Stay of Execution (13 page)

 

Chapter Thirty-­Five

D
AMN HIM.
H
E'D
left her with another diary and still hadn't answered a single question. Julia didn't know how much longer she could stall Norm. He was losing patience. She hoped he wasn't losing confidence. The new diary was hardly more interesting than the previous ones. It sat open on the library table. So far, it seemed like more of the same. She turned the page.

Leo did something odd today. He doesn't know I saw. I wished I hadn't. I went by the middle school today because Leo forgot his lunch again. After I dropped it off, I saw him and some other kids out on the track for gym class. They were running, not fast, but there was one child who lagged behind the others. To be honest, he was a little overweight and was struggling to run the laps. A group of boys waited at the finish line. They started pushing and shoving him until he fell down. They laughed and pointed at him. Then they started kicking him. By the time the teacher came over to break it up, the kid had a bloody nose, and I don't know what else. I searched the crowd for Leo, hoping he wasn't in the group of bullies, and he wasn't. He was standing a little back from it, watching the whole thing. At first I was relieved, grateful he wasn't part of all that, but then, one of those boys, the one who was kicking the boy on the ground looked over at Leo. Leo nodded at them. The teacher didn't see any of that, but I did. I don't know what to think. I'm worried. Why were they looking at Leo? And why didn't he stop them?

Julia read the passage a second time. Reading ahead several more pages, she saw no more references to the incident. There were no more concerns or worries, only monotonous entries about young Leo's baseball games or the tedium of work at the college. She flipped back to the strange passage and read it a third time. It wasn't hard to figure out what his mother had feared. Was she right? Was Leo the ringleader of the bullies? Was there another side to the story? She opened her notebook to add this to her list of questions. Was this the kind of behavior Leo was referring to at the press conference? How he'd made it easy for ­people to believe in his guilt?

A shadow fell across the diary. She looked up to find Cancini standing over her.

“Detective Cancini, I wasn't expecting you.”

“Has he already been here?” Cancini asked.

She started to ask who but stopped when she saw the expression on his face and the deep lines across his forehead. “Yes.”

“How long has he been gone?”

She checked her watch. “An hour maybe.”

“Do you know where he went? Where I can find him?” She shook her head. His eyes traveled to the diary. She covered the pages with her arms and pulled it close. “Are you all right?”

Julia's mouth opened. “Yes, I'm fine. Why?”

“You're in over your head.”

She pursed her lips. “I can take care of myself.”

He smiled briefly and she caught the dark gold in his hazel eyes. “I wasn't saying you couldn't. I'm sorry if that's how it sounded.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “It's okay, but what did you mean?”

A shadow passed over his face. “You think you know Spradlin, but you don't. He's using you.”

She clucked her tongue. “For what? Publicity? I want the story. I asked for it. If anyone's using anyone, it's me.”

He shook his head. “If you hear from him, let him know I need to see him.”

“Can I tell him why?”

His eyes were flat and dark, the light gone. “He'll know why.”

 

Chapter Thirty-­Six

“I
S THERE ANYTHING
from forensics?” Cancini asked.

Talbot picked up a folder, shaking it. “We got a preliminary report.”

Cancini waited, but the FBI man did not elaborate. “Well?” he asked, finally. “What does it say?”

He dropped the folder back on the desk and sat back in his chair. “Look, Mike, we need to be clear about something. I can't tell you anything, not one word, unless I'm sure nothing will leave this room.”

The detective waved a hand. “I know. I know. Courtesy only and all that.”

Talbot shook his head. “No. I'm serious, Mike. I'm already getting grief from the brass about why you were even allowed at the crime scene. I explained that I use you from time to time on a consulting basis. But considering your past association with this case . . .” He opened his palms, shrugging. “It didn't fly. Apparently, someone checked with your captain, who was only too happy to share that you've taken an extended leave of absence.”

“I told you I had some vacation coming.”

“Unofficially, you're a consultant to me and me alone.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Mike, I understand your need to know, but I can only pull so many strings. I'm sticking my neck out here.”

“So I'm officially out and unofficially still out?” His voice was tight.

“You can call it what you want. You shouldn't even be here.”

“I'm not leaving.”

Talbot sighed. “I know that. Here's how it goes. You have no authority whatsoever. You are not to flash your badge. You are not to imply to anyone that you are working on this investