please.

The twenty-something kid pressed two fingers to the brunette’s throat before looking up at Beau, eyes bright with triumph. I’ve got a pulse!

Of course, you do. She fainted.

The guy cocked his head. Fainted? People really faint?

This time, Beau heaved a sigh as he gave the guy a curt nod.

Shit, but he needed to at least try to use some patience with his students. No matter how hard he put his mind to the task, that virtue constantly eluded him. Perhaps if they weren’t all hoping to become Clarice Starling or Will Graham, he could develop more tolerance. The blame didn’t lie with them. No, Thomas Harris, James Patterson, and writers of their ilk were the ones who made everyone and his brother think being a profiler was the fast track to never-ending excitement. That dream required those wannabes to take abnormal psychology courses like the one he taught.

He pointed the end of his crutch at the door. Class dismissed. Each and every aspiring FBI agent still milled about as though having no clue what to do. Go on. I’ll take good care of her, and OCP is on the way. Thankfully, he’d refrained from calling the Ohio Central Police wannabes, the term everyone on campus used for the men in the uniform who were supposed to see to the students’ safety.

The woman was already rousing, a groan spilling from her parted lips.

Nudging the guy on the ground with his crutch, Beau said, She’s fine. I’ll get her some medical help. Thanks for what you did. No doubt she’d be embarrassed if everyone was ogling her when she came to. While he normally wouldn’t worry about someone’s self-esteem, he’d watched this woman from the first day of class and had been impressed with the amount of effort she put into learning the material. She took copious notes on a yellow legal pad instead of a laptop and often asked questions that were laced with remarkable insight, something the majority his students often lacked. Could there be a reason she attended Ohio Central University that didn’t entail becoming the newest profiler for the FBI?

That alone made her interesting.

When his students still didn’t leave, the last of his tolerance evaporated. Leave now or face a twenty-page paper on B.F. Skinner and how his work could be applied to toilet training a two-year-old.

That got the kids moving, snatching up their tablets—paper and electronic—and crowding the exit to the ancient classroom.

Dr. Peterson? The tentative somewhat shaky voice drew his gaze back to Jordan Stafford, the only student this semester he thought showed promise. Wh–what happened? she asked, gingerly propping herself up on her elbows from where she’d sprawled on the floor.

My best guess? You fainted.

"I what?" The timbre had firmed up, but her pitch rose an octave as she wiped her trembling hand across her forehead.

Fainted. Swooned. Passed out. He reined in his sarcasm and popped off a quick text to OCP to let them know she didn’t need an ambulance. Forget to eat supper or something? Diabetic, maybe? He didn’t ask if she was stoned, mostly because she just wasn’t the type to toke before class.

When he offered his hand, she balked, rolling quickly to her side. Grabbing the table, she dragged herself up.

Perturbed she’d so rudely brushed off his help, he still held her elbow to steady her as she flopped back into her chair. Damn if she didn’t swat his hand away once she was seated.

That reaction was familiar enough to make him bristle. He made his way back to his desk. Can’t stand touching a cripple, Ms. Stafford?

You know my name? She dropped her legal pad and mechanical pencil into her backpack. When she stood, she seemed steady on her feet, although her face held not a hint of color and she kept averting her gaze whenever he tried to get a good look at her eyes to check if they were bloodshot.

Not quite sure why she’d blown right by his acerbic question, Beau picked up his lecture notes and shoved them in his sling pack. He stooped to pick up the remote before tossing it on desk, not even looking for the batteries. Screw it if the projector burned out a bulb.

I know all my students. An exaggeration. She’d fascinated him. Shallow though he was, her looks appealed to him. Added to her intellect, she became interesting enough that he’d pulled up her demographics. She didn’t fit the profile—an ironic term that almost made him grin—of the type of student his classes tended to attract.

What was her angle—her reason for wanting to know more about how a psychopath’s mind worked?

I’m getting too old for this shit.

Hurrying to the door, she stopped at the threshold, appearing to want to say something but battling the urge.

You should let me take you to the clinic, he insisted.

