Sinnerman

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  CHAPTER 32

  Giovanni stood in the corner of the room in my office. With his pointer finger and thumb he stroked his chin a few times and eyed the profile of Sinnerman on my wall.

  “Quite the collection you have here. You’ve been at it awhile.”

  “I created it a few weeks after my sister died,” I said.

  “I can imagine how much this means to you, and I’m grateful you felt comfortable enough to share it with me.”

  I rose from the chair at my desk and walked over and stood next to him.

  “I wanted you to see this because what I am about to tell you—well, let’s just say I have my doubts anyone will believe me, but I thought if I had you in my corner…”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m not sure the right man is in custody,” I said.

  “Even after the evidence they found?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve been to his house, and something doesn’t add up,” I said. “It was a wreck, and from the profile I created and what we know of him, I believe he’s organized, almost to a fault. I looked into the eyes of the guy they’ve got locked up, and I’m confident they’re not the eyes of a killer.”

  Giovanni absorbed what I had to say and then looked at me for a moment like he wasn’t sure whether I was finished or not.

  “What else?”

  “He doesn’t make mistakes,” I said. “His crimes are orchestrated in such a perfect way that never once has he left behind any indication of who he is: not a print, not a drop of blood, nada. Until now we’ve had no indication about who this guy is, and yet I’m expected to believe that within a twenty-four hour period, a killer who always covers his tracks leaves evidence in his car that his neighbor just happens to find and then attacks a woman in broad daylight who gets the best of him and manages to flee the scene?”

  “Do you know what first attracted me to you?” he said.

  This caught me off guard. I brought him to my office to discuss Sinnerman, not feelings.

  He continued. “You’re a bright woman, Sloane Monroe. You take the time to look at things from all angles. You see the things others can’t and go far beyond the evidence that’s presented to you. Most people only scratch the surface, but not you. And that’s a rare quality in a woman.”

  “Do you believe me?”

  “I believe in you, and that’s enough for me.”

  The conversation had taken a turn for the awkward, to say the least. I’d never been great at being showered with compliments. To make it even more intense, he hadn’t taken his eyes off me. It threw me off balance. He seemed to sense this and said, “What can I do to put your mind at ease?”

  I smiled. Now we were getting somewhere.

  ***

  A short time later, I sat on a cheap tan metal chair in a dingy grey room that had no adornment of any kind. The man accused of the Sinnerman murders sat across from me. I gazed at him, and he stared down into his lap. Even though he didn’t look at me, I could tell he was scared. His face was pale, his shoulder blades were arched inward, and his frame was weak, like someone who hadn’t slept for days. From what I’d been told, he hadn’t spoken to anyone except his lawyer, and his lawyer had yet to make a statement.

  “Do you know who I am?” I said.

  He didn’t flinch.

  “You should. You’ve written me several notes, remember?”

  Silence.

  “No? Let’s see if I can jog your memory then,” I said.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a slip of paper and slid it over to him.

  “Recognize it?”

  His eyes scanned the paper, but he didn’t move. I gave him a moment and then reached over and took it back. Now that I had his attention, or at least some of it, I upped the ante. With my pointer finger, I inched a photo over to him. And we had movement. He glanced at it and shuttered and then shielded his face with his cuffed hands, just like I thought he would.

  “That’s a picture of my sister,” I said. “Taken right after her body was found.”

  “Get it away from me,” he said.

  I reached over and flipped the photo over and rested it on the table in front of me.

  “Is that better?” I said.

  He nodded and looked up at me, flashing a pair of sweet baby blues. “Thank you.”

  I nodded but didn’t utter a word. I hoped he would talk. He didn’t. I waited.

  A few minutes went by and he said, “I saw you at the station the other day. You a cop?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why are you here then,” he said, “is it because of your sister?”

  I nodded.

  He looked around the room like he was afraid someone would eavesdrop on our back and forth banter, which was an accurate assumption, and then leaned in toward me.

  “I’m sorry about your sister,” he said. “I don’t know how her hair got in my car. I swear I don’t. But I didn’t do it. I’ve never hurt anyone.”

  I slouched back in my chair and closed my eyes and breathed. When I opened them I said, “I know you didn’t do it. I don’t know if I could sit across from you like this if you did.”

  He shifted his eyes and they reflected something I hadn’t seen in them before—hope.

  “Wait—what?” he said.

  “That photo I showed you of my sister was taken over three years ago, and her hair wasn’t found in your car. That was hair from the two most recent victims. Tell me something,” I said, “if you’re innocent, and I believe you are, why haven’t you said anything to the cops?”

  “I was afraid I’d say the wrong thing, and just make it worse.”

  “How much worse can it get?”

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “But my lawyer said not to talk unless he was present, so I didn’t. Besides, I didn’t think anyone would listen to me anyway. They all think I did it.”

