Cheryl Bradshaw: Sinnerman

“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.”

Maddie leaned forward and took my hands in hers and rested them on her knee.

“You want to know something?” she said. “I’m proud of you.”

“For what?”

“I violated about a hundred traffic laws on my way here, and the whole time all I could think about was how I was going to break the news to you that this creep could be back, and then I get here and you’re calmer than I am.”

“I’ve had time to deal with it,” I said.

“Well, if it’s him, we’ll know soon enough.”

I leaned toward Maddie.

“Oh it’s him alright. He’s back—and he’s killing again.”

CHAPTER 3

My front door rattled like a herd of elephants prepared for a stampede were pressed against it.

“What the hell?” Maddie said.

I stood and Maddie shot up from her position on the sofa and stepped in front of me.

“Allow me,” she said.

She walked to the door and glanced out the peephole.

“Solicitors?”

“Worse,” she said. “Reporters.”

“News travels fast.”

“How do you want to handle this?” she said.

I walked over to the door.

“If I don’t talk to them, they’ll just hound me until I do.”

She raised her pointer finger in front of my face and wagged it in a swirl pattern.

“Oh no you’re not,” she said.

“Maddie, I’m fine. I can deal with it.”

“So can I,” she said.

And with that she twisted the knob on the door and flung it open and then walked out and slammed it behind her. I pulled back the curtain in my front entrance and got ready for the show to begin.

“Listen up, people,” Maddie said. “Sloane won’t be giving any interviews today or any other day. And you all should be ashamed of yourselves for being here. She doesn’t deserve to have to relive what happened in the past so you all can have some silly little story for your five o’clock news or your paper. You’ve got ten seconds to back the hell off her property or I’ll call the cops. Your choice.”

The stunned crowd remained unmoved until Maddie began the countdown.

“Nine, eight, seven…”

A male reporter segregated himself from the pack and approached her. His pants were baggy and he was in serious need of a belt, and the t-shirt he wore looked like he’d used it for a napkin—multiple times. He sized her up and snickered and then turned his palm up and held it out like he was a traffic cop that had just initiated a halt in movement.

“Look lady, you can’t do nothin’, and we don’t have to leave,” he said. “If you don’t get out of the way, I’ll move you. We’ve got every right to be here so why don’t you turn your little rah rah buffalo stance around like a good little girl and go back into the house and get Miss Monroe for us, okay?”

He’d just made a big mistake and he didn’t even know it. Maddie yanked her cell phone out of her pocket and pressed some numbers and spoke loud enough for those who were brave enough to remain to hear.

“Chief Sheppard, this is Madison. I’m at Sloane’s and we’ve got a situation. A bunch of reporters have blocked her front entrance and she can’t get out. They have also taken to yelling obscenities since she won’t come out of her house, and I’m worried about her safety.”

The reporter’s forehead wrinkled in about five places and he shouted, “What the…you little liar!”

Maddie paid him no mind and continued.

“Thanks, I’ll expect them in ten,” she said, and then she ended the call and shoved her phone back in her pocket and gave the man the Maddie special—an icy stare with everything on it.

“What’s your name?” she said to him.

He failed to respond and instead, he backed out of the driveway in a brisk manner and turned toward the street.

“Your name,” she said, louder. “What is it!”

He pretended like he didn’t hear her and kept on truckin’. She reached in her pants pocket and pulled out a bill and hoisted it into the air.

“Twenty dollars for the person who gives me his name right here, right now.”

The remaining crowd scattered like there was a one hour clearance going on at Macy’s and within a matter of seconds most of the onlookers were gone, except for one. She wasn’t dressed like the other women in their uptight skirts, suit jackets and nude nylon stockings with colored pumps that looked like they’d been in their closets since the eighties. She wore a simple short-sleeved sweater and a pair of jeans and aimed her eyes toward the ground while she spoke.

“His name is Tim Wallace,” she said. “Will you tell Miss Monroe I’m sorry if I’ve upset her by being here?”

I opened the front door.

“What’s your name?” I said.

She looked up and over at me.

“Kelly Price.”

“How long have you been a reporter?”

“This is my first assignment. I don’t even have a list of questions like everyone else. I just wanted to talk to you. They already have the paper set to run tonight, but I was told if I could get a statement from you of any kind, they’d move things around somehow and put you on the front page. I just have to be back there within the hour.”

I motioned with my hand and she walked over to me.

“Come inside for a minute,” I said.

I glanced at Maddie, and she looked back and nodded and stayed in position. I couldn’t have asked for a better protector of the realm.

I closed the front door and turned to the reporter.

“Let’s sit for a minute,” I said.

She walked over and sat on the edge of the sofa, and I positioned myself in a chair across from her. Lord Berkeley scampered around the corner and, sensing there was an intruder in his midst, brandished a mouthful of clenched teeth.

The reporter folded her arms over her knees and leaned back on the couch.

“Your dog—is he umm, going to attack me?” she said.

I shook my head.

“He just wants you to know he’s aware of your presence.” I patted the corner of my chair with my hand. “Come here, Boo.”

He hopped up on the chair and rested his head on my thigh but didn’t take his eyes off the intruder.

“Who do you work for?” I said.

“The Park City Beat. They wanted me to write an article about your sister so I drove over to talk to you, but I had no idea so many people would be here.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll give you the article you want if you agree to print one thing for me.”

She smiled and reached into her shoulder bag and retrieved a pen and a pad of yellow-lined paper.

“Name it.”

“To be honest, I’m not interested in an article that rehashes what I went through a few years ago,” I said. “I want you to send a message to the killer for me.”

Her eyes widened like they’d been propped open with toothpicks.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life,” I said.