She only shook her head, clearly battling over whether to speak her mind.

His compassion pushed aside his anger at the way she’d refused his help. Is there something you wanted, Ms. Stafford? He was more than ready to head home, prop his throbbing knee up on a pillow, and have a beer. Or two. Or ten. Then he might be able to sleep for once.

You’re not a cripple.

She slipped outside before he could respond.

* * *

Jordan Stafford didn’t stop until she got to her car, though it required supreme effort to keep putting one foot in front of the other as she exited the building, headed down the long sidewalk, and finally got to the faculty parking lot. Thank God night school students could park anywhere or she’d be in a world of hurt. No way her legs could carry her to the back forty, the name given to the OCU student parking lot.

She was still lightheaded, but she fought through the disconcerting feeling, knowing that she had to get home before it happened again. And there was no doubt it would happen again. How would she be able to manage that kind of rage when she was near others? It was dangerous to even try.

One of the reasons she’d chosen night school courses was to avoid too much contact with people. Night school classes on the Ohio Central campus were rumored to be small, so small the school had considered dropping them altogether. She’d completed quite a few of her Master’s degree requirements in classes of less than twelve students each.

Then she’d checked classes for the fall semester. Dr. Beauregard Peterson was listed as teaching his Psychology of Psychopaths course on Tuesday evenings. Having him as a professor seemed an impossible dream, so she’d checked again. And again. Each time, the class was still posted. So Jordan jumped on it, needing to explore the horrible things that went wrong with the psychopathic mind.

My mind?

Rumor had it that people originally flocked to the class, but as soon as he began in-depth discussions of real cases, including crime scene photos and graphic descriptions, most students scurried to their advisors to drop the course. Now, only a handful of brave souls signed up whenever he taught. She had to be one of them.

Fumbling with her keychain, Jordan tried to get the door to her ancient Civic open. She’d barely stuffed her backpack inside when the next wave hit. She usually had more time between the first and second, but this one came much quicker than she could ever have anticipated. It was also stronger than the one that had washed over her back in the classroom. Images, scents, sounds swirled inside her thoughts, drowning out everything except the passion of the kill.

The brunette in Jordan’s woozy vision held up her handcuffed wrists, trying in vain to stop the blow of the metal pipe. One hit caught the victim’s left wrist; the next made her forearm bend into an odd angle.

The cocky laugh, that deep baritone that made the bile bubble in the back of Jordan’s throat, was accompanied by another arching swing of the pipe that sent it slamming into the brunette’s forehead. Blood spattered against the walls as the cracking of bone followed the dull, sickening, and too familiar thud. The woman had stopped screaming right after the moment of impact, the echo of her shrill cries seemingly hanging in the air as she sank to her knees.

Jordan mimicked the action, her bare knees scraping on the asphalt of the parking lot as her hands groped for the car door. She missed, collapsing onto the hot, hard surface that ground gravel into the heels of her hands.

She was barely aware of the pain, too full of the scene in her mind and the uncontrollable need to swing the heavy pipe yet again. Hands gripped it tightly, slamming the weapon down hard against the side of the brunette’s once beautiful face. More blood. More broken bone. More suffering that Jordan couldn’t bear to see but would be forced to witness.

But see she did. And she smelled, too, gagging at the metallic stench that warred with the dank aroma of the old shed where the carnage continued. Blow after blow.

Jordan fell to her side, pulling her throbbing knees to her chest. The scene wouldn’t end until it was damn good and ready, and she paid witness to the slaughter no matter how desperately she tried to will her own thoughts back into control. She didn’t want to see what the hands did next. She didn’t want to hear the deep voice talking to the corpse in a sing-song recitation of how smart he was, how they’d never find him, how he would show the world how clever he was.

Ms. Stafford?

She screamed when a hand touched her shoulder, reality and fantasy blending into a kaleidoscope of fury at her own impotence. Stop! Don’t touch me! Thrashing at the man who laid his hand on her—or was she striking out at the man with the arrogant baritone?—Jordan awkwardly scrambled to her feet.

