Stay of Execution (16 page)

 

Chapter Forty-­Seven

“H
E WASN'T THERE.”
Talbot shoved his phone in his pocket as the two men walked to the car. The campus was quiet, the specter of the dead coed keeping many students in their dorms.

Cancini's steps slowed. “Any sign he'd been there this morning?” Throughout the first investigation, Spradlin had never run away, but met everything head-­on.

“Coffeepot was still warm. We've got a team parked outside the house and a second one searching in town. Best we can do without a warrant.”

“Why not get—­”

“Don't start, Mike. We don't have enough to get a warrant. The official line is we're asking questions—­that's it. After we find him, we can decide if a warrant is justified.”

“You won't find him if he doesn't want to be found,” Cancini said, reflecting on the man he'd known during the first wave of crimes. He hadn't changed.

Talbot slid into the driver's seat. “You don't have much faith.”

Cancini closed the passenger door. “Spradlin's not your average guy. He's smart, really smart.”

“Maybe. But he hasn't been in the real world in a long time.”

“Doesn't matter. He'll be found when he wants to and not before.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I went to see him yesterday.”

The FBI man froze. “I see. Should I even ask?”

“I didn't break any rules. I was only paying my respects.”

“Your respects. Ri-­ight.”

They maneuvered through the police blockade, leaving the large bluestone buildings and manicured grounds behind. In town, the trees burst with red and gold leaves, the fall colors dazzling under the brilliant sun. Main Street had been subtly revitalized in the years since Cancini had been gone. Thriving shops and charming stores stood where buildings had once been run down. Anyone driving into Little Springs could not fail to see the beauty. It was picturesque, pure.

Cancini opened the door, breathing in clean, crisp fall air. The heat of the Indian summer had finally waned. He looked at the FBI man over the roof of the car. “Something about the body, the death, is different this time.”

Talbot's face was grave. “The beating?”

“Yeah, that and the way her neck was broken.”

“We don't have an official cause of death.” They walked toward the squat brick building on the corner. “I think we need to wait for the coroner.”

“Fair enough.” Cancini looked down the street. A black and white was parked at the corner, and another Little Springs cop strolled the sidewalk. “Things are escalating.”

Talbot looked at Cancini. “Okay. Let's say I agree with you. Things are escalating. Knowing it doesn't help anyone stop it from happening.”

They climbed the stairs to the second floor. Cancini filled two mugs with coffee and brought them into the office. He set the steaming mugs on the desk and pulled up a chair. “Do you know what always struck me as odd about those first murders?”

“No,” Talbot said, folding his hands together on the desk. “But I'm sure you're going to tell me anyway.”

Cancini blew on his coffee and stretched his legs. “In every case, the cause of death was spinal shock, a broken neck. They were clean breaks, done in such a way that each of the girls died quickly. The M.E. said it was two to three minutes max.”

“So?”

“So a broken neck doesn't guarantee death. It doesn't always kill a person. You could break your neck and be paralyzed but still live or even recover if the spinal cord wasn't injured. That's not what happened. Cheryl Fornak and the others, they died almost instantly with minimal suffering.” Cancini set his coffee on the desk. “For that to happen, the neck has to be broken in precisely the right way, and it didn't just happen once. It happened five times.”

Talbot fingered his tie, his eyes on Cancini. “What are you suggesting?”

“The old murders were cold and calculated. Maybe even an afterthought. He knew exactly how to break their necks to kill them. They weren't crimes of passion.”

“I see.” Talbot opened a file on the desk and tapped the thick stack of pages inside. “If I remember correctly, those girls were also beaten. That would imply crime of passion—­if you want to use that description.”

“Okay. How about this? Let's assume those beatings occurred during the rapes when the girls were still fighting. After the rapes, his emotions were spent. That's why the murders were quick, almost efficient. Maybe in his own sick way, he thought he was doing them a favor.”

“A favor.” Talbot shook his head and tossed the pen on the desk. “Mike, even if you're right, what does any of this have to do with today, with either of the recent murders?”

“I think it means that whether it's a copycat we're looking for—­or someone else—­they're growing more violent, more out of control. The violence isn't contained to the sexual assault.” Cancini held up his hand and ticked off one finger. “First, Geri Hallwell didn't die of a broken neck. Instead, for whatever reason, he hit her in the head. But after she was dead, he put his hands around her neck. Why? To tell us that's what he meant to do? To make it look like a copycat?”

“What do you mean by make it look like a copycat?”

“All I mean is it wouldn't be that hard to make it look like a copycat killing without actually being a copycat. You could throw suspicion away from yourself by changing your M.O. just enough.”

Talbot groaned. “Are we back to Spradlin now?”

“Hear me out. I know we need to wait for an official cause of death, but it was nothing like the original murders.” He held up a second finger. “Second, Amanda Thompson was beaten badly. Worse than the other girls. Her face and upper body looked as though he used her as a punching bag. Three, he nearly ripped her head from her neck. Even if the cause of death was the same, how it was done was different. There was nothing clean about the way her head was hanging off that bench.”

