…
The girls got $700 a night.
Roark took 300 for himself.
No official contracts, no receipts.
Everything was decided verbally, money was handed over from hand to hand.
If something went wrong, and sometimes something did go wrong, Roark solved the problems his own way.
He had connections in the police, acquaintances in criminal circles, money for bribes.
The girls knew that Roark would protect them if necessary, but they also knew that he would punish them if they broke the rules or tried to work around him.
“Write down the address.
” Roark handed her a piece of paper torn from a notebook.
On it, in careless handwriting, were numbers and the name of a street somewhere in the east of the city.
“The client will be waiting for you at 10:00 tonight.
Dress appropriately, not like you’re going on stage.
He doesn’t like vulgarity.
Be calm, don’t ask unnecessary questions, do your job, and leave.
Understood?” “Understood,” Amelia replied, tucking the paper into her robe pocket.
“And be careful,” Roark added, picking up the phone again.
“I don’t want any trouble.
The police have been cracking down lately, checking everyone.
If something goes wrong, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me.
Clear?” “Clear.
” “Then go.
You’ll be on stage soon.
” Amelia got up and left the office, closing the door behind her.
She returned to the dressing room, took off her robe, and hung it on a hook.
Lorna, her friend, was sitting in front of the mirror, painting her lips with bright red lipstick.
“What did the boss want?” she asked, without looking away from her reflection.
“Work for tomorrow,” Amelia replied curtly.
Lorna nodded without asking any questions.
She also sometimes went to such meetings, although less often than Amelia.
Lorna was still not entirely used to this side of the job.
She felt uncomfortable and told herself each time that it would be the last, but she needed the money too much.
Amelia checked her makeup again, fixed her hair, and left the dressing room.
Ray was already standing at the entrance to the hall, waiting for her.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Ready.
” The music hit her ears as she entered the hall.
Heavy beats, electronic sounds, bass notes that made the walls vibrate.
The hall was about half full, 30, maybe 40 people.
Men sat at tables, sipping whiskey, beer, sometimes tequila.
Some smoked, despite the official ban on indoor smoking, but the security guards turned a blind eye.
Smoke hung in the air in gray clouds.
The lighting was subdued and reddish, with the spotlights on the stage shining the brightest.
Amelia walked across the hall, feeling the eyes on her.
Some followed her with interest, while others paid no attention, continuing to drink and talk to their neighbors.
She climbed onto the podium in the center of the hall.
The stage was small, round, with a pole in the middle.
The spotlights hit her face, blinding her for a second.
The music grew louder as the DJ played a new track.
Amelia began to move slowly, smoothly, feeling dozens of eyes on her.
It was familiar, almost mechanical.
Her body knew what to do, how to bend, when to slow down, when to speed up, how to work with the pole, how to take off her clothes so that it looked seductive, not cheap.
She didn’t think about the dance, didn’t feel the music.
She was just doing her job.
Her head was occupied with other thoughts.
Tomorrow’s meeting, the money she would receive, the bills that needed to be paid, the car that had started acting up again.
The dance lasted 7 minutes.
When the music stopped, Amelia gathered a few bills from the stage, mostly 10s and 20s, 150, and disappeared behind the scenes.
The dressing room was empty.
Lorna had already gone on stage, and the other girls had dispersed to their booths with clients.
Amelia wiped the sweat from her forehead, drank some water from a plastic bottle, and sat down in front of the mirror, looking at her reflection.
30 years old, 6 years in this club.
How much longer could she work like this? A year? Two? Five? She tried not to think about it.
A knock on the door brought her back to reality.
It was Ray again.
“Amelia, you have a private dance,” he said.
“Room number three.
The client is already waiting.
” She sighed, got up, put on her robe, and headed for the VIP area.
Private dances brought in more money, $150 for half an hour, and sometimes clients left tips, but they required more energy.
Here, she had to do more than just dance.
She had to create the illusion of closeness, of intimacy.
Smile, look into his eyes, talk, touch, allow him to touch her within certain limits, pretend to be interested, even if the client was repulsive.
It was part of the job, and Amelia had learned to do it.
The VIP area was located at the far end of the club, behind a heavy velvet curtain.
There were six booths, each with a soft sofa, a table, dim lighting, and adjustable music.
Booth number three was in the corner.
Amelia stopped in front of the door, took a breath, and opened it.
A man was sitting on the sofa.
Amelia recognized him immediately, and her heart skipped a beat.
Tyrone Cadwell.
They had met a month ago, maybe a little more.
Roark had arranged a meeting at a hotel on the other side of town.
Tyrone paid $700, spent the night with her, left another 100 tip in the morning, and left.
He behaved calmly, even politely, didn’t ask unnecessary questions, didn’t demand anything strange.
Amelia didn’t think she would see him again.
Usually, clients didn’t come back, or they came back a few months later when they wanted to repeat the experience.
“Hi,” said Tyrone.
There was no warmth or joy in his voice, only some kind of tension, anger.
“Hi,” Amelia replied, entering the booth and closing the door behind her.
“I didn’t expect to see you.
” Tyrone was silent.
He looked at her with a heavy, almost angry gaze.
His hands were on his knees, clenched into fists.
His jaw was tense, his breathing heavy.
Amelia sensed that something was wrong.
Usually, clients in private booths were relaxed, excited, sometimes drunk, >> [music] >> but Tyrone was angry, very angry.
“Would you like a dance?” she asked, trying to keep her voice calm.
“Dance,” he muttered.
Amelia turned on the music using the panel on the wall.
A slow, sensual melody filled the booth.
She took off her robe, hung it on a hook, and began to move, slowly, smoothly, trying to understand what was happening to this man.
Tyrone sat motionless, his eyes fixed on her.
His fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
Amelia approached him, turned her back to him, and began to slowly lower herself.
Standard movements, rehearsed thousands of times.
But Tyrone did not react.
He just stared, and there was hatred in his eyes.
Suddenly, he jumped up from the sofa.
Amelia didn’t have time to react.
Tyrone grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her hard against the wall.
Her back hit the hard surface, and the air was knocked out of her lungs.
Tyrone loomed over her, his face contorted with rage.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” he shouted, shaking her shoulders so hard that her head banged against the wall.
“Do you know what you’ve done, you bitch?” Amelia tried to break free, to push him away, but he was stronger.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she shouted.
“Let me go!” “You don’t know?” His voice broke into a scream.
“You infected me! You infected me with everything you could! I went to the doctors.
They found a whole bunch of STDs in me.
It’s all because of you, you whore!” He swung and hit her in the face.
It was a hard blow with his right hand from a swing.
Her head jerked to the side, sparks flashed before her eyes.
The taste of blood filled her mouth.
Tyrone swung again, but the cubicle door burst open with a crash.
Two security guards rushed in and grabbed Tyrone by the arms.
They were massive men who had been working at the club for several years.
They habitually twisted Tyrone’s arms behind his back.
He resisted, tried to break free, and continued to scream.
“She infected me! Can you hear me? That [ __ ] infected me! She’s sick! She infects everyone she sleeps with! Check her out! Check that creature out!” The security guards dragged him to the exit.
Tyrone resisted, but they were stronger.
His voice grew quieter and quieter until it faded away completely behind the door of the hall.
Amelia sank onto the sofa, pressing her hand to her cheek.
Her face was burning, her ears were ringing, and her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her temples.
Her hands were shaking.
A minute later, Ray peeked into the cubicle.
He assessed the situation at a glance.
Amelia on the sofa, traces of blood on her lip, her hair disheveled.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Amelia nodded without looking up.
Her voice was stuck in her throat.
“Go see the boss,” Ray said.
“He wants to talk.
” [music] Right now.
She slowly got up from the sofa, her legs buckling.
She took her robe, threw it over her shoulders, and tied the belt.
She left the cubicle.
The hall was noisy, music was blaring, customers were talking and laughing, but Amelia couldn’t hear anything.
All she could hear in her head were Tyrone’s words.
She infected him.
She knew it.
She had known for 2 months.
Amelia walked through the hall, oblivious to the music and the people around her.
Her face still burned from the blow, her lip was swollen.
She reached Roark’s office and pushed the door open without knocking.
Emmett Roark was sitting at his desk, the phone pressed to his ear.
When he saw Amelia, he quickly ended the call and hung up.
His face remained calm, but his eyes studied her intently.
Her disheveled hair, the traces of blood on her lip, her trembling hands.
“Sit down,” he said, pointing to a chair.
Amelia sank to the edge of the seat.
Roark opened a desk drawer, took out some napkins, and handed them to her.
“Wipe your face.
” She took the napkins and wiped her lip.
The white paper turned red.
Roark leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.
“What happened?” he asked in an even tone.
“Why did that guy attack you?” Amelia looked up.
Her heart was pounding, and Tyrone’s words echoed in her head.
But she couldn’t tell the truth.
She couldn’t admit that she knew about her illnesses and continued to work.
Roark would fire her immediately, and worse, he might tell the other club owners.
She would never be able to find work anywhere else.
“I don’t know,” she said, trying to make her voice sound convincing.
“He started yelling about some diseases, accusing me, but I hardly remember him.
We met a month ago, just once.
I didn’t infect him with anything.
I swear.
I don’t understand what he was talking about.
” Roark looked at her intently, trying to figure out if she was lying or not.
For a few seconds, the office was silent, only distant music from the hall penetrating the walls.
“Have you had a medical examination?” he asked.
“Yes,” Amelia replied quickly.
“6 months ago, everything was fine.
It was a lie.
The examination was two months ago and the results were disastrous.
But Rourke didn’t check the reports or demand regular tests.
Her words were enough for him.
“All right?” he finally said.
Security threw him out.
He yelled at the top of his lungs, but then he calmed down and left.
“I don’t think he’ll be back.
If he does, we won’t let him in.
The meeting tomorrow is still on.
You have the address and the time.
Don’t let me down.
” Amelia nodded.
“You can go home.
” Rourke added.
“Don’t go on stage again today.
Get yourself ready.
” She got up and left the office.
The hallway seemed even darker than usual.
Amelia walked to the dressing room and pushed the door open.
Only Lorna was inside, sitting in front of the mirror and removing her false eyelashes.
“My god, what happened to you?” Lorna jumped up and came over to her, taking her hand.
“Your face!” “Ray said some crazy guy attacked you in the dressing room.
” “Is that true?” “It’s true.
” Amelia replied quietly, sinking into a chair.
“One of the customers.
” “He just went crazy.
He was shouting some nonsense and hit me.
” Lorna sat down next to her and put her arm around her shoulders.
“Maybe you need to go to the hospital.
Let the doctors take a look.
You might have a concussion or something.
” “No, it’s okay.
” Amelia shook her head.
“Everything’s fine.
I just want to go home.
” “Then I’ll go with you.
” Lorna said firmly.
“I’ll walk you home.
You shouldn’t go alone right now.
” Amelia wanted to refuse, but Lorna had already started gathering her things, taking off her stage costume, and putting on jeans and a t-shirt.
Amelia also changed, putting on a simple black t-shirt and the same jeans she had worn to work.
They left the club through the back door, bypassing the hall and security.
It was dark outside.
The streetlights burned dimly, casting long shadows.
The air was warm, but not stuffy like it was in the club.
Lorna lit a cigarette and offered one to Amelia, but she declined.
“Are you sure you don’t know why he attacked you?” Lorna asked, exhaling smoke.
“I don’t know.
” Amelia repeated.
“Maybe he has mental problems.
There are a lot of crazy people out there.
” Lorna nodded, but didn’t ask any more questions.
They reached the intersection where Lorna had to turn in the other direction.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you home?” Lorna asked again.
“No, it’s okay.
” Amelia tried to smile, but her lip immediately hurt.
“I only have two blocks to go.
Everything will be fine.
” Lorna hugged her goodbye and walked toward her apartment.
Amelia was left alone.
She continued down the empty street, past closed shops, garages, and a gas station with a single light on.
A man with a dog walked by, paying no attention to her.
A car drove by, flashing its high beams for a second.
Amelia walked and thought about what had happened.
Tyrone had yelled that she had infected him.
He was right.
She knew it.
Two months ago, she had decided to get tested after experiencing strange symptoms, itching, burning, discharge.
She went to a clinic on the other side of town where no one knew her, where she could get tested anonymously.
The results came back a week later.
The doctor, an elderly woman with a tired face, looked at her and said in a calm, almost indifferent tone that she had several sexually transmitted diseases.
The doctor wrote prescriptions, explained what medications to buy and how to take them, and warned that the treatment would take several weeks.
She said that sexual contact should be avoided until complete recovery.
Amelia took the prescriptions, left the clinic, and went to the pharmacy.
There, she found out the price of the medications.
Almost $800 for the full course.
$800 she didn’t have.
She could have saved that amount in a month if she had given up all her expenses and not paid for her car.
But she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Instead, she kept working.
She danced at the club, went to meetings with clients, and earned money.
She knew she was infecting people.
She knew and did nothing.
She told herself she would start treatment next week, then in two weeks, then in a month.
But the money went to rent, food, gas, clothes, and small things.
[music] She never managed to save up the $800.
Now, one of the people she had infected had turned on her.
Tyrone could sue her.
He could go to the police.
He could tell everyone who she really was.
Amelia felt fear tighten her throat.
But there was nothing she could do.
She could only hope that Tyrone would calm down and forget about it.
That he wouldn’t take it any further.
She reached her home, an old two-story building with peeling plaster and rusty balconies.
She went up to the second floor, opened the door to her apartment, and went inside.
The room was dark and quiet.
She turned on the light, went to the kitchen, and poured herself a glass of water.
She drank it in one gulp.
Then she went to the bathroom and looked at her reflection in the mirror.
Her lip was even more swollen and a bruise was beginning to show on her cheek.
She washed her face with cold water, dried herself with a towel, and lay down on the bed without undressing.
The night was restless.
Amelia hardly slept.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Tyrone’s face contorted with rage, heard his screams, felt his hands squeezing her shoulders.
She woke up several times in a cold sweat, grabbed her phone, and checked the time.
At 4:00 in the morning, she finally gave up, got up, made coffee, and sat by the window, looking out at the empty street.
The morning came slowly.
The gray dawn penetrated the room through the dirty windows.
Amelia drank another cup of coffee, took a shower, and covered the bruise with foundation, although it hardly helped.
The day passed in dreary anticipation.
She tried to watch TV, but couldn’t concentrate.
She tried to read, but the words blurred before her eyes.
At 6:00 in the evening, she began to get ready for work.
She put on a short black dress, high-heeled shoes, and applied makeup to hide the marks from the blow.
Everything was as usual at the club, music, customers, girls in the dressing room.
Lorna asked how she was feeling and Amelia replied that she was fine.
Rourke didn’t call her into his office.
She went on stage twice and danced three private dances.
Everything went smoothly.
By the end of her shift, she felt a slight sense of relief.
Maybe everything would be okay.
>> [music] >> Maybe Tyrone wouldn’t come back, wouldn’t make a fuss.
Maybe she could earn some money, start treatment, fix [music] everything.
Her shift ended at half past midnight.
Amelia got changed, said goodbye to Lorna, and left the club through the back door.
The street was quiet and empty.
The streetlights cast a dim yellow light on the asphalt.
She walked home along the same road as the day before, past the gas station, past the closed garages, past the empty intersections.
The streets were deserted.
Occasionally, a car drove by, but most of the windows in the houses were dark.
Amelia walked quickly, almost running, her shoes tapping on the asphalt.
She wanted to get home quickly, lock herself in her apartment, lie down in bed, and forget.
She turned onto her street and walked past several houses.
She was about 100 m from her home.
Suddenly, she heard the sound of an engine behind her.
Amelia turned around.
A van was slowly driving down the street, white, old, with rusty sides.
It was approaching, neither speeding up nor slowing down.
Amelia continued walking, paying no attention.
The van pulled up alongside her and stopped.
The side door swung open.
Three men in dark clothes and masks covering their faces jumped out of the van.
It all happened in seconds.
Amelia tried to scream, but one of them covered her mouth with his hand.
Another grabbed her arms and a third grabbed her legs.
She tried to break free, struggling, but they were too strong.
They lifted her up and dragged her into the van.
The door slammed shut.
The engine roared and the van sped away, disappearing into the night.
It was dark inside.
Amelia couldn’t see the attackers’ faces, only their silhouettes.
Someone tied her hands behind her back.
Someone else stuffed a rag in her mouth.
She couldn’t scream, couldn’t move.
The van sped through the city, swerving around corners.
She was thrown from side to side.
Only one thought pulsed in her head.
They’re going to kill me.
They’re going to kill me right now.
But that didn’t happen.
The van drove for another 20, maybe 30 minutes.
She couldn’t say for sure.
Then it stopped.
The door opened again.
Amelia was pulled out and stood on her feet.
The cold night air hit her face.
She tried to see where she was, but all she could see was darkness, some silhouettes of buildings or trees, she couldn’t tell.
Then someone pushed her hard.
She fell, hitting a hard surface, concrete or asphalt.
Pain shot through her shoulder and knees.
Masked figures leaned over her.
One of them leaned closer, and she could feel his breath.
He said something, but the words didn’t register in her mind.
Then she saw him raise his hand, and something flashed in it.
A knife.
Her last thought was Tyrone’s name.
And then darkness came.
The call came into the Las Vegas Police Department at 6:37 am A road worker checking the condition of a car bridge on the outskirts of the city had discovered a woman’s body.
He called the emergency services, his voice trembling as he described what he had seen.
12 minutes later, patrol officers arrived at the scene, followed 20 minutes later by detectives from the homicide division.
Amber Flynn and Carson Woodruff had been working together for 5 years.
Amber was 38, a short woman with short dark hair and sharp eyes.
She had been with the police for 16 years, the last eight of which had been in the homicide department.
During that time, she had seen so many dead bodies that she had long since stopped counting them.
Carson was 4 years older, 42, tall, strongly built, with graying temples.
He had joined the police immediately after the army and couldn’t imagine doing any other job.
They made a good team.
Amber saw details that others missed, and Carson knew how to talk to people so that they would open up.
They arrived at the scene in an unmarked sedan.
The bridge was on the outskirts of town, where the buildings ended and the wasteland began.
It was an old concrete bridge that once carried a river, but now there was only a dry riverbed overgrown with weeds.
Cars rarely crossed the bridge, mostly just trucks heading for the warehouses.
Patrol officers had already cordoned off the area with yellow tape, and two police officers stood at the edge of the bridge, keeping curious onlookers away.
Although there were no onlookers, it was too early, too far from residential areas.
Amber and Carson got out of the car and walked down the slope to where the body was.
The medical examiner was already there, bent over the corpse.
It was Janice Crowley, a woman in her 50s who had worked in the crime lab for over 20 years.
She looked up as the detectives approached.
“Good morning, if you can call it that,” she said in a hoarse voice.
“What do we have?” Amber asked, stopping a couple of feet from the body.
Janice stood up, pulling off her gloves.
“A woman, about 30 years old.
Multiple stab wounds.
I counted at least 15, mostly in the chest and abdomen.
Death was caused by blood loss, presumably between midnight and 2:00 in the morning.
I’ll give you the exact time after the autopsy.
The body was left here, under the bridge.
No attempt was made to hide or bury it.
And this,” she pointed to the victim’s face, “there’s a note in her mouth.
” Amber moved closer and crouched down next to the body.
The woman was lying on her back, her arms spread out to the sides, her legs bent.
Her clothes, a short black dress and high-heeled shoes, were torn and soaked with blood.
Her face was pale, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted.
The edge of a white piece of paper was visible between her lips.
“Did you get it?” Amber asked.
“Not yet,” Janice replied.
“I was waiting for you.
I wanted you to see everything in its original state first.
” Amber nodded.
Carson also approached and stood nearby, his hands in his jacket pockets.
Janice put on a new pair of gloves, leaned over the body, and carefully removed the paper from the victim’s mouth.
It was a small piece of paper, folded in four.
She unfolded it, holding it by the edges so as not to smudge any possible fingerprints.
The words were written in black ink, in block letters.
“You got what you deserved, bitch.
” “Personal,” Carson muttered.
“A revenge killing.
” “Looks like it,” Amber agreed.
“The killer wanted us to know that she deserved to die, at least from his point of view.
” Janice sealed the note in a clear evidence bag.
“I’ll send this to the lab.
They’ll check for fingerprints, handwriting, ink.
Although, unless the killer is a complete idiot, he wore gloves.
” “Does she have any ID on her?” Amber asked.
“Yes,” Janice pointed to a small black purse lying a few feet from the body.
“There’s a driver’s license, a social security card, some cash.
Her name is Amelia Sanders, 30 years old.
Address is East Street, number 47.
” Amber wrote the information down in her notebook.
Carson walked around the body, examining the ground, but found nothing of note.
No signs of a struggle, no dropped items.
>> [music] >> Just the body, the purse, and the note.
“Any witnesses?” Amber asked one of the patrol officers.
“No one,” replied the young policeman.
“A worker found her at 6:30 am while checking the bridge.
No one was here before that.
I questioned the drivers of two trucks that passed by early in the morning.
Both say they didn’t see anything.
” Amber thanked him and returned to Janice.
“When can you perform the autopsy?” “This afternoon.
I’ll send the report by evening.
” “Okay.
We’ll go inform the relatives.
” They went back to the car.
Carson got behind the wheel, and Amber settled into the passenger seat.
She took out her phone and called the station, asking them to run Amelia Sanders through the database.
A few minutes later, they called her back.
Amelia had no criminal record, just a couple of speeding tickets.
The database listed the phone number of her mother, Charlene Sanders, who lived in the same area of Las Vegas.
Amber dialed the number.
The phone was answered after the fourth ring.
“Hello?” The voice was female, sleepy, and dissatisfied.
“Is this Charlene Sanders?” “Yes.
Who’s this?” “My name is Amber Flynn.
I’m a detective with the Las Vegas Police Department.
I need to talk to you about your daughter, Amelia Sanders.
” There was silence on the line.
Then the woman’s voice changed, becoming alert.
“What’s wrong with Amelia? What happened?” “Mrs.
Sanders, I’m afraid I have some bad news.
Your daughter has been found dead.
We would like to meet with you and ask you a few questions.
” Silence again.
Amber could hear the woman breathing heavily.
Then there was a sob.
“Oh my god.
Oh my god, I knew this would happen.
I told her.
I told her so many times.
” “Mrs.
Sanders, can we come to you? Or if you prefer, you can come to the station.
” “No, no, come here.
I can’t go anywhere right now.
” Charlene Sanders gave them the address.
Carson started the car, and they drove across town.
Amelia’s mother’s house was in an old neighborhood with single-story buildings, small yards, and crooked fences.
Charlene met them at the door.
She was a heavy-set woman of about 55, with short gray hair and a face swollen from crying.
She led the detectives into the living room, which smelled of old things and cats.
A ginger cat lay on the sofa, not even deigning to glance at the visitors.
“Tell us what happened,” Charlene asked, sinking into an armchair.
“How did she die?” Amber sat down opposite her, while Carson remained standing by the window.
“Her body was found this morning under a bridge on the outskirts of town.
We suspect foul play.
Mrs.
Sanders, I know this is difficult, but we need to ask you a few questions.
” “When was the last time you saw or heard from Amelia?” Charlene wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Two weeks ago.
She came by to ask for money.
I gave her $100.
That was all I had.
She said she’d pay me back, but I knew she wouldn’t.
She never did.
” “Do you know where she worked?” Charlene smiled bitterly.
“I know.
She worked at a strip club, Red Lantern, I think it was called.
I told her it was dangerous, that she was getting involved with the wrong people, but she didn’t listen.
She said she was making good money, that it was temporary.
” “Temporary?” “She worked there for 6 years.
” “Did she have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?” “I don’t know.
” Charlene shook her head.
“She didn’t tell me anything about her life.
We hardly talked.
In recent years, she only came when she needed money.
I tried to talk to her, but she brushed me off.
She said I didn’t understand anything.
” “Did she live alone?” “Yes.
She rented an apartment on East Street.
Alone.
No husband, no children.
She lived as she wanted, never denying herself anything.
And now this.
God, why?” Amber wrote everything down in her notebook.
Carson moved closer.
“Mrs.
Sanders, you said your daughter led a disorderly life.
What did you mean by that?” Charlene looked up at him, her eyes full of pain.
“She slept with anyone.
I don’t know the details, but she talked about it herself.
She said she needed money, that she was doing what she had to do.
I tried to stop her, but what could I do? She’s a grown woman.
She was a grown woman.
The detectives asked a few more questions, took down her contact information, and promised to keep Charlene informed about the investigation.
When they left the house, Carson lit a cigarette.
A strip club, random connections, murder with a note.
Everything points to personal revenge.
Yes, Amber agreed.
We need to go to that club, talk to the owner, the victim’s colleagues.