The movement was more than she could manage as the scene receded and reality returned, accompanied by the lethargy that would soon turn to a sleep as deep as death. She clawed for the car door, somehow getting it open before falling face-first into the Civic.

But it was too late. Too late...

The last thing that registered before darkness swallowed her was a familiar voice telling her he’d take care of her.

Chapter Two

Awareness came slowly, probably because Jordan fought it every step of the way.

The images clung tightly to her mind, and fully awake, she’d have to deal with them. She’d learned the hard way that she couldn’t shed a single one until she confronted them, convinced herself she would never be a part of something so heinous, and then discarded those horrible sensations best she could. They might be her mind’s creation, but she would never let them become reality.

Ever since they’d begun, the storms, as she called them, had ruled her life. A year. Almost a whole damn year they’d tortured her. She’d quit her job, afraid of the visions and worried about her sanity. A year of investigation followed, a year of research and reading and hoping to find some reason for her to have experienced a psychotic break at twenty-six years old.

Although she’d taken a couple of psychology courses in college, she hadn’t enjoyed the subject—not nearly as much as she had her social work classes. Now, she found herself in a psychological quandary with little knowledge to use as she battled an intimate enemy. So she’d entered in the OCU Master’s program in psychology to learn how to fight back.

She groaned as she ran one trembling hand over her aching forehead. The tubing taped to the back of it came as a surprise. When she tried to open her eyes, the light pierced her brain like hundreds of needles, so she quickly closed them tight.

I’ll turn off the lights, a terse voice said.

Jordan muttered her thanks before checking whether she could tolerate the new level of light by gently opening her eyes again. Thankfully, the pain didn’t return full-force, so she let her gaze wander the room.

Typical hospital, although seeing the sunlight tinting the sky that was visible through the window told her she’d been in that room all night. What time is it?

Almost six.

The familiarity of the voice settled on her rapidly returning senses. Dr. Peterson?

He was sitting in a chair he’d pulled close to the side of the bed. His crutch leaned against the arm of the chair, but he made no move to reach for it.

She’d never stopped to consider what he looked like before, probably because she’d been so engrossed in what he was teaching to truly pay attention.

Younger than her prototype of a professor, Dr. Peterson appearance was more like a surfer than a man who was an expert in the most heinous forms of murder. His brown hair was light enough that he’d probably been a blond as a child, and the beard stubble covering his cheeks and chin was the same tawny color. The few gray strands near his temple put him somewhere in his mid to late thirties.

Although a bit on the thin side, his frame held enough muscle to tell her he worked out a lot, which had to be a challenge considering his handicap. His hazel eyes held immense intelligence, and having them pinned on her at the moment sent a shiver racing the length of her body.

Why are you here? The question came out with a rudeness she hadn’t intended. It was still too difficult to guard what she said. Her thoughts just weren’t organized enough. Shit, she could barely even think at all.

You’re quite welcome, Ms. Stafford. Sarcasm tinted each word. It wasn’t at all an imposition to carry you to my car, drive you to the hospital, and sit up with you all night to be sure you were going to be okay.

Pressing her fingertips to her forehead, she frowned. Her professor had gone above and beyond to help her, but there was no way she could tell him why he’d had to go to so much trouble. So she settled on a beside-the-point question tumbling through her mind. Why didn’t you just call an ambulance?

Faster to drive since the hospital’s on campus.

How could you carry me? I mean with your...um... She glanced at the crutch before realizing how cruel the question was. Sorry.

Are you always so blunt? he asked.

Only when I’m waking up from a coma.

After grabbing his crutch, Dr. Peterson slipped his forearm into the support and used it to move closer to the bed. His gaze held a touch of concern before it morphed into his more typical aloofness. Now that I’m fairly sure you’re going to live, I’ll be heading out. He made a show of checking his wristwatch, even though there was a large clock on the wall directly in his line of sight. If I hurry, I might be able to get in a couple hours of sleep before my first class.

Jordan sank deeper into her pillow. I’m so sorry.

