Sinnerman

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  SINNERMAN

  Cheryl Bradshaw

  *****

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and should be recognized as such.

  *****

  First edition September 2011

  Copyright 2011 by Cheryl Bradshaw

  Cover Design Copyright 2011 Reese Dante

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1466291206

  ISBN-13: 978-1466291201

  *****

  For updates on Cheryl and her books:

  Web: www.cherylbradshaw.com

  Facebook: Cheryl Bradshaw Author Page

  Twitter: @cherylbradshaw

  *****

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means whatsoever (electronic, mechanical, or otherwise) without the prior written permission and consent of the author.

  ALSO BY CHERYL BRADSHAW

  Black Diamond Death (Sloane Monroe Novel #1)

  Author praise for Black Diamond Death:

  *****

  The writing and editing are excellent, the characters are interesting, and the plot kept me hooked. The balance between action and detecting worked perfectly. The main character was a masterpiece. --Edward G. Talbot, Author of New World Orders

  The tone reminded me of Robert B. Parker's novels, so if you're missing the likes of Spenser and Sunny Randall, I'd say that Cheryl Bradshaw looks to be a worthy successor. Highly recommended! --Chris Stout, Author of Days of Reckoning

  While I've found most mystery/thrillers to be rehashes of the same old plot line, this novel was refreshingly new/original. It is a new twist on the PI murder-mystery with a few nice surprises along the way. --Jack Murphy, Author of PROMIS: Vietnam

  This book had me guessing the whole time. Reads like a bestseller.--Julia Crane, Author of Coexist

  *****

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to anyone who’s ever had a dream.

  We have but one life, and one opportunity to live it.

  Make it last, make it count, and make it the best it can be.

  Live your dreams, I know I am.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First and foremost, to Justin: Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116.

  To Kylie, Taylor, and Macey for adding meaning to my life.

  Reese Dante, your book covers rock! Thanks for making me look so good.

  Jessica Meigs, editor extraordinaire—I appreciate your keen eye!

  Many thanks to Tom Adair for answering all my forensic questions and for your fantastic forensics blog for fiction writers: forensics4fiction.wordpress.com

  To my sister Michelle Brown for her excellence in photography, and to my family.

  To the best family of in-laws a girl could ever hope for—I’m so lucky to have you all in my life.

  THS peeps, I appreciate the overwhelming support you’ve given me in the beginning of this great journey; makes me proud to remember who I am and where I came from, and that I’m still a warrior at heart.

  To Angie, thank you for playing Skillet’s One Day Too Late for me and for your support—I love ya!

  To my friends near and far and especially: Eric, Tiffany, Becky, LeighAnn, Gina, Cori, Tanya, Rani—what a blessing it is to have a circle of friends this wonderful in my life.

  Band of Horses—your music is an inspiration.

  And last but not least, to Abraham Lincoln for teaching me to see the person and not the color and for your perseverance and spirit that lives on through each American alive in this great country today. Rest in peace, Mr. President.

  *****

  What kills a skunk is the publicity it gives itself.

  -ABRAHAM LINCOLN

  CHAPTER 1

  Sam Reids reclined back into the seat of his black 1970 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme and examined the women that shuffled in and out of the supermarket like predictable herds of cattle. It had been three long years since he felt the steady churn of butterflies in his stomach, but the anticipation of the nights soon-to-be events made it all worthwhile. The wait hadn’t been easy, and whenever he felt he couldn’t control his urges any longer, he walked down the steep series of steps that led to the basement and gazed at the trinkets he’d collected. They were all spaced two inches apart in single-file formation on a shelf. In total, there were fifteen glass bottles. Each container had a white label about the size of a Post-It note affixed to the front with the date and a name written in thick black marker.

  Over the past few years Sam visited them often and took special care to dust and polish their exteriors, but he never opened them once they’d been sealed. He didn’t want to take a chance that one of his precious mementos could get spoiled. Sometimes he took one to his room and deposited it on the stand next to him while he slept. When he woke during the night to the illuminated glow that shone through the glass from the lamp above, he felt a sensation of peace, like a child that watched the constant spin of the mobile over the crib. It wasn’t the same thrill he’d experienced when he secured the object within the bottle, but it helped him pass the time.

  Through his binoculars, Sam observed two women walk out of the store together; one carried a brown paper sack in her hand and the other, a gallon of milk. The one with the sack showed promise. Her long espresso-colored hair flickered in the wind. It reminded him of flames from a forest fire fighting its way across acres of trees. He waited for her to say goodbye to her friend and then placed his binoculars on the seat next to him. His palms expelled an oily substance that spread until they were both drenched with sweat. The time had come.