  “What do you know about the case?” I said.

  “Not much. I only moved here about six months ago.”

  “Is there any reason you can think of that someone would frame you for the murders?”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t even know many people here yet. I haven’t been here long enough to make enemies, not that I do anyway.”

  “Why did you move here?” I said.

  “I got a waiter position at a new restaurant in town.”

  “Seems like a long way to go to be a waiter.”

  He shook his head.

  “You don’t understand. One of the best chefs in the country works here, and he said he’d let me work under him on my days off.”

  “What’s your name?” I said.

  “Ryan Saunders.”

  I stood. “Well, Ryan Saunders, my name is Sloane. Let me see what I can do to help you.”

  “What makes you think you can?”

  I grabbed the door and turned the knob and looked back at him.

  “Watch and see.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Giovanni and his brother were in the hall when I exited the room. His brother wasn’t smiling.

  “He didn’t do it,” I said. “He doesn’t fit the profile, and if you studied it long enough, you’d know that.”

  He wasn’t amused.

  “Lots of serials don’t fit the profile; that doesn’t mean it’s not him,” Agent Luciana said.

  “I’m telling you, this guy isn’t the killer. He just about catapulted off his chair when I showed him Gabrielle’s picture.”

  “I know, I saw,” Agent Luciana said.

  “Then you’re aware of how inconsistent that is from typical behavior. Put this photo in front a serial killer, and they won’t even flinch. They’d lean in for a closer look and then ask if they could keep it.”

  “Or it’s all just an act.”

  “Nothing about it seemed staged to me.”

  “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t,” Agent Luciana said.

  “Lock him away then,” I said. “And when the real killer str
ikes again, and he will, don’t call me to help you cover your ass.”

  “You’re overstepping,” Agent Luciana said.

  “And you can’t see what’s right in front of your face.”

  “So maybe the guy didn’t kill your sister. That still doesn’t account for the hair and the photos that were found in his car. How do you explain that?”

  “Easy,” I said. “They were planted. It’s not like that kind of thing hasn’t happened before.”

  Giovanni, who up until that time seemed amused by the back and forth banter between us, turned toward his brother and placed his hand on his shoulder.

  “If she says it’s not him Carlo, I believe her.”

  “Since when do you let a woman cloud your judgment Gio?” Agent Luciana said.

  “Never,” Giovanni replied. “What does that tell you?”

  CHAPTER 34

  Sam Reids watched the news on the television unfold. A reporter announced a man had been arrested and was being held for questioning in the Sinnerman murders. Sam was delighted by this and proud of his latest coup. Everything worked out just the way he wanted. He relished the thought of it and hoped tomorrow would afford him the opportunity he needed to secure his grand prize. The wait was almost over. In the meantime, he needed to tend to a different matter.

  Sam climbed into his car, revved the engine a few times and drove six miles away to the local gas station. It was dark out when he arrived, but in the pale glow of the street light, he could make out her frail frame which blended in with the shadows of the monstrous trees next to her.

  “Took you long enough,” she said when he exited the car.

  He glared at her but didn’t speak.

  “You got my money?” she said.

  Sam lifted his wallet from his back pocket, opened it, and took out a series of bills and held them out to the woman. She stared down at the money he presented to her with a foolish grin on her face. The money called out to her like the drugs she couldn’t resist, and she didn’t fight it. All she wanted to do was grab it and stuff it inside her leopard-patterned bra. She reached her hand out and wrapped it around the top of the bills and pulled back. Sam tightened his grip and clutched the money tight in his hand.

  “What gives?” she said.

  In a whisper, he said, “First I want to know how the other day went.”

  “I did what you said.”

  He gripped the money tighter.

  “Details.”

  “Alright, fine. I went to the station at the time you told me to, and when the guy came out of the room with those cops all cuffed and everything, I told them he was the one who attacked me. And then they had me come into a room and give them a statement.”

  “And did they believe you?”

  “The vultures ate up every word of it,” she said.

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s it,” she said.

  “And the cops were the only ones you spoke to?”

  “Just one other person, but it wasn’t a big deal.”

  Sam’s nostrils flared, and he balled both hands into fists but was careful not to strike.

  Through gritted teeth he said, “I told you not to speak to anyone else.”

  “There wasn’t nothin’ I could do about it. She just started talking to me and wouldn’t shut up.”

  “She—who?”

  “Some woman who sat by me in the waiting room before all the drama went down. Said her name was Simone, I think.”

  Sam felt his body temperature fluctuate, and a sensation of hot and then cold coarse through his veins. His face perspired, and both hands exuded tiny beads of moisture.

  “Was it Sloane?”

  “Oh hey yeah, that was it,” she said. “How’d you know?”