Maybe someone knows something.
They got in the car and drove to the Red Lantern.
The club was half an hour’s drive from Charlene Sanders house.
During the day, the place looked even shabbier than at night.
The neon sign was not lit, the paint on the walls was peeling, and the windows were covered with metal bars.
The detectives parked at the entrance and went inside.
The door was open.
There was no one in the hall except for a cleaning lady washing the floor and a middle-aged man sitting behind the bar looking through some papers.
When he saw the detectives, he looked up.
“We’re closed,” he said.
Amber took out her badge.
“Police, we need to talk to the owner of the establishment.
” The man got up and approached them.
“I’m the manager, Ray Holmes.
The owner is in his office.
Is something wrong?” “We’re investigating a murder.
Can you call the owner?” Ray frowned but nodded and walked down the far corridor.
A minute later, he returned with a large man in a worn shirt and jeans.
It was Emmett Roark.
“I’m the owner,” he said, extending his hand.
“Emmett Roark, how can I help you?” They introduced themselves.
Roark pointed to a table in the corner of the room and they sat down.
“Mr. Roark, did you have an employee named Amelia Sanders?” Amber began.
“She did.
” Roark nodded.
“For 6 years.
She was a good dancer.
What about her?” “She’s dead.
Her body was found this morning.
” Roark froze, his face unchanged but his eyes alert.
“Dead? How did that happen?” “We’re investigating that.
” “When was the last time you saw Amelia?” Roark rubbed his nose as if trying to remember.
“Last night.
She worked until half past midnight, then she went home.
” “Did she leave alone?” “Yes.
Alone.
The girls usually get home on their own.
We don’t provide transportation.
” “Had Amelia been in conflict with anyone lately? Maybe with clients?” Roark paused, then nodded slowly.
“Yes, there was one incident, the night before last.
One of the clients attacked her during a private dance.
Security pulled him off, but he managed to hit her.
” “Why did he attack her?” “I don’t know for sure.
” Roark shrugged.
“He was shouting something, but I don’t know the details.
Amelia said she didn’t understand what he was talking about.
” Carson leaned forward.
“Do you have surveillance camera footage?” “Yes, we do.
There are cameras in the hall and in the corridors.
I can show you.
” Roark led them into his office, where a monitor connected to the video surveillance system stood on the table.
He rewound the recording to the night before last and found the right moment.
An image appeared on the screen, the hallway near the VIP booths.
The door of one of the booths swung open and two security guards rushed out holding a man.
The man breaks free, shouting something, but there is no sound on the recording.
The guards drag him to the exit.
Amelia follows them holding her face.
“This man,” Roark pointed to the screen, “he attacked Amelia.
” “Do you know his name?” Amber asked.
“No, he’s not a regular customer.
He came in for the first time as far as I know.
” “Did he pay by card?” “I’m not sure.
I can check.
Ray keeps the records.
” Roark left the office and returned a few minutes later with the administrator.
Ray checked the cash register records.
“No, he paid cash, but I asked him to show me his ID when I let him into the VIP area.
I wrote down his name.
Here.
” He handed over a notebook.
“Tyrone Cadwell.
” Amber wrote down the name.
Carson copied the camera footage onto a flash drive.
They thanked Roark and left the club.
“Tyrone Cadwell,” Carson repeated as he got into the car.
“We need to find this guy and talk to him.
He attacked her 2 days before the murder.
It’s too suspicious to be a coincidence.
” “Yes,” Amber agreed, [music] taking out her phone.
We’ll run him through the database and find his address.
Let’s go see him right now.
” Amber called the station from the car and asked them to run Tyrone Cadwell through all the databases.
10 minutes later, they called her back.
“Tyrone Cadwell, 36 years old, driver’s license issued 5 years ago, registered address 123 South Avenue, married, two children, worked as a forklift operator at a building materials warehouse.
No criminal record, only one parking ticket 3 years ago.
” Carson started the car and headed for the address.
Cadwell’s house was in a residential area with single-story houses and small yards.
The street was quiet with mothers pushing strollers on the sidewalks and a few teenagers riding skateboards.
Carson parked at number 123.
It was a small house with faded blue paint on the walls, a cracked wooden porch, and a fence that needed repair.
There was a children’s swing in the yard with toys scattered nearby.
The detectives got out of the car and walked up to the front door.
Amber rang the doorbell.
Footsteps could be heard inside, then the door opened.
Standing in the doorway was a woman in her 30s, short, thin, with long black hair tied back in a ponytail.
Her face was tired with dark circles under her eyes.
She looked at the detectives warily.
“Yes?” she asked.
Amber took out her badge.
“Las Vegas Police.
Are you Rashida Cadwell?” The woman tensed, her hands clenching the doorknob.
“Yes, that’s me.
[music] What’s going on?” “We’re looking for your husband, Tyrone Cadwell.
Is he home?” Rashida smiled bitterly.
“My husband doesn’t live here anymore.
I kicked him out 2 weeks ago.
I don’t know where he is now, and I don’t want to know.
” “Can we come in and talk?” Carson asked gently.
“It’s important.
” Rashida hesitated, then nodded and stepped back, letting them into the house.
Inside, it smelled of baby food and laundry detergent.
The living room contained an old sofa, a coffee table, and a television on a nightstand.
Children’s toys were scattered on the floor, blocks, toy cars, stuffed animals.
Rashida pointed to the sofa and sat down on a chair opposite it.
“What has he done?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.
“Has he gotten himself into trouble again?” “We’re investigating a murder,” Amber said.
“And your husband may be connected to the case.
When was the last time you saw him?” “Murder?” Rashida turned pale.
“Oh my god.
2 weeks ago.
I kicked him out of the house and told him never to come back.
” “Why did you kick him out?” Rashida turned away, her jaw tightening.
“He was cheating on me.
He was seeing escorts, and he got infected with a whole bunch of STDs.
I found out by accident when I started having symptoms myself.
I went to the doctor and got tested.
It turned out that he had infected me, too.
I’m undergoing treatment now.
Thank god our children are healthy.
I found out about it and made a scene.
At first, he denied it, then he confessed.
He said he had slept with some stripper a month ago.
I kicked him out that same day.
I packed his things, threw them out onto the street, and told him never to come back.
” “Didn’t he try to come back?” “He tried.
He came several times, stood at the door, begged for forgiveness.