  Sam grabbed an unused diaper from the passenger seat and pushed his car door open. At the same time, the woman unlocked her passenger side door and bent down and placed the sack of groceries on the seat of her car. She was too preoccupied to hear him approach.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  The woman retracted out of the car and turned and faced him.

  “Do I know you?” she said.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said with a crooked smile, “but do you know how to change a diaper?”

  She looked at the diaper in his hand and then back at him.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “My sister asked me to watch my nephew for a few hours, and I can’t seem to get the darn thing on right.”

  He angled the diaper in the direction of his car.

  “My car’s right over there,” he said. “Do you think you could help me?”

  The woman hesitated and studied the man’s car for a moment and then shrugged her shoulders.

  “I really need to get home,” she said.

  The man smiled, but not just any smile. It was one he’d practiced in the mirror over and over again until it conveyed what he needed it to—trust me.

  “It will only take a minute,” he said.

  They walked over to Sam’s car, and he was careful to remain a few paces behind her. He glanced over his left shoulder and then his right. All was still, and since the store closed in five minutes, he was certain it would remain that way. He watched the woman peek through the window of his car and relished the startled look on her face when she didn’t see a baby. With a perplexed look, she turned and faced him.

  “Where’s the—”

  The man reached into the front pocket of his hoodie with all the calmness of a drug addict who’d just smoked a bag of weed and pulled out a needle and inserted it into her shoulder. In an instant her body went limp and she sagged into him.

  Happy anniversary, he thought to himself.

  ***

&nbs
p; When he arrived home, Sam pulled the woman out of the trunk of his car and placed his hands in the small of her back and tossed her over his right shoulder. Her exposed thigh pressed against the flesh on his face, and he felt her body quiver. It made him feel alive again. The way she looked at him when he opened the trunk and gazed down on her reminded him of a fawn, but she didn’t move or make a sound. He was a little disappointed by this; he’d expected more of a challenge.

  Sam opened the door to the basement, hauled the woman downstairs, and walked past his bottle collection. For the first time since she regained consciousness, the woman tried to scream, but it was muffled by the tape he’d secured over her mouth. He stopped for a moment and turned toward the shelves and patted the side of her leg.

  “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” he said. “Do you see that row there at the bottom? There’s nothing on it now, but in a week or two, it will be all filled up.”

  The woman twisted her body and thrashed from side to side and tried to release herself from the tight grip he had on her.

  Sam just snickered and said, “That’s more like it.”

  He entered a side room that was adorned with a single motif in mind—plastic, and he laid her body across a white padded board in the center of the room. He secured her into the wrist and ankle restraints and then removed the duct tape from her lips.

  “There now,” he said, “that’s better.”

  A tear trickled down the side of her face, and he took his finger and brushed it away.

  “Now, now. There’s no need for that,” he said.

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  He smiled and ran his hand through her hair.

  “You have beautiful hair,” he said. “It’s so soft. So well taken care of; I admire that in a woman.”

  “Please don’t hurt me,” she said. “I’ll do whatever you want. If you want money, it’s yours, and I won’t say anything to anyone, I promise.”

  It was the same plea he’d heard time and time again. A last ditch effort from a terrified woman who’d pledge anything to save herself. He lifted his pointer finger and placed it in the center of her lips.

  “Shhh,” he said. “I need you to hold still for me. Nod if you understand.”

  She didn’t move.

  “I asked you to nod if you understand,” he said. “It isn’t polite of you not to respond, especially since you’re a guest in my house.”

  She bobbed her head up and down and another tear escaped from her eyelid.

  “This next part is going to hurt for a moment,” he said, “but I find it’s best to get it over with.”

  TWO DAYS LATER

  CHAPTER 2

  I pushed the shower curtain aside and lunged for my cell phone which had been ringing off and on in a consistent pattern for the past several minutes. Whoever it was really wanted to get a hold of me. I checked my phone and had two missed calls—one from Nick and the other from Maddie. They both seemed burdened by something, and Maddie was on her way over, but she wouldn’t say why.

  I stepped out of the shower and dried off and walked into the living room. A news reel ran across the bottom of my television screen with information about a homicide. I grabbed the remote and jacked the volume up. The female reporter on the screen was situated in front of a grocery store in Kimball Junction. She wore an ill-fitted pastel suit and enough makeup to last her for the rest of the week. The look on her face was grave and told a story all its own.

  “This is Kennedy Price reporting from KRD news,” she said. “In the early hours of the morning, a jogger discovered the body of a woman about ten feet from where I stand now. The police haven’t released many details, and no names have been made public, but what we can tell you is the victim was a female in her late twenties or early thirties, and it’s being reported that she had long, dark hair. Many of our viewers will remember the brutal, sadistic murders of several young women that took place right here in Park City a few short years ago. The killer, who went by the self-proclaimed name Sinnerman, was never caught, which leads us to wonder—”

  She paused a moment and put her finger on the earpiece that was latched to the side of her ear and then continued.

