Stay of Execution (17 page)

 

Chapter Fifty

“H
E'S GOING HOME
today,” Father Joe said.

Cancini stood near the window overlooking Main Street, his head resting against the glass. Talbot had stepped out, giving Cancini privacy for his phone call. His father's release from the hospital was good news. He knew his father was anxious to get back to his own house, his own space. Like his son, he hated hospitals and the nurses and doctors hovering around him.

“Did you call that number I gave you? The one for the home nurse?”

“Yes, Michael. I've arranged for her to start the day shift tomorrow. A wonderful woman from my parish has volunteered to stay nights at the house. She promises he will hardly even know she's there.”

“Good. He's gonna hate having someone in his house.”

The old priest chuckled. “Don't I know it? He's weaker than a newborn babe but wanted to know why he couldn't drive himself home. Stubborn as a mule.”

“Yeah.” Cancini watched Mayor Baldwin walk from his office to the diner, his gait that of a man carrying a heavy burden on his back. His coat jacket was buttoned up. In spite of the warm sun, the air had turned chilly overnight. “I'm sorry I can't be there.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, Michael,” the priest said. “He'll be fine. He is fine. He knows where you are.”

A few of the locals in town had spotted the mayor and surrounded him. One gestured broadly. Baldwin stood and listened without interruption, then nodded and appeared to say a few words. After a few moments, the other man seemed to calm down, shook his head, and walked away.

“You heard the report then?”

“I didn't, but your father did. He told me. Saw it on TV.”

“Oh.” Cancini's fingers tightened around the phone. “What did he say?”

“He said he didn't expect you home anytime soon.”

The words stung. He wasn't there to help his father when he needed him. He closed his eyes. Growing up, he'd blamed his father for shutting himself off, leaving the young Cancini to navigate the loss of his mother and adolescence on his own. Now the tables were turned, and it was Cancini who wasn't there.

Down on the street, the crowd around Baldwin had grown. A uniformed Little Springs officer moved quickly to break it up. Baldwin, to his credit, did not slink away. Cancini sighed. Whatever the detective's original reasons for coming to this small town, the murders of two more girls promised to keep him there. While his father's health was poor, he needed to see this through. To the end.

“He understands, Michael.”

“Sure.”

“He does. He's worried about you, and so am I.”

The door opened. Talbot entered waving a file folder. The detective covered the mouthpiece on the phone. “Yeah?”

“M.E. wants a word with us. Meet you downstairs in five.”

Cancini nodded, grabbing his notebook. “Father, I've gotta go. I'll call you tonight to be sure he got home and everything's okay.”

“That's fine,” the old priest said. His tone was soft, pleading. “Do what you need to do, Michael, and then come home.”

 

Chapter Fifty-­One

J
ULIA LOOKED AT
the words typed across the screen. She'd written as much as she could. The girl's identity had been confirmed, and Norm had broken the news that rumors of a second dead girl were true. She had been found off campus earlier in the week. While the FBI wasn't giving many details, they had verified that both women had been sexually assaulted before they were killed. The similarities to the original cases were chilling.

She'd included these facts along with statements from the university regarding the school closing. Local police and campus police would only repeat the FBI statement. Cancini had not returned her phone call, and Ted was confined to the FBI statement, too. The most she could add to her story was a handful of quotes from students and locals on their reactions to the news. Satisfied she had done the best she could with so little information, she hit send.

The diaries on the table waited. She'd finished the first one in the morning but the stack was still daunting. It looked to be more of the same. She sighed and picked up the second book. Words on the third page made her blink and sit up a little straighter.

I think Leo knows. He won't talk to me and is giving me the cold shoulder. He goes out and doesn't come back for hours. When I ask him where he is, he just stares at me. I'm scared.

Julia read the date for the entry. Leo would have been in high school then. The reporter turned the page.

I don't know how he could know, but now I'm sure. God help me, it was the last thing I wanted for him. I've tried so hard to protect him, but I can see it in his face. He thinks I'm deceitful. He thinks I can't be trusted. He stares at me when I go out, like he doesn't believe me when I say I'm going to work or church or wherever. I'm losing him.