He said it was a mistake, that he wouldn’t do it again.
But I didn’t open the door for him.
I don’t want anything to do with him.
I’ve already filed for divorce.
” Carson wrote everything down in his notebook.
“Do you know where he might be now?” “I don’t know.
Maybe with his parents, maybe with a friend.
He has a friend, Leon Bryce.
They work together at the warehouse.
Maybe with him.
” “Do you have Leon’s address or phone number?” “I don’t know his phone number, but they live on West Street, number 41.
Tyrone mentioned it once.
” “You said your husband worked at the warehouse.
Does he still work there?” Rashida shook her head.
“No.
He was fired last week.
The boss found out about our fight, about me kicking him out.
He said he didn’t want any problem employees.
Tyrone called me, yelling that it was my fault, that I ruined his life.
I hung up and didn’t answer his calls anymore.
” Amber leaned forward.
“Mrs.
Cadwell, the night before last, your husband attacked a woman in a strip club.
Did you know about that?” Rashida raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“No.
He didn’t tell me anything.
But I’m not surprised.
He’s been acting crazy for the last 2 weeks.
Did he really kill her?” “We don’t know yet,” Amber replied.
“But we need to talk to him.
If he contacts you, let us know immediately.
” She handed Rashida her business card.
The woman took it with trembling hands.
“Okay.
I’ll call if he shows up.
The detectives thanked her and left the house.
When they got into the car, Carson looked at Amber.
He lost his job, his wife, his children.
He attacked a girl in a club.
He clearly had a motive.
Yes, Amber agreed.
We need to find him as soon as possible.
Let’s go to this Leon Bryce’s place.
>> [music] >> Maybe Cadwell is hiding there.
Carson started the car and drove to West Street.
Number 41 turned out to be a two-story building with four apartments.
The detectives went up to the second floor and knocked on the door of apartment number three, where according to the mailbox, Leon Bryce lived.
The door was opened by a man of about 35 with short hair, dressed in work clothes, dirty jeans, and a t-shirt with the logo of a warehouse company.
Yes? He asked looking at the detectives with confusion.
Amber showed her badge.
Police.
Are you Leon Bryce? Yes, I am.
What’s the matter? We’re looking for Tyrone Cadwell.
Is he here? Leon frowned.
Tyrone? Yes, he’s here.
What’s going on? We need to talk to him.
Please call him.
Leon hesitated, then turned and shouted into the apartment.
Tyrone, the police are here to see you.
Footsteps could be heard and a man of medium height and strong build appeared in the hallway with short hair and stubble on his face.
It was Tyrone Cadwell.
When he saw the detectives, he stopped, his face becoming wary.
Tyrone Cadwell? Amber asked.
Yes.
That’s me.
What do you want? We need to talk to you.
Can you come out into the hallway? Tyrone left the apartment, closing the door behind him.
Carson positioned himself to block the staircase in case Cadwell tried to escape.
The night before last, you were at the Red Lantern Strip Club and attacked one of the dancers, Amelia Sanders.
>> [music] >> Is that true? Amber began.
Tyrone crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw tightening.
Yes, it’s true.
I attacked that creature and she deserved it.
Why did you attack her? Because she infected me.
Tyrone’s voice rose.
I slept with her a month ago, paid her a lot of money, and then I started having symptoms.
I went to the doctor and it turned out I had a whole bunch of STDs.
I infected my wife and almost infected my children.
My wife kicked me out of the house and filed for divorce.
I was fired from my job.
My life is ruined and all because of that creature.
Where were you on the night of October 16th to 17th, between midnight and 2:00 am? Carson asked.
Tyrone frowned.
Why are you asking? Just answer the question.
I was I went to see my mother.
She lives in Henderson.
I left in the evening and came back in the morning.
Can your mother confirm that? Yes, of course.
Call her and ask.
Amber wrote down Tyrone’s mother’s phone number.
Carson took out his handcuffs.
Tyrone Cadwell, you are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Amelia Sanders.
You have the right to remain silent.
Anything you say can be used against you in court.
You have the right to an attorney.
Tyrone turned pale.
What? Murder? I didn’t kill her.
I swear I didn’t kill that [ __ ] You can tell us that at the station.
Carson said, fastening the handcuffs on Caldwell’s wrists.
They took him outside and put him in the back seat of the car.
Leon Bryce stood in the doorway of the apartment, watching with a puzzled look on his face.
Carson started the car and drove to the station.
On the way, Amber called Tyrone’s mother.
The woman confirmed that her son had visited her on the night of October 16th to 17th.
He arrived around 11:00 pm, stayed the night, and left at 8:00 am Henderson is a 40-minute drive from the crime scene, Amber said, putting down the phone.
If he left at 10:00 pm and arrived at his mother’s at 11:00, he couldn’t physically have been under the bridge between midnight and 2:00 am We need to check his alibi more thoroughly.
Carson replied, maybe he’s lying.
At the police station, Tyrone was placed in an interrogation room.
It was a small room with gray walls, a metal table, and three chairs.
Amber and Carson sat across from him.
They turned on the tape recorder.
Tyrone, tell us everything from the beginning, Amber said.
How did you meet Amelia Sanders? Tyrone leaned back in his chair, his hands cuffed on the table.
A month ago, I was at the Red Lantern Strip Club.
I just went in for a drink and to look at the girls.
I saw Amelia dancing on stage.
She was beautiful, so I ordered a private dance.
We talked.
She was nice, smiling.
Then the club owner, Emmett Roark, came up to me and said he could arrange a meeting with her outside the club for money, of course.
I agreed.
I paid $700.
Roark gave me the address of the hotel and told me what time to come.
I arrived, Amelia was there.
We spent the night together.
She left in the morning.
Everything was fine.
Roark arranged these meetings? Carson asked.
Yes, he said it was common practice that the girls from the club were escorts earning extra money.
He said it was safe and confidential.
I believed him.
What happened next? Tyrone smiled grimly.
Two weeks later, I started having symptoms, itching, burning, strange discharge.
I didn’t think much of it at first, thought it would go away on its own, but it only got worse.
My wife noticed and started asking questions.
I lied, said it was irritation from new underwear or some other nonsense, but then she started having symptoms herself.
She went to the doctor and got tested.
It turned out she had a sexually transmitted disease.
She demanded that I get tested, too.
I went and the results were terrible.