"Why would you be sorry? Did you plan to pass out, insist I take you to the hospital, and beg me to stay with you to be sure you didn’t die?"

"And you called me blunt?"

At least the cheeky remark got a lopsided smile.

You still didn’t answer my question, Jordan couldn’t help but point out.

I carried you over my shoulder like a sack of concrete.

You can do that with a bum leg?

I’m stronger than I look. Dr. Peterson kept staring at her, cocking his head slightly. Do you know you talk in your sleep?

Her heart stopped for a split second and then launched into a frenetic rhythm that made her fear it might explode. She clutched at the blanket, fighting the urge to pull it over her head like a frightened child trying to hide from the boogeyman.

He was suddenly at her side, his warm hand settling on her shoulder. Easy there, Ms. Stafford.

Wh–what did I say? Fear drowned her, and she waited for the men with the straightjacket to come through the door and haul her away to the psychiatric wing. God only knew what she’d said in her storm-induced sleep. God and Dr. Peterson, evidently.

You weren’t telling me about your love life or anything, so you can stop worrying.

What did I say? This time, Jordan’s voice was clear and strong with only a touch of panic.

You just muttered a bunch. Honestly, I could barely understand a word of it.

A lie. Studying psychology in depth had ruined her for any kind of normal conversation. People who stressed words like honestly were actually being far from honest. The fake smile on her professor’s face did nothing to change her opinion.

Jordan almost blurted out that he was lying before getting control of her emotions. Since he wasn’t going to elaborate, she’d let the sore subject drop. Who cared if he figured out she was some freak who had overwhelming illusions about being a serial killer?

She scoffed in incredulity at her own thoughts.

Another question surfaced and spilled from her. Why did you stay all night?

He simply shrugged, poker face firmly in place.

It was kind of you. And I do appreciate it.

But I wish you hadn’t eavesdropped on my dreams.

Dr. Peterson had evidently had enough of her company, because he lumbered toward the door before pausing and turning back to look at her. One good thing happened as a result of this.

Since she had trouble dreaming up a solitary thing that could be seen as good in passing out in front of her professor, she had to ask, What exactly is that?

I rarely learn all of my students’ names. There’s no way I’ll forget yours.

* * *

After flipping on the lights, Jordan let out a weary sigh. Where were friendly fairy tale elves when a girl needed them to come clean up a messy apartment?

Because Dr. Peterson had driven her to the hospital, once she was discharged, she’d had to take an Uber to get back to her car at school. There were two tickets from campus security under her windshield—one for parking past midnight and another for being in the faculty area in the morning. At least OCP hadn’t towed it yet. She’d simply tossed the citations in the back seat with her other tickets.

She didn’t even want to think about the medical bills that would be arriving soon. Despite her protests, the internist assigned to her case had ordered a CAT scan of her head. How she’d find the money to pay for it or for the overnight stay was beyond her. She’d just have to toss those bills on the stack of unpaid notices sitting on her kitchen table.

It had been a year since she’d been able to hold down a steady job. Thankfully, she’d picked up some part-time work fixing technical problems in the library’s numerous computers. Even though she didn’t have a degree in computer technology, she was a self-taught whiz at debugging infected operating systems, and she had a knack for hacking that earned her some pocket money from people wanting to snoop on their significant others. The library let her come and go anytime of the day or night since they were open 24/7. In fact, it was much easier to work on the computers in the wee hours of the morning, and Jordan had morphed into somewhat of a night owl since the storms began.

The storms. Jordan’s trips down the rabbit hole. They’d destroyed her life so thoroughly that she didn’t even recognize it anymore. Only a year ago, she’d been a social worker and earning a Master’s in social work from Ohio State University. Now, she was a woman disconnected from everyone, trying hard to hide the secret that she’d lost her mind. Thankfully, she’d learned at an early age to take care of herself. God knew there hadn’t ever been people in her life she could depend on.

The storm that hit Jordan during Dr. Peterson’s class had been the worst yet. If only she could figure out why they’d begun in the first place. Then she might be able to figure out a way to get the damn things to stop. Instead, she survived hour to hour, hoping she wouldn’t go from fantasizing about murders to committing one.