“Because with the other girls, it was quick?”

“Right.”

“Copycat but not copycat.”

“Right again.”

Cancini sipped his coffee. “Our man is extremely angry. The violence is getting harder to control.”

“Is that your medical opinion?” Talbot's face was grim, his voice tight. “Dammit, Mike. This is about Spradlin again.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Talbot tapped the pen on the desk and stared at Cancini. “Fine. I'll bite. What are you thinking?”

Cancini shifted in the chair, pulling in his legs. “Spradlin was in jail a long time. That couldn't have been easy in a place like Red Onion. And all that time in solitary . . . he was already difficult, manipulative, maybe even a sociopath.”

“You don't know that. He isn't guilty of anything.”

“That we can prove.” Talbot shook his head, but Cancini ignored him. “He plays with ­people, Derek. That press conference wasn't only aimed at the locals, it was scripted for the media.” Julia's face came to mind. He suspected Spradlin was playing with her, but he didn't know how or why. “Maybe waiting twenty-­odd years to die in a maximum security prison made him angrier than he's letting on. Who knows what kind of man he is now? His mother died while he was locked up. No one in this town will have anything to do with him. You saw that at the press conference. He's alone. No friends. There's anger—­something—­I know it.” He paused, giving voice to one of the theories that made his head pound and his shoulders ache. “Think about it. Outside of us, nobody knows the details of this case better than Spradlin. If someone wanted to play at copycat, who better?”

“Revenge? You think he's getting even?” Talbot asked, lines etched between his brows.

The question was not an easy one to answer. Spradlin was smart and manipulative. That hadn't changed. Prison hadn't broken him. But it could have brought violent tendencies, long repressed, back to the surface. It could have done things to him they didn't understand. Cancini ran his hand over his face, rubbing the dark stubble on his cheeks and chin. “I wish I knew, Derek. I wish I knew.”

 

Chapter Forty-­Eight

J
ULIA HAD KEPT
her promise. It had taken all her willpower not to bombard Ted with questions, but he'd left after only a few minutes anyway. He was shaken, pale and jittery. Sipping decaffeinated coffee, he ate little and left quickly. She was packing up her laptop when Nikki slid into his empty seat.

“Who was that?” the young girl asked.

Julia smiled. She liked the girl's direct nature. “Already practicing to be a reporter?” Blushing, Nikki apologized. “It's okay,” Julia told her. “That was Mayor Baldwin. He's mayor of Little Springs.”

“Oh. That's why he looked familiar.”

“Probably. He's also the great-­grandson of the guy who founded Blue Hill. His family still has a large house on campus. He doesn't live in it, though. He lives in town. I think the house is used for visiting professors or something.” Nikki said nothing. Her eyes shifted from Julia's to the door. Ted was long gone. “So, will you go home tomorrow?”

A shadow passed over the girl's face. “No. I'll stay.”

“I thought they were closing the campus.”

The girl shrugged. “I have a friend I can stay with in town. She's a day student and lives at home. I'll crash at her place.”

Julia eyed the girl. “Home that bad?”

“It's not good,” she said and slid out the seat. “I didn't know her name before today, but that girl they're saying was killed—­Amanda Thompson—­she came in here pretty much every day.”

Julia nodded. It was the second time the girl had been identified by a student. “I'm sorry.”

The girl glanced back at the counter. A handful of kids were waiting in line. “It's okay. Like I said, I didn't really know her.” She shifted her weight, wiping her hands across her apron. “She was here yesterday, same time as you.”

Julia remembered a few students coming in for coffee, but no faces came to mind. “I'm sorry, Nikki.”

Her hands stopped moving and she squared her shoulders. “I don't know if this matters, but she was acting kinda weird. She asked me . . .”

“Nikki,” a male voice from behind the counter interrupted. The line at the counter had grown. The young man was waving a towel at the kids waiting in line. “C'mon! Are you here to work or gossip?”

“I've gotta go,” Nikki said.

“Wait.” Julia reached out and took the girl's arm. “What did she ask you?”

“Nikki! Now!”

The girl pulled away. “I can meet you later. I have a class after I get off work, but I could come to your hotel about five.”

Julia nodded as Nikki backed away. Maybe it was something, maybe nothing. Either way, it had to be more interesting than the stack of diaries she still had to read. “Sure,” she said, “Five is good. I'm at the Little Springs Inn.” As she slid her laptop into her bag, her phone buzzed again.

“What's up, Norm?”

“Wait until you hear this.”

 

Chapter Forty-­Nine

“W
E GOT TWO
hits on the names from the construction company.”

Cancini looked up from the files spread across the worktable. “What charges?”

Talbot read from the notes he'd taken. “We've got a twenty-­six-­year-­old male who served three years for robbery. He's been out two years and has stayed clean as far as we know.”

“What kind of robbery?”

“Broke into a neighbor's house and stole some electronics. Tried to pawn them for cash.”