The doctor said I needed to start treatment immediately, that it could be passed on to our children.
My wife made a scene and kicked me out of the house.
My employer found out and fired me.
My life fell apart overnight.
And you decided to take revenge on Amelia? I just wanted her to answer for what she did.
Tyrone’s voice broke into a shout.
She knew she was sick and continued to sleep with people.
She infected me, destroyed my family, my career.
I went to the club and ordered a private dance with her.
I just wanted to talk, demand that she apologize, that she pay for my treatment.
But when I saw her, when she started dancing in front of me as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t ruined my life, I just couldn’t control myself.
I hit her.
The security guards dragged me out and threw me out onto the street.
I wanted to go back in, but they wouldn’t let me.
Where were you on the night of the murder? I already told you I went to my mother’s in Henderson.
I needed to talk to someone.
I was on the verge of a breakdown.
I arrived late in the evening and stayed the night.
In the morning, I returned to Las Vegas.
I didn’t kill Amelia.
I swear I didn’t kill her.
Amber and Carson exchanged glances.
The detectives left the interrogation room, leaving Tyrone under the supervision of the officer on duty.
In the hallway, Amber called the highway patrol and asked them to check the surveillance cameras on the highway between Las Vegas and Henderson.
An hour later, they got a response.
The recording showed Tyrone Cadwell’s car with matching license plate numbers passing through the checkpoint in the direction of Henderson at 10:15 pm On the way back, the same car passed through the checkpoint at 8:00 am the next day.
The alibi is confirmed, Amber said, putting down the phone.
He couldn’t have killed Amelia.
Physically, he wouldn’t have had time.
So, we need to look for another killer, Carson replied.
But now we know that Roark was organizing escort services.
That’s illegal.
[music] And that gives us leverage over him.
Amber nodded.
Tomorrow, we’ll go to Roark and force him to give us a list of all of Amelia’s clients.
One of them killed her and we’re going to find that person.
The next morning, detectives Amber Flynn and Carson Woodruff returned to the Red Lantern Strip Club.
It was around 10:00 and the club wasn’t open to customers yet.
The door was locked, but through the glass, they could see Ray, the manager, cleaning the bar.
Amber knocked on the door.
Ray looked up, recognized the detectives, and reluctantly came to open it.
You again? He said without enthusiasm.
Roark isn’t here yet.
Then call him and tell him to come immediately, Amber replied harshly.
Or we’ll go to him ourselves, but then the whole neighborhood will know that the police have come to see him.
Ray hesitated, then took out his phone and dialed the number.
He spoke briefly, then hung up.
He’ll be here in 20 minutes.
The detectives went into the dining room and sat down at a table.
They had to wait half an hour.
Emmett Roark appeared at a little after 11:00, wearing a wrinkled shirt and jeans, his face still sleepy.
When he saw the detectives, he frowned.
What is it this time? He asked, approaching their table.
Sit down, Mr. Roark, Carson said.
We have something to talk about.
Roark sank heavily into a chair across from them.
Yesterday we questioned Tyrone Cadwell.
Amber began.
He told us some very interesting things.
For example, that you arrange meetings between your dancers and clients outside the club for money, that the girls are working as escorts, and you get your share of the profits.
Is that true? Roark leaned back in his chair, his face turning to stone.
I don’t have to say anything without a lawyer.
That’s right.
Carson agreed, but we can arrest you right now for running an illegal escort agency.
These are serious charges, Mr. Roark.
You could face 3 to 10 years in prison.
Or you can cooperate with us.
Give us the information we need to investigate the murder, and we’ll talk to the prosecutor about reducing your sentence.
Roark was silent, his jaw tensed.
He stared at the detectives with a heavy gaze, weighing his options.
Finally, he exhaled and nodded.
Okay.
Yes, I arranged meetings.
It was informal, no records.
Everything was verbal.
The clients paid the money, the girls got their share, I got mine.
It’s business.
Everyone was happy.
Was Amelia Sanders an escort? Yes.
She was one of the most sought-after.
She went to meetings once or twice a week.
We need a list of all the clients she met with in the last 2 months.
Amber said.
Roark frowned.
I don’t have any lists.
I told you no records.
Then remember, Carson replied harshly, or we’ll take you away right now, and you’ll remember in a cell.
Roark rubbed his face with his hands, then stood up.
Give me 10 minutes.
He went into his office.
The detectives waited without speaking.
15 minutes later, Roark returned with a piece of paper on which names and phone numbers were written.
Here.
Six people.
That’s everyone Amelia has dated in the last 2 months.
There was no one else.
Amber took the sheet and studied it carefully.
Six names.
Dwayne Colter, Malcolm Reed, Curtis Augustus, Gerald Hopkins, Noel Sanders, Quentin Lamar.
Do you know these people? She asked.
Only by name and phone number.
I wasn’t interested in their lives.
The main thing was that they paid.
Carson stood up and took out his handcuffs.
Emmett Roark, you are under arrest.
[music] You have the right to remain silent.
Roark didn’t resist.
He silently held out his hands, and Carson handcuffed him.
They took him out of the club and put him in the car.
On the way to the station, Amber began calling the people on the list.
The first was Dwayne Colter.
He picked up after the third ring.
Amber introduced herself and explained the reason for the call.
Dwayne said he had been on a business trip to Phoenix all week, including the night of the murder.
The detectives checked his story.
His hotel reservation was confirmed, and the hotel cameras recorded his presence.
Malcolm Reed was also out of town at his uncle’s funeral in California.
His relatives confirmed his alibi.
Curtis Augustus was the third person who was not in town.
He went fishing with friends in Colorado.
His friends confirmed this, as did photos on social media.
Gerald Hopkins was at home on the night of the murder, but he was not alone.
His girlfriend was with him, and they watched a movie until 2:00 in the morning.
His girlfriend confirmed his alibi, and neighbors also saw that he did not leave the apartment.
Noel Sanders worked the night shift at a gas station.
Surveillance cameras at the gas station showed that he was there from 10:00 pm to 6:00 am His alibi was confirmed.
That left one person.
Quentin Lamar.
Amber called him, but no one answered.
She asked to run his name through the database.
Quentin Lamar, 41 years old, married, worked as a mechanic at a car repair shop on the outskirts of town.
His address was 92 North Street.
Let’s go to his place.
Amber said, putting down the phone.
Carson nodded and turned the car around.
