Stay of Execution (7 page)

“I understand,” she said slowly, her voice soft. “I don't know why everything stopped, but it must have been a coincidence. He was wrong about Spradlin. An innocent man spent most of his life in jail because of Detective Cancini. In my book, that doesn't make Mike Cancini a hero.”

The mayor stared at her. “I'm sorry you feel that way,” he said. He threw some bills on the table.

“Wait, Ted, I—­” He cut her off.

“I like you, Julia, I do.” His tone was distant. “That's why I'm going to give you a warning. Be careful what you say and to whom you say it. This town is filled with good ­people, and whether you think it's right or not, they believe Mike Cancini is the reason the rapes and murders stopped. They believed it then, and they believe it now. Don't romanticize Spradlin. You won't win any friends and will probably make a few enemies.”

“But—­”

“Be careful, Julia. Very careful.”

 

Chapter Fifteen

F
ADED CURTAINS FLAPPED
at the window, rising and falling with the warm breeze. The sweet scent of wild honeysuckle hung in the air. Oblivious to the buzzing of the tree crickets, he stared at the ceiling. Despite the dark and the hum of nature, sleep was proving elusive. It was the girl. He couldn't erase his vision of her bouncing blond ponytail or tight T-­shirt. The urges were getting stronger. His fingers twitched, and he curled them into his palms. He shouldn't have gone to the campus. It was stupid, but he'd only gone to look. The sorority house, her house, was the second in a row of ten. The houses were carbon copies, all the same, with their wide porches and huge letters hanging over the front doors. He'd spoken to no one, pulling a baseball hat low over his face. Although he was sure no one had noticed him, it had been damn stupid just the same.

He closed his eyes, remembering the last time. His heart thudded in his chest, and his eyelids fluttered in the darkness. He replayed the shouts, the hysteria, and then the tears that dissolved into whimpers. So friggin' sweet. So fucking powerful. He opened his eyes again putting the memories away, tucking them into the corner of his mind. Patience. He had time, time for new opportunities and new memories. He inhaled, breathing in the sweet smells. Fortune was smiling on him now.

His plan was simple. The Coed Killer would return. Fear would spread like wildfire. If it went the way he figured, shock, outrage, and panic would overwhelm Little Springs. It was such a predictable town. Nothing ever changed here. His lips turned up at the corners. For a college town, a place that claimed to prize education and learning, it was a closed and ignorant place. Of course, that's what he was counting on.

The media, unknowingly, was central to his return. He'd seen the stories leading up to the release, and the governor had played right into his hands. The press conference was the icing on the cake. Poor Leo Spradlin. It was the only story anyone wanted to see and hear. Now that an innocent man had been freed, who would be left to vilify? The rednecks in town? Cancini? Hell, it didn't matter. He'd spoon-­feed them what they wanted to hear. It was going to be beautiful.

He grinned in the dark. He couldn't have planned it better if he'd tried. He stretched his arms again and pulled the pillow under his head. He needed to be smart. Patient and smart. If he did things right, if everything went according to plan, the town would be in for a big fucking surprise.

 

Chapter Sixteen

C
ANCINI ANSWERED THE
phone on the first ring, sitting up straight in the strange bed. Disoriented, he blinked in the pre-­dawn light. “Yes?” he answered, his voice hoarse with sleep.

“Is this Mike Cancini?” asked a woman, the twang of her local accent pronounced. “Detective Mike Cancini?”

“Yeah. You got him.” He cleared his throat and peered through bleary eyes at the nightstand clock. Damn. He'd overslept. “How can I help you?”

“I'm sorry to call so early.” The lady hesitated. “I hope I didn't wake you, but I have to be at work early and, well, Ernie said I should call.”

Cancini stood up, pressing the phone closer to his ear. “It's okay, I needed to get up anyway.” He moved to the hotel window, pushing aside the heavy drapes. From his room, he had a perfect view of Main Street. It was remarkably empty, unlike the Washington streets where traffic began in the early hours before sunrise and dragged on late into the evening. “I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.”

“LeeAnn Terry,” she said. “I don't think we've ever met, but I do remember you. I'm probably old enough to be your mother.”

“Well, it's nice to meet you now, Ms. Terry.”

“Oh, call me LeeAnn. Please.”

“Okay, LeeAnn. How can I help you?”

She was silent only a moment. “Ernie said you wanted to know about Brenda, Leo's mom.”

“Yes, that's true. Did you know her?”

“Well, yeah, I knew her pretty well. We go all the way back to grade school, like most folks around here. When we were older, we worked together at the college. That was before she got let go. I always felt sorry for her, unlike most folks, so I stayed in touch. Not that I didn't understand their feelings and all, but I'm a Chris­tian. She wasn't the one found guilty.” Cancini walked around the room, flipping on table lamps as she talked. Grabbing his notebook and pen, he sat at the desk in the corner. “The last time I saw her was about a week before she died. The truth is, I got the feeling she didn't have any other visitors. It made me sad for her, but, well, she didn't make it easy, either.”

“It sounds like you were a good friend.”

“I tried.” She sounded pleased.