  “We’ve just received word that the victim’s name is Phoebe Summers. She was a married mother of two young girls and a long time Park City resident. From what we’ve just learned, she had the trademark letter S carved into her wrist with what police believe to be a knife. Unless it’s some kind of copycat killing, it appears the Sinnerman murders have started up again.”

  A text popped up on my phone from Maddie:

  Almost there, don’t turn on the TV, okay? I need to talk to you first.

  It was too late for that.

  The news anchor changed to a male with a glossy bald head, and the topic of murder was replaced with a segment on grilling steaks the right way which didn’t seem like an appropriate segue after they’d just terrified every brunette alive within an hour radius.

  I switched the television off and sat down on the sofa. Lord Berkeley, A.K.A. Boo, woke from his slumber and scooted his furry white body next to me and propped his head up on my pant leg. I stroked him and thought about Gabby and how long I’d waited for this day to come.

  A sound echoed from my front door with an accompanying noise like someone was slapping the palm of their hands against it—repeatedly.

  “Sloane, you in there? Open up.”

  I unlocked the door and yanked it back and was met with a flushed and tired Maddie, who clung to my door like she’d just sprinted in the 100 yard dash. Her blond hair was in its usual pigtails, and she wore a ribbed lavender tank top with a white one beneath it and a pair of jean shorts with the insides of the pockets sticking out the bottom. From the look of her, one would never guess she’d been alive for more than three-and-a-half decades.

  “I saw the news,” I said.

  She threw her arms around me and squeezed—hard.

  “Are you alright? I’ve been worried about you all day.”

  “I will be once I get more information about the woman who was murdered,” I said. “Did they bring her to you?”

  She nodded.

  “Have you examined her yet?” I said.

  “They called me out to the scene when she was discovered.”

  “So what do you think—is it him?” I said.

  “We should talk about this when I have more information. My main concern right now is you and how you’re dealing with all of this.”

  Maddie and I had known each other for almost twenty years and over that time I had learned to decipher a lot of things about her, including when she was keeping something from me.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I said. “You were the ME on this case the first time around, and I expect you are again, which means if anyone has first-hand knowledge, it’s you.”

  “I want to ask you something¬¬—let’s say it turns out to be the same sick wacko who murdered your sister a few years ago, what are you going to do?”

  “Whatever it takes, you know that,” I said. “You’ve known me long enough to realize that I won’t stop this time until he’s caught. And if you have any information that would help me succeed in that venture, I need to know what it is, so don’t hold out on me.”

  We walked over to the couch and sat down. Maddie dug into her Chanel bag and pulled out a piece of gum and popped it into her mouth. Some people smoke to relieve tension, but not Maddie. Gum was her form of nicotine. She lounged back and propped her hands up behind her head and stared at the ceiling for a moment and then looked over at me and sighed.

  “Alright, here’s what I know. The victim was female and around the same age that your sister was when she was taken, give or take a few years. And she was killed in a similar way—she had the same bruises in the shape of fingers on the sides of her neck and her hyoid bone was fractured.”

  “What about the pressure he used, did it resemble what you found last time?”

  She no
dded.

  “It’s the same,” she said. “He predominately uses his right hand to strangle his victims, and the fingerprints have the same inconsistency. The prints on one side of her neck are smaller and there are only three of them, like he only uses a few fingers from that side of his hand. It’s something I’ve never been able to figure out.”

  “I always assumed he had some kind of deformity,” I said. “Did he umm—”

  “Rape her?”

  I nodded.

  “No.”

  The more she went on and on about the victim, the more it resembled the other killings.

  “Bound?” I said.

  “Yep—there were bruises on one of her wrists and both ankles.”

  “What about the symbol on the wrist?” I said. “The news reported the deceased woman had knife wounds.”

  “She had the same three slashes in the shape of an S.”

  “Or more like a backwards Z after he carves his signature,” I said.

  “And she had one gash by her upper thigh that spanned about three inches.”

  “That’s one thing I’ve never understood. Why a single cut on the leg of one victim and several on another?” I said.

  Maddie shrugged.

  “There was one difference this time”, she said. “He didn’t sever all the fingers from one of her hands like he did in the first round of killings; the vic’s entire right hand was missing.”

  “He’s becoming more aggressive,” I said.

  “Or he’s a copycat.”

  I shook my head.

  “I don’t think so. My guess is that he’s bored with the fingers and needs an even bigger thrill. To slice their fingers off isn’t good enough anymore.”