She looked up from the page, her fingers tapping absently. Why would young Leo not trust his mother? Julia thought about what was written in the diaries while the boy was growing up. Brenda's life had seemed to revolve around her son. Other than the one incident in middle school with the bullies, the years seemed to have gone by peacefully. She went to her job at the college and to church on weekends. She didn't seem to have many friends but wasn't a complainer. Was there a boyfriend? Was young Leo angry? Yet, if that was all, his behavior seemed immature and out of proportion. Unless . . . unless it was the identity of the boyfriend that bothered the teenage Leo.

Most of the rest of the diary was limited to Leo's antipathy. He avoided his mother most of the time, but when he didn't, he treated her with derision and scorn. One entry near the end of the book brought Julia to tears.

Today, Leo came to church. I didn't know he was there. I didn't see his head in the crowd. Pastor Williams spoke about the wisdom of choosing a life with Jesus, a life of grace and love. He spoke about our Father's eternal love for us. That we were wrapped in his love even when things were bad, when times were hard, when life was at its bleakest. The Lord our Father would protect us and take care of us. He was eloquent, and I remember feeling a warmth inside at his words. After, I wanted to thank him. I don't usually stop to speak to him, but today, I felt compelled. Only after I got in line did I see him. My son, Leo, was standing behind Pastor Williams, nodding at folks, as though he were there every Sunday of his life. It made me cry when he stopped coming with me after grade school, but he wouldn't budge. “I don't believe in all that stuff, Mom. To me, God is like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. Fakes.” I told him it was different, that God was visible in many places and in many ­people if he looked, but he shook his head. “You go if it makes you feel better. I don't need to look for God in the faces of strangers. I already know.” He was so matter-­of-­fact, so sure, I let it go, hoping he would come back to God later.

Seeing him standing there filled me with joy. Once or twice, Pastor Williams turned and smiled at Leo while I waited. When I got to the front of the line, Pastor Williams took both my hands in his. “Good to see you, Mrs. Spradlin. I hope you enjoyed my sermon today.” I did, I told him. “It was beautiful. Truly inspiring.” Leo had moved right next to the pastor. Their shoulders were touching. I saw Pastor Williams look at Leo, questioning, but Leo kept his eyes on me. “Yes, Mom, it was beautiful. Truly inspiring as you say. It's too bad you're such a hypocrite.”

Pastor Williams gasped. Leo said it quietly. I heard it, and the pastor, but no one else I think. “What do you know about truth and honesty? What do you know about anything, Mom?”

He hates me. My son hates me.

 

Chapter Fifty-­Two

“Y
OU LIED TO
me.” Cancini stood close to the mayor, his voice low.

It had taken ten minutes to corner Baldwin alone. A cluster of reporters had descended on him the minute he entered the lobby. The mayor had stood politely, saying little, sticking to the FBI script, his face the picture of solemn empathy. Deep lines had appeared around his mouth and across his broad forehead. Away from the reporters, his shoulders fell and he moved with lethargic steps.

Baldwin sighed. His suit jacket hung folded over one arm. His loosened tie and unbuttoned collar gave him the look of a man who'd had a long, hard day at the office. “I'm too tired for games, Mike.”

Cancini moved closer, his face only inches from Baldwin's. “But not for playing them.” The mayor sighed again but said nothing. “You told me Spradlin called you from prison before he returned to Little Springs. You told me he threatened you. It was your whole story for getting me here. Spradlin never called you. He never called anyone. Ever.”

Baldwin's eyes cut to the group of reporters clustered around the lobby. With one hand, he slipped off the tie around his neck and stuffed it in his pocket. “You're right.” He stepped back from Cancini and lifted his chin. “Leo didn't call me. I called him.”

Cancini folded his arms across his chest. “Go on.”

“One of the attorneys on his team was an old law school buddy of mine. He agreed to put me in touch with him. I didn't want him here. I didn't want him in Little Springs. That's why I called him. I begged him not to come back, but he's a cold son of a bitch.”

Cancini looked hard at the man he'd once considered his friend. Teddy's eyes were bloodshot and rimmed by dark moons. He rocked back and forth on his heels, all the while jingling change in his pants pocket. “You lied to me,” Cancini repeated.

“Yes, I lied to you, and I'd do it again. I lied about calling him because I knew you wouldn't understand. Clearly, I was right. But I didn't lie about him threatening me. That part was true.”

Cancini's jaw tightened. “I'm listening.”

