Stacy had called for a cruiser and let the officers escort the Tin Man to the Eighth. Now, she sat across the scarred up interview room table from him. Patterson stood by the door. She swept her gaze over him. Legal name Charlie Tinnin. Had a record, though nothing hardcore. Silver smeared by sweat and blood, cleaned away from the nasty gash on his chin and sidewalk burn on his right cheek. The doc who’d taken a look at both had pronounced him fit for questioning. “Charlie,” she flipping through his file, “you have a record. Surprise, surprise.” “I didn’t do anything.” “Except run. Why’d you run, Charlie?” “Cuz I don’t like cops. No offense.” She’d heard that one before. “You sure that’s the reason, Charlie?” She waited. He frowned. “You sure it doesn’t have something to do with Jillian Ricks?” “What about Jillian?”