“Uh-­huh. It's a long way from robbery to rape and murder. What else?”

The FBI man cleared his throat. “The second hit is a man who was accused of rape almost ten years ago.”

Cancini leaned forward. “Convicted?”

“No. According to the report, the initial charge was date rape, but the girl backed out. She didn't go to the police until a ­couple of days later. There was no evidence other than some bruising. She was a student at Blue Hill.”

Cancini nodded. Date rape was hard to prove and the emotional toll of a trial a high price to pay. The girl wasn't the first victim who didn't take the risk, even with the growing awareness of college date rape. “Sounds promising.”

“Maybe. At the time, the kid lived in Staunton and was visiting a friend at one of the Blue Hill fraternities.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“About a year ago, he moved to Little Springs for the job. Since then, there's been a traffic incident that escalated into a full-­blown fight. Witnesses disagreed on who was the first to throw a punch, so both men were arrested. But again, no felony conviction. According to the report, our man had only minor injuries. The other guy had a broken nose and ribs.”

“So, suspected sexual assault and a hot temper.”

“Looks that way. Both men are being questioned later today.”

“Can I sit in?”

“I don't know if that's a good idea.”

“I won't say a word.”

Talbot hesitated, then shook his head. “Sorry. I'm sticking my neck out already.”

There it was again. He was an outsider in the investigation whether he liked it or not. It was more difficult than he'd thought it would be. He changed the subject. “Forensics has the button?”

“Yeah,” Talbot answered, relief in his voice. Cancini realized he'd been right not to push to sit in with the construction workers. “Marshall doesn't hold out much hope for prints, though. If she ripped it off his shirt, her fingers would be the last to have touched it. She would have smudged his prints. The best we can hope for is a partial.”

Cancini frowned. Although he'd come to the same conclusion, it was also the only physical evidence they had connecting them to the murderer. The girl had died with that evidence clutched in her hand. As she fought for her life, she was trying to help them. “There's gotta be something.”

“There is,” Talbot said, reading from his notes. “It's a four-­hole mother-­of-­pearl button, one-­eighth inch thick, typically found on custom shirts. Threads found on the button were a hundred percent cotton, high quality. They were light blue.”

Cancini picked up his coffee and took a long swallow. “Custom.” He had no idea what mother-­of-­pearl was exactly, but he was pretty sure none of his shirts had those kinds of buttons.

“Which means the button came off a shirt that was tailor-­made for the perp.”

“Okay.” Cancini tapped his long fingers on the table. His ex-­wife had tried to get him to a tailor once, telling him he needed to “upgrade” his wardrobe. He'd refused and disappointed her once again, unable to justify the expense on a detective's salary. Of course, not long after that, she upgraded herself, trading him in for his captain. “So our guy didn't buy his shirts at Sears. He liked to dress, and we can assume he wears custom shirts of high quality.”

“Apparently.”

“Doesn't sound like something a construction worker could afford.”

“No, it doesn't.”

“That narrows the pool a bit.”

“True,” Talbot agreed, “but it still includes a lot of ­people. I have three custom shirts myself. One of them is blue.” Cancini raised an eyebrow. “Gifts from the wife.”

“Right. Sure.” Cancini drained the rest of his coffee, hiding his smirk behind the mug. “Still, there aren't that many ­people around here wearing expensive shirts. This is a mostly rural community.”

“Yeah, maybe a few local businessmen might have them. And some professors I'd guess. Not a huge number.” Talbot paused, then said, “We can't rule out that our guy might not be from around here. A copycat can be from anywhere.”

“He's from around here. Both bodies were specifically placed. He knows the area.”

Talbot seemed to consider Cancini's point. While the first girl was probably not meant to be found immediately, there was no doubt the second was intended as a statement. The courtyard where her body had been left would have been teeming with students by eight o'clock in the morning. Even a casual observer could have figured that out. “Maybe.”

Cancini leaned back on the hard wooden chair. “Are there any custom shirt shops in town?” Most of the men in Little Springs wore khakis, jeans, work-­style pants, and casual shirts. On Sundays, folks dressed for church, but even then, only the wealthier men in town wore suits or button-­down shirts and blazers. On campus, professors ranged from casual to formal. He tried to calculate how many men would fall into the latter group.

“No. A local would have had to go to a bigger town.” Talbot tapped his phone. “We've got a short list within a hundred-­mile radius. The closest is Harrisonburg. There are several in Richmond, too.”

Cancini nodded. Talbot would have each of those stores canvassed. They would match the names of clients with locals as well as customers who might have previous convictions of assault. He had no doubt they would be thorough.

His mind drifted to another man, a man who'd stood on the steps of the courthouse, gazed out at a hostile mob, and offered forgiveness. That man had spoken softly, nearly causing a riot with his words. He'd worn no tie, but the suit and shirt had been well-­cut for a man who had just spent half his life in prison. In fact, he'd looked more like a magazine ad than an ex-­con. The detective cleared his throat. “Can we find out what kind of wardrobe they gave Spradlin when he left prison?”