  Sam sealed his eyes shut and tried to suppress the rage that had built in his body. He thought about how nice it would be to kill her—right then, right there. But after a moment, he assured himself that it didn’t matter. Sloane wouldn’t be able to figure things out—she couldn’t.

  “What did you say to her?”

  “Why do you wanna know?” she said.

  “What did you say!”

  The woman took a step back from the man. She didn’t like the look on his face. It reminded her of the way her father looked at her when she was a child, just before she felt the sting from the back of his hand.

  “Geez, calm down,” she said. “It was no big deal. She was just concerned about me and wanted to know what happened.”

  “You said what we went over and nothing more?”

  “Yeah, just like you said.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She gave me one of her cards,” she said. “And she told me to stop by her office. But that was before the guy came out of the room and things got crazy.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “What?” she said.

  “The card.”

  “Why?”

  Sam’s patience had crossed the finish line. He flashed the bills in front of her face.

  “You want the money,” Sam said. “Give me the card.”

  She shrugged and shook her head.

  “Alright then,” she said.

  Sam gave her the money in exchange for the card.

  “Remember,” he said, “there’s more to come after you testify. A lot more. But keep your mouth shut and stick to the story.”

  The woman nodded.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said. He didn’t respond so she persisted. “This guy is guilty, right? ‘Cuz he just didn’t look like the type of person to do all those horrible things.”

  Sam was halfway to his car when she finished. He turned and said, “Nice dealing with you Trisha.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Right outside Park City is a mountain range along a dirt-filled back road that’s overspread with towering trees and wildflowers in all sorts of shapes and sizes. If you stand in a certain spot trees are all you see for miles and miles. Hiking was one of my favorite things to do in the whole world, especially on a day like today. The morning dew was still on many of the flowers, and the air had an aroma that was fresh and new, like the smell of rich Earth when I plunged my spade into the dirt and planted my summer garden. I often thought it was what a tropical rainforest must smell like.

  Lord Berkeley kept pace alongside me until he spied a butterfly, and then he was off to capture it. I reached the top of the hill I’d climbed and took a deep breath in and absorbed every bit of beauty that embraced me on all sides. It was times like this when I realized just how much everyone was connected to each other in one way or another—good and evil, young and old; we all shared a part of ourselves with the universe in which we all lived. And yet, we were all so different from one another.

  I thought about Sinnerman and what kind of a life could have driven him to the madness that came with his decision to take a life, or in his case, several lives. I’d studied the profiles of other killers before him, but I never grasped what must have gone through their minds the second they killed for the first time and took their first life. And that wasn’t the only thing that plagued me. The more I studied the lifestyle, the more I came across the same thing—their troubled childhoods. It wasn’t always the case, but in many instances it was, and I wondered what would have become of them had they been raised in an environment different than their own; one where they were engulfed in love. Would it have changed them from the beasts they’d later become?

  I didn’t know what I would do when I came face to face with him one day. The hatred I had burned so deep within me all I could think about was seeing him dead. I pictured it in my mind over and over again. I wondered if I would be able to hold back if I ever had the chance to put an end to his wasted life. Would I take it or would I let him go—it was the one question that haunted me every day.

  Halfway back to my car, I heard a sound. A twig snapped and then another. Lord Berkeley’s head shot up, and he backed up to me until his backside touched the fron
t of my pant leg. He gnashed his teeth and sounded off a series of warnings, but the wooded area had gone quiet around us.

  “Come on, Boo,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  He looked up at me and then canvassed all sides of the woods and then gave me a look that indicated we were clear for takeoff. We made it back to my car and I opened the door. Lord Berkeley hopped in and I shut him inside and then circled around to the trunk and popped it open. I tucked the bag of pinecones I’d collected to the side and then pushed the lid down.

  I grabbed the door handle and heard someone approach from behind. I turned just in time to see a needle plunge toward my neck. I swerved and felt it brush the side of my face when it forced its way by me, but it didn’t connect. The man who held it was dressed in a black hooded sweatshirt which he had up over his head. The tassels were tied in a bow under his chin. A blue ball cap peeked out under the hood, and his eyes were shielded by glasses that made him look like an oversized wasp. It didn’t matter how many precautions he took to conceal his identity; I knew who he was.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lord Berkeley inside the car trying to scratch his way through the window. I planted both feet into the soil beneath me, regained my footing and aimed my left foot straight for an area a man resists injury the most. Upon impact the needle shot out of his gloved hand into the air and twirled around in circles before it stuck to a branch on the tree; fluid still remained inside of it. I ran to my car, whipped the door open and went for my gun. He sprinted after me, but once he saw what I held in my hand, he turned and made a mad dash to the nearest thicket of trees. I fired off a shot, and his squeal echoed around me. His hand gripped his shoulder—he’d been hit. It wasn’t where I intended to get him, but at least it connected, and now the hunter had become the hunted. I was the predator and he was my prey.