Sinnerman (13 page)

There was a time when I thought Nick knew me so well, but no one had ever come close to what I’d experienced with Giovanni in such a short amount of time. I looked around and noticed everyone had started to clap and had stood up and gathered their blankets, and I realized the concert was already over. I stood with Giovanni and then bent down and grabbed a corner of the blanket.

He placed his hand on my wrist. “Leave it,” he said. “Someone else will take care of that.”

The drive home was spent in an uncomfortable silence, for me anyway. Giovanni seemed content and had a permanent smile on his face for the entire ride. I couldn’t help but wonder what he thought of my overshare, and I was surprised I’d reminisced over a past I tried hard to forget. Once again I came away with little more information about Giovanni than I already knew about him. It was a disappointment.

We reached my house and Giovanni shut the car off and reclined back in his seat and gazed at me, which gave me the impression he wanted to continue our little chat. I didn’t.

“I need to say something,” I said.

“Go on.”

“I know it’s a sign of respect to open the door for a woman, but it’s too much. Please don’t take it the wrong way, but I can manage my own door from now on.” And with that, I opened the car door and got out and closed it behind me.

Now what?

Giovanni exited his side of the car, and when I turned to see how he’d taken what I just said, his hand was over his mouth and all I could see was his backside.

“Are you laughing at me?” I said.

“I’m sorry.”

“What’s so funny?” I said.

“You are.”

“In what way?”

“You are so different.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said.

“I’ve never met another woman quite like you.”

We walked up the path that led to my front porch, and when I glanced in his direction, he still had a look of amusement on his face. I reached for the door and turned.

“What is it that you want from me?” I said.

He cupped his hand beneath my chin and leaned in and stared into my eyes for a moment and then gave me a kiss, but not on the lips—on the cheek of all places, which made me feel like I’d just bid a fond farewell to my brother, if I had one.

“See you tomorrow,” he said.

And with that, he turned and went.

“He kissed you?”

I nodded.

“If you can call it that.”

I felt like a teenager who couldn’t wait to give the scoop to her girlfriend.

“And what did you do?” Maddie said.

“I’m not sure, it all happened kinda fast.”

Maddie and I had just finished jujitsu class and were on our way to her lab. Her eyes were lit up like a sparkler on the Fourth of July.

“Well, did you kiss him back or what?” she said.

“On his cheek? Wouldn’t that seem a bit strange?”

She popped a bubble with the green apple-flavored gum she swished around inside her mouth.

“Girl, you should have slid your face over a few inches and gone in for the real deal. You know he wouldn’t have said no.”

“I imagine one day our lips will make a connection and when they do it will be first-prize-at-the-fair good. But I won’t know for sure until that happens.”

She smacked me on the shoulder, tossed her head back and laughed.

“Good for you,” she said. “I can tell you’re looking forward to it.”

“You don’t think it’s a big deal?”

“Why would it be?”

“I just got out of a relationship a week ago Maddie. Shouldn’t I feel bad or something?”

“Why, because you think it’s too soon?” she said.

“Isn’t it?”

“If he did kiss you, or tried something more—would you regret it?”

I shook my head.

“Well then, there’s your answer,” she said.

“Maybe you’re right.”

“I need to meet this guy though. Then I can tell you how I really feel.”

We arrived at the lab and went in. Maddie walked over to her desk and opened a file.

“Okay, this is what I wanted to show you,” she said.

“What am I looking at?”

“Hair follicles.”

“These were found in the suspect’s car, right?”

She nodded.

“They’re an exact match to the last two victims,” she said.

“I can’t believe it.”

“It proves they were both in his car.”

“More than that,” I said. “We have our killer.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I took a close look at the hair found in the car, I noticed something unusual,” she said. “It’s just a minor thing—but it’s been on my mind. Usually when hair is found like that, it’s a secondary transfer.”

“Meaning?”

“A piece that’s fallen out on its own and attached itself to whatever is there—the seat, fibers in the carpet, a floor mat,
etc.
If the hair falls out naturally the root has a club shape which is easy for me to see. If the killer yanked it out on the other hand, the root is stretched and sometimes broken. Neither applies to the strands of hair I tested.”

“Are you suggesting they might have been planted?” I said.

“All I know is, both strands of hair had been cut like he used scissors to remove the individual pieces.”

“He never did that with any of his victims. Why would he start now, and why leave just a few strands of cut hair in the car? That’s sloppy—careless, and it’s not like him at all.”

I left the lab and placed a call to Giovanni.

“I need a favor,” I said.

“Name it.”

“I want the address of the guy they have in custody for the Sinnerman murders.”

“You heard the news then?”

“I just left Maddie’s lab,” I said.

“Can you hold on a minute?”

I held for about a minute and a half and then Giovanni returned to the line.

“525 Spruce Street,” he said. “In some condos. Number nine. Should I ask why you want it?”

“Better if you didn’t.”

I thanked him and ended the call. By now I was sure everyone at the station had broken out the champagne to celebrate the capture of Sinnerman. But even with the evidence stacked a mile high against him, I had to be sure.

***

The door at 525 Spruce Street #9 was unlocked, which was convenient, and at present no one was there. I expected forensics had already come and gone along with Park City’s finest. I knocked just in case he had roommates or a wife, but no one answered, so I went in. The living room was cluttered with all kinds of newspapers, magazines, and wadded-up computer paper that rested on the cheap blue plush carpet.

In the corner of the room was a fish tank that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a while. A guppie floated upside down at the top. The walls in the room were adorned with posters from what I presumed were his favorite bands: The Grateful Dead, The Doors, and The Rolling Stones. The sink in the kitchen was full of dishes with hardened food stuck to them, and when I opened the fridge, it was barren except for a couple beers and a few to go boxes.

I felt a strange sensation in my leg and jerked back. A fluffy grey cat that was the width of three cats leapt onto the counter and eyed me curiously. I reached over and lifted her off the counter and stroked her thick fur. “What’s your name then?” I said. She nuzzled up against me and purred, and then I released her back on the floor. She turned and walked down the hall toward a bedroom. I followed. It was the only other room in the house besides a Cracker Jack-sized bathroom. The queen-sized bed was hoisted up on a set of cinder blocks but there was no comforter of any kind, only grey sheets and a single black blanket. On the nightstand were a stack of comic books and the only sign of organization in the entire house.

Overall the place was trashed. The guy lived like a hermit with almost no possessions to speak of which made me wonder: if he liked to take Polaroid pictures of the women, where was the camera? And on top of that, where were the little mementos he kept; as grizzly as they were, there was no sign that anyone had ever been brought here. Could he have taken the women somewhere else? I didn’t know how that was possible; it seemed he couldn’t even afford his current residence. And what if it wasn’t him—why did he have photos of the women in his car, and how did the hair get there?

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.”