“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 strikes again, and he will, don’t call me to help you cover your ass.”
“You’re overstepping,” Agent Luciana said.