She needed to pick up the abnormal psychology textbooks lying open to the subjects of her research, close them, and set them on the floor so she could lie down on her couch. She’d probably be pissed at herself later that she hadn’t taken the time to mark the pages, but she merely shrugged that thought aside. How difficult would it be to find the psychosis references again anyway?

Jordan’s gaze fell to the Physicians’ Desk Reference on the well-worn coffee table. With every ounce of her being she’d resisted getting professional help, especially disliking the idea of taking antipsychotic medications. Any chance she’d ever have of picking back up with her social work career would be forever lost the moment her name was written on a prescription for Zyprexa. Or Haldol. Or Clozaril. Hell, any psychotropic, as well as the schizophrenic diagnosis that went with it, would follow her the rest of her life. Worse, what if she had a personality disorder instead, if she fell under the category of people who used other people with no conscience?

I’m not a psychopath! I’m not!

She might as well have CRAZY tattooed across her forehead and be done with it.

There were no tears left to cry—a bad sign since psychopaths were supposed to have problems with emotions. She’d wept plenty when the storms began, her heart tortured by what she saw. More tears followed at the unfairness of it all. The why me? laments. The not me! protests.

The storms just kept coming.

After plopping on the couch, Jordan started at the ceiling, giving herself her usual pep talk.

I don’t have murder in me.

I can’t even stand to squish a spider.

So why the stupid storms?

The doorbell startled her. No one visited anymore. She’d pushed the few friends she had away, fearing what the storms meant and questioning her burgeoning insanity. It wasn’t as if any of her foster families gave a rat’s ass. None of them stayed in touch anyway with the exception or a card or two at Christmas.

The doorbell rang again.

With an exaggerated sigh, she hauled herself up, went to the door, and checked the peephole.

Dr. Peterson’s handsome face looked odd through the fisheye lens.

There was another man standing next to him, someone she’d never seen before. Hard to tell much about him with his image so distorted by the peephole. His blond hair was buzzed short as a Marine’s. He had his hands on his hips, his impatience crystal clear in his fidgeting. A gun was holstered under his arm, tight against his left ribs.

She didn’t open the door until the stranger pressed the doorbell again, holding his finger on it so it buzzed continuously.

The door stopped at the length of the small chain that offered her very little true protection. What do you want? she snapped.

The anger was righteous considering Dr. Peterson was a big, fat liar. He’d obviously learned plenty from her sleepy mutterings, and what he’d heard disturbed him enough to bring in reinforcements. Hard to believe a man with that much experience dealing with the worst kinds of criminals would need backup, which made her worry all the more about what she’d said in those dark hours.

Nice to see you again, Ms. Stafford. Dr. Peterson inclined his head at his companion. This is—

A cop, most likely, she said. So I’ll ask again...what do you want?

The men’s gazes connected before Dr. Peterson deferred with a barely perceptible nod.

The had-to-be-a-cop replied, We’re here to talk to you about Amelia Bellows.

Never heard of her. Jordan tried to shut the door, but the cop used his foot to block her.

We’d really like to talk to you now, Ms. Stafford, Dr. Peterson said. Damn if he didn’t sound like a cop, too, his words a direct order rather than a request.

I don’t know anything about whoever you’re talking about, and being as I’ve just gotten home from the hospital, I’d really like to go back to bed and get some rest. She glared at the cop. So if you wouldn’t mind...

With no warning, the cop jammed his shoulder into the door, snapping the chain as Jordan stumbled back. After stepping through the now wide-open door, he leveled a piercing scowl at her. "As a matter of fact, I do mind."

Chapter Three

Beau had to admire Jordan’s pluck. Not many people could stand up to Cody Taylor’s daunting stare, but she held her ground, glaring at the trained professional as though she had no intention of ever backing down.

Gee, she said, her voice thick with disdain as she flipped her raven ponytail over her shoulder. "Why don’t you come right on in?