“LeeAnn, is there anything you can tell me about Brenda's relationship with her son? Do you know what that was like? Were they close?”

“Close?” she repeated, answering slowly, choosing her words. “No-­o. I wouldn't say that exactly. Maybe once they were, but that was before, you know . . .” She paused. “ . . . before he grew up. When he was little, she used to dote on him, so proud, like all mothers. Carried his picture in her wallet and went to Little League games and stuff.”

“But something changed?”

“Yeah, I couldn't tell you what, though. She was pretty tight-­lipped about him even before he went to jail.” She clucked her tongue. “To tell you the truth, I always thought she was kinda scared of him. Her own son! Can you imagine?”

“No, ma'am,” he said. Cancini had met Brenda only a ­couple of times but thought he understood what LeeAnn meant. A tall woman, Brenda Spradlin had seemed small with her shoulders hunched, her head down, apparently content to stay in the background. When he'd visited the house with Teddy Baldwin, she'd been polite but said little. If Spradlin wanted more coffee or anything, he'd gesture toward her, and his mother would jump to serve him. It had rubbed the young officer the wrong way.

“Some folks felt she had it coming to her, you know,” LeeAnn said, the words tumbling out now. ­“People thought she had a big head and all. See, she was real pretty in high school and smart, but she kept to herself. Didn't date. Didn't go to the football games or hang out. You know how ­people are, they thought she was snotty.” Cancini made a note on the pad, nodding as he wrote. “But she was always nice to me. I had trouble in math, and she stayed after school and helped me a ­couple of times. That's when I first got to know her. The truth is, I think she was shy. After that, we graduated, and I started working in my father's bakery. Brenda though, she was a smart one. She got some kinda scholarship to Blue Hill. That's where she met William, Leo's father.”

She paused to catch her breath. “He was from New York, and the story was he was only at Blue Hill 'cause he couldn't get in anywhere else, but I don't know that for sure. Anyway, they ran off and got married, and then along came Leo. They stayed up in New York for a ­couple of years, and then William was killed in some boating accident. I guess his family didn't want anything more to do with her, so she and Leo came home. She started working at the college, taking a class at a time when she could. She kept to herself even more after that.”

He wrote quickly, making furious notes as she talked. “What about when Leo was growing up? Did she ever say what he was like?”

“Not especially. I know I used to jabber on about my kids and how cute they were and Little League and all that, but she didn't say much. I mean, I know he got to be a big football star up at the high school, but I don't think she even went to a single game. If she did, I never saw her.”

Cancini knew Spradlin had played football. He'd been quick and strong. Strong enough to overpower a young woman. “Would you say Leo was popular in school? Did ­people like him?”

“I s'pose he had a few friends, although I don't know how much ­people actually liked him. He got his mama's looks, though, and he didn't have a shy bone in his body. I remember I chaperoned at the prom one year, and he was there with a pretty young thing. She kept smiling up at him, and he barely noticed her. It makes my skin crawl now when I think of that and what he did to all those college girls.”

Cancini leaned back in his chair, his hand suspended over the page. “You don't believe Leo's innocent?”

“No, sir, I don't,” she said, not a trace of hesitation in her voice.

“Okay.” He tapped his pen against the hotel's faux wood desk. “What would Brenda have thought of her son being released? Would she have been happy?”

LeeAnn snorted. “Hardly. He may have been her only son, but she wasn't a fool. He was no good, and she knew it. Sure, her life was hard. Money was tight and all, but she didn't want him back. Like I said, I think she was afraid of him. Having him gone was definitely better than having him home.”

Cancini swallowed. His own mother had been lost to him at a young age. Leo was lucky to have Brenda, but then again, he was fatherless. They'd both grown up without a parent. Still, no matter how strained Cancini's relationship with his father might be, his father had never been afraid of him. What had happened in the Spradlin house? “Thank you, LeeAnn. You've been very helpful.”

“Sure. Anytime.” She hesitated. “Detective, Ernie said you were doing some follow-­up, asking some questions.”

“That's right. Just follow-­up.”

“Well, if you don't mind my saying, I feel better knowing you're here.”

“That's kind of you to say.”

“I'm not the only one. Lots of folks would feel that way if they knew you were here.” Cancini sighed, sure the word about his return would spread like wildfire. She clucked her tongue again. “No one's sayin' it, but we're all thinkin' it. Lord help us if it starts again.”

“There's no reason to think like that, LeeAnn.”

“Maybe not, but better to be safe than sorry I always say. If folks are right, and Lord knows I hope they're not, we're gonna need you, Detective. More than ever.”

 

Chapter Seventeen

“Y
OU GOT THE
interview with Spradlin!” Norm Jensen said. Julia's editor's excitement crackled through the phone. “Conroy got one, too, of course, but your story's gonna blow his away!”

She had to smile at Norm's loyalty and enthusiasm. They both knew Conroy was an excellent reporter, the most decorated journalist on staff. “Norm, you're sweet, but maybe you're expecting a tad too much.”

“No way. You're the one who doesn't expect enough.”

Julia picked at the lint on her pants. Years of writing fluff had dulled her instincts. After last night, after questioning Cancini's hero status, she had no idea if the mayor would even talk to her again. “Maybe.”

