Cheryl Bradshaw: Sinnerman

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 nodded.

“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.”