“When I asked Leo not to come back, he laughed. Asked me if I was scared.” The mayor's face reddened. “I told him I wasn't, but I was. And he knew it.”

“What were you afraid of, Teddy? Spradlin had been cleared. You said that yourself when you stood at that podium and welcomed him back.”

“I never welcomed him back,” Baldwin said, his voice shaking. “I stated the facts. That's all.” He paused. “Yes, I was afraid. Afraid of what might happen if he did return.”

“Of what might happen? What does that mean?”

Baldwin's head dropped, and his shoulders heaved. When he raised his head, he blinked away tears. He reached out a beefy hand and laid it on Cancini's shoulder. “We both know what it means, Mike. Everything I was afraid of is happening, and we both know it. That's why I lied. To get you here. And I'd do it again. When I heard Leo was dead-­set on coming back, I knew. Same as you.” Dropping his hand, he walked away.

Cancini watched Baldwin move back toward the reporters. With each step, the mayor seemed to bring himself up a little taller. Once among the reporters, Cancini could see only the top of his head bobbing in time with questions he couldn't hear. He knew Baldwin would look each reporter in the eye, would think before answering each question, and would somehow make them believe he was telling them all he could without telling them anything at all. The detective frowned. Whatever his motives, Baldwin would always be a politician.

 

Chapter Fifty-­Three

C
ANCINI PACED THE
room, watching Talbot as he spoke on the phone. Talbot glanced up, scratching out a few words on a notepad. He ended the call, and Cancini sat down across from the FBI man.

“Well? Was I right?”

“Mike, I put myself out there for you.”

“Derek, I didn't ask you to—­”

“I know you didn't.” Talbot held up a hand. “But there are a lot ­people with eyes on this case. When I ask about Spradlin's clothes on the day of the press conference and where they came from, word gets passed up the line.”

Cancini crossed his arms. “It's a valid question.”

“I can't have this office look like there's some kind of vendetta against Spradlin.” He hesitated, fingering the wire of his spiral notebook. “No one wanted you on this. There are some who want you gone already.”

Cancini stood up. “We've been over this.”

“Yes, and I'm afraid it's the last time. I can't have you be a wild card. No more visits to Spradlin I don't know about.”

“That was—­”

“And no more wild-­goose chases or you're out.”

Cancini placed both hands on the chair and leaned forward. “So, I was wrong?”

“No and yes.”

“What?”

“No, you weren't wrong. Spradlin did wear a custom blue shirt with mother-­of-­pearl buttons the day of the press conference.”

“I knew it.” Cancini paced the office again, chewing his lower lip. “Is it enough for a warrant?”

“Mike, stop. It's a wild-­goose chase. It doesn't mean a goddamn thing.”

Cancini shook his head. “I don't understand. Are you saying the evidence doesn't matter?”

“Not at all. What I'm saying is the button is more common than we thought. Turns out that quite a few folks from around the state wear custom shirts, and the majority of those retailers use the same button supplier—­including the store where John Shandling's dad buys shirts.”

“Who?”

“The construction worker, the one with the date rape charge. His dad wears them. Like I said, you were right. Spradlin does have a custom-­made blue shirt, but it doesn't mean a thing. Turns out I do, too. So does the president of the college, the mayor, the lieutenant governor, and hundreds more who live within driving distance of Little Springs.”

“But none of those ­people just got out of prison. It's circumstantial, I know, but it has to mean something.”

“Out of prison for crimes he didn't commit.” Cancini remained silent. “Look, we'll use the button, but by itself, it doesn't mean a thing. There were no prints or usable DNA.” He paused, his tone softening. “We need to follow the evidence, Mike.”

“It should be enough for a warrant.”

“Based on what? That an innocent man has a shirt with a button that I have and the governor has. He hasn't done anything. No warrant.”

Cancini pounded his hand on the back of the chair. “Goddammit! It's the governor, isn't it?”

“Sit down, Mike.” Cancini's head shot up and his fingers tightened around the wooden back of the chair. “Don't make it personal.” Talbot watched him. “We've known each other a long time. You're a good cop. If Spradlin's done something, fine. We'll get him. But it has to be the right way.”

Cancini let go of the chair and nodded. Talbot was right. But he'd been right, too, and it meant something. “Can I see the list?”

“The list?”