“Not maybe. You took the initiative to get on this story. You pushed, and you got it. That was you, Julia. Give yourself some credit.” He paused, then said, “Don't let him get to you, Julia.”

She grinned and bowed her head. Good old Norm. A loyal friend, but maybe he was right. This was her first big story in years. She should never have taken a backseat for Jack, but she couldn't blame him anymore. She could have done things differently, too. This wasn't about him anymore. It was about her. “I promise. I'll do my best.”

“Atta girl!”

Her laptop sat open in front of her. The manila envelope she'd brought from home was empty, the photocopied newspaper articles and background spread across the floor. A blurry black and white photo of the young Spradlin lay in front of her on the desk. She traced the outline of the photo. “So when do I get to meet him?”

“Tomorrow morning, nine a.m., in the public library. He'll find you.”

She wrote down the time and place. “He's got guts. I'll give him that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm a little surprised he chose such a public place.”

“Why does it matter?”

­“People around here don't like him much.” She thought of the signs in the street and rose, moving to the window. Main Street was mostly empty. Maybe a dozen cars were parked along the road, and a few ­people strolled the sidewalk. The makeshift podium was long gone, along with the stage in front of the town hall. The sun blazed, glinting off the storefront windows, casting sparkles everywhere. While it looked like a peaceful town, a quiet and slow-­moving place, she sensed something darker here. “No. That's not right. They hate him.”

“What? Why?”

It was difficult to explain something she didn't fully understand. “This is going to sound strange, but it's almost like they still think he's guilty.”

“That's crazy! The governor himself said the man was innocent.”

She closed her eyes, remembering the angry faces in the crowd at the homecoming. “Doesn't matter. They don't believe it. They know the facts. They know about the DNA evidence, but it's like they can't accept it—­or won't. I'm not sure which. Either way, I need to be a little careful when I talk to the ­people around here.”

Norm brushed aside her concerns. “Oh, it'll be fine. They'll come around.”

“Maybe.” He hadn't seen the outrage at the press conference or witnessed the hostile attitudes directed at the reporters. “It would help if they found out who really attacked those girls.”

“True. What's the latest?”

“Hold on,” she said, scrolling through the notes she'd typed on her computer. “Here it is. The state is testing the DNA from the original case against the DNA of convicted rapists and murderers from the last twenty years. That's the first step. I'm told it could take a while. If that yields nothing, then the FBI will move to surrounding states, start looking for similar cases, blah, blah, blah. Not exactly comforting to the families of the victims or the ­people in this town.”

“But logical.”

“I guess. Still, I don't know why they can't reopen the case right away, make a big deal out of searching for the guy. I mean, shouldn't it be more of a priority? It must be hell for those parents.” Norm was silent. Julia knew the stony expression that would be on his face, one eyebrow raised in question. “I know, I know. Keep the emotions out of it. I'll try, but we can't all be as unfeeling as you.”

“Objective, Julia. Objective,” he said. “You can play on the emotions of our readers, but leave yours out of it.”

Julia held the phone away, letting him rant. She loved Norm and he was a great editor. Still, she'd heard the speech so many times she could practically recite it. She toyed with the idea of hanging up and pretending they were accidentally cut off, but then she remembered something important.

“Norm,” she interrupted, “do you know a Detective Michael Cancini?”

“Cancini? Sure, I've heard the name. Why?”

“D.C. Homicide. Right?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Do you think you could get me some background on him?”

Norm paused, then asked, “Why?”

“He's here. You're not going to believe this, but he's the one who arrested Spradlin. Turns out he was a cop here in Little Springs before D.C.”

“You don't say.”

“Yep. I saw him last night.”

“Odd. His name hasn't been part of any of the stories I've read. Why show up now?”

“I have no idea.” She didn't, but she had a funny feeling the mayor did. She would need to mend fences, and soon.

“Well, this could be a fun little twist,” he said. “Tell you what. I'll see what I can find out and get back to you. Good?”

“Yeah. That would be great.” The conversation was over, and she knew it. Still, she couldn't bring herself to hang up. “Hey, I was wondering how, you know . . .”

Before she got out Jack's name, reliable Norm already understood her unasked question. “He looks like hell, Julia. Spends half the night in his office from the looks of it. He's cranky and a pain in the ass, but that's nothing new.”

She exhaled and laughed a little. It was satisfying, at least, to know that the death of their marriage wasn't a piece of cake for him after all. Or maybe his new girl had already tired of him. That possibility was all too real. Still, alone was alone. “Has he asked about me?”

Norm hesitated, and Julia had her answer.

“Never mind,” she said before he was forced to make up a lie. “Forget I asked. I'll call you after the interview.” Hanging up, she returned to the window facing the street below. Even though Julia had never been to Little Springs before, it had a familiar feel. It was the kind of place Hollywood sets tried to emulate when they filmed small-­town America. The ­people wore their feelings on their faces, and money was for living, not for showing off status or power. Was it backwards or refreshing? She couldn't decide. It might look like Mayberry from TV, but this real-­life town had spawned a serial rapist and murderer, and that man was still out there. Somewhere.