Quentin Lamar’s house was in an old neighborhood with dilapidated buildings and abandoned garages.
It was a one-story house with peeling paint, a rusty roof, and a porch covered with cracks.
In the yard stood an old car without wheels, next to which lay auto parts and empty oil cans.
The detectives got out of the car and walked up to the front door.
Amber rang the doorbell.
Voices could be heard inside, then footsteps.
The door opened.
Standing on the threshold was a woman of about 39, overweight, with short hair and a tired face.
It was Chanel Lamar, Quentin’s wife.
Yes? She asked wearily.
Amber showed her badge.
Police.
Are you Chanel Lamar? Yes.
What’s going on? Is your husband home? He’s home.
What’s the matter? We need to talk to him.
Can we come in? Chanel hesitated, then nodded and let them into the house.
It was dark and stuffy inside, smelling of fried food and cigarettes.
A man in dirty work clothes was sitting on the sofa in the living room watching television.
Hearing voices, he looked up.
It was Quentin Lamar, a large man with broad shoulders, short hair, and rough features.
When he saw the detectives, he frowned and stood up.
Who are you? He asked.
Las Vegas police.
Amber replied.
Quentin Lamar? Yes, that’s me.
What do you want? We’re investigating the murder of Amelia Sanders.
Did you know her? Quentin froze, his face tensing.
Chanel, standing nearby, looked at her husband in confusion.
Amelia Sanders? Who is that? She asked.
Quentin didn’t answer, continuing to stare at the detectives.
Mr. Lamar, you met with Amelia Sanders a month ago.
Amber continued.
The meeting was arranged through Emmett Roark, owner of the Red Lantern strip club.
You paid for escort services.
Is that correct? Chanel turned sharply to her husband, her eyes widening.
What? Quentin, what are they talking about? Quentin remained silent, his jaw clenched.
Answer me! Chanel shouted, grabbing his sleeve.
You went to escorts? Chanel, calm down.
He began, but she pushed him away.
Don’t you dare tell me to calm down.
Did you cheat on me? Did you sleep with that [ __ ] Quentin turned away, avoiding her gaze.
It was just once.
I was drunk.
I Once? Chanel punched him in the chest.
You’re a liar.
You’re a dirty liar.
Carson stepped forward, separating them.
Mrs.
Lamar, please calm down.
Mr. Lamar, where were you on the night of October 16th to 17th between midnight and 2:00 am? Quentin hesitated, his eyes darting from side to side.
I was I was at home.
With my wife.
Is that true, Mrs.
Lamar? Amber asked, looking at Chanel.
Chanel looked at her husband with anger and pain.
At home? She squinted, trying to remember.
No.
No, you went out that night.
I woke up around 1:00 in the morning, and you weren’t there.
I thought you were in the bathroom or the kitchen.
But then I heard the front door slam.
You came back 2 hours later, maybe more.
I asked where you’d been, and you said you’d gone out for a smoke.
But you never smoke outside for that long.
Quentin turned pale.
Chanel, I Shut up.
She turned away from him, crossing her arms over her chest.
Just shut up.
Amber and Carson exchanged glances.
Carson took out his handcuffs.
Quentin Lamar, you are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Amelia Sanders.
You have the right to remain silent.
Quentin didn’t resist as Carson cuffed his wrists.
Chanel looked at him with hatred.
Did you kill her? She asked quietly.
Did you really kill that woman? Quentin remained silent, his head bowed.
I hope you rot in prison.
Chanel hissed.
Do you hear me? I hope you die in there.
The detectives led Quentin out of the house.
Chanel remained standing in the doorway, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
They put Quentin in the back seat of the car and drove to the station.
In the interrogation room, Quentin sat silently, staring at the table.
Amber and Carson sat down across from him.
They [music] turned on the tape recorder.
Quentin, tell us what happened.
Amber began in a calm tone.
Did you meet with Amelia Sanders? Quentin was silent.
Minute after minute passed.
Finally, he raised his head.
Yes, I met her.
A month ago.
I paid $700 and spent the night with her in a hotel.
I thought it was just sex, that everything was fine.
But 2 weeks later, I started having symptoms.
Itching, burning, discharge.
I got scared and went to the doctor.
It turned out I had a sexually transmitted disease.
Not just one.
The doctor said it was serious.
That I needed treatment.
I started treatment, but didn’t know how to tell my wife.
I was afraid she would find out that I had cheated on her.
I tried to hide it, but she noticed something was wrong anyway.
She started asking questions.
I denied it, but she didn’t believe me.
Were you angry with Amelia? Yes.
Quentin’s voice rose.
Of course I was angry.
She infected me.
She knew she was sick and continued to sleep with people.
She ruined my life.
I wanted her to pay for it.
>> [music] >> And you decided to kill her? Quentin was silent for a long time, his hands shaking.
Then he nodded.
Yes.
I decided to kill her.
I couldn’t just let it go.
I called two friends of mine and told them the situation.
They agreed to help.
We found out where she worked and when her shift ended.
>> [music] >> We took a van and put on masks.
We waited for her on the street as she walked home.
We grabbed her, dragged her into the van, and took her under the bridge.
There we I He fell silent, his breathing becoming heavy.
Go on.
Carson said, I stabbed her several times.
I didn’t count how many times.
She screamed and tried to break free, but we held her down.
Then she stopped moving.
We wrote a note and stuffed it in her mouth.
We left her there and drove away.
Who were your accomplices? Amber asked.
Tell us their names.
Quentin shook his head.
No, I won’t tell you.
It’s my fault.
I organized everything.
I killed her.
They just helped.
I won’t betray them.
The detectives tried to pressure him, asking questions over and over again, but Quentin remained silent.
He refused to name his accomplices, taking all the blame upon himself.
A week later, the case was handed over to the prosecutor’s office.
Quentin Lamar was charged with first-degree murder with aggravating circumstances.
The trial was quick.
The jury returned a guilty verdict.
The judge sentenced Quentin Lamar to 30 years in prison without the possibility of parole.
Emmett Roark was charged with organizing the provision of escort services.
Taking into account his cooperation with the investigation, he was sentenced to 5 years in prison.
The Amelia Sanders murder case was closed.
Detectives Amber Flynn and Carson Woodruff returned to other investigations, leaving this case in a folder labeled solved.
Disclaimer : This content may be created by AI for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or places is coincidental.