“The names of all the ­people who have one of those custom shirts with the buttons.”

“Why?”

“I just want to see it. Sometimes a name will pop out or maybe I'll remember something later.”

The FBI man searched his face. “Fine. I'll have it sent to your phone.” He picked up a folder from his desk, changing the subject. “This is a stack of student interviews. We talked to as many teachers, administrators and friends of the two girls we could, but we came up empty. Virtually nothing connects them. No classes. No friends in common. Amanda Thompson had only been on campus a short time. There's just nothing obvious linking the girls.”

“Except they were both students at Blue Hill.”

“Yes, except that.” He flipped a few pages in the file. “So far, the little forensics we do have points to the copycat theory. The profile of escalating violence fits these crimes, a first-­timer getting off on the power. Our expert also worked up a new profile for us on the original cases.”

“And?”

“She believes the killer in the first series of rapes was better able to control his emotions, to disassociate himself after the sexual assault and kill them quickly. You were right. He probably had some knowledge of anatomy in order to break their necks in just the right way. Not so in these recent cases—­which, according to our expert, also supports the copycat theory. Our copycat can be provoked more easily, is less able to rein in his emotions.” He closed the file. “It appears someone out there wants to be the next Coed Killer.”

Cancini nodded. He couldn't disagree with her assessment, and it wouldn't be the first incident of a copycat killer, someone who wanted to latch on to fame, even in the shadow of another. A copycat killer might possess the right homicidal tendencies to carry out the crime but lack any creativity on his own. “It's a logical theory.”

Talbot clucked his tongue. “But what?”

“But nothing.” He stared at the floor, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “It's a good theory.”

“I'm glad you can see that. Turns out Shandling has no alibi for the Hallwell murder but claims to have one for the second girl. We're checking into it.”

He rubbed his chin. “So you're thinking since Shandling has a history of women and temper issues, maybe he snapped.”

“Maybe. It's a possibility.”

“The part about our guy not being able to control his emotions. What about in daily life? Would he have difficulties at work? With friends and family?”

Talbot picked up a pen and tapped it against the file. “Good question but hard to answer. As you know, there isn't any one-­size-­fits-­all profile. Ted Bundy was able to fool a lot of ­people, was smooth and well-­liked. He used youth and good looks to lure in a lot of innocent women. Shandling's only thirty. He's a good-­looking guy and likes to dress up. You could make a case he would fit here. Of course, history is also filled with serial killers who preferred to fade into the background. They're quiet or different or try not to be noticed.”

“Until they want to be noticed.”

“Yes, until then.”

Cancini cleared his throat. “Will you still talk to Spradlin—­even without a warrant?”

Talbot sighed. “Yes. The timing has stirred up a hornet's nest around here, as you know. Spradlin missing is a problem. It looks bad for the governor. Copycat or not, we need to talk to him, cover all the bases.”

“He'll be found when he wants to be found.”

“You've said that before.”

Cancini shrugged. “He knows every inch of the land around here. Growing up, his mom worked, and he was left alone. He wasn't the kind of kid who spent the day sitting in the house. If he wants to hide, he knows how and where.”

“Okay, found or not found, we'll continue to build our case, such as it is,” Talbot said. “We've got a person of interest in Shandling, we've got the profile, and we've got the nature of the crimes. That's it. That's our case.”

“You've got the button.”

“Dammit, Mike, weren't you listening? The button by itself is not evidence. Why are you so damn pigheaded?” Cancini bowed his head. The silence stretched over a minute, then two. Talbot rubbed his temples. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. It's been two days since Amanda Thompson was found. We're running out of time.”

Cancini opened his mouth, closed it again. The case was getting to all of them. “It's okay. The kids have gone home?”

“Yes.” Talbot fell back against his chair. “Thank God. That's about all the good news we've got.”

“How about the original DNA? Any hits yet?”

“No. Nothing so far.”

“So, it stands to reason, the original killer could still be out there?”

“Yeah, it's possible. We haven't finished checking the surrounding states.” Talbot's face was drawn. He'd already put in countless hours on the case. The pressure on the FBI man came straight from the governor. And Cancini didn't need to be reminded Talbot was putting his job on the line allowing him around the case.

Cancini laid a hand on his old friend's shoulder. “We'll get him, Derek. We'll get him.”