Cheryl Bradshaw - Sinnerman

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 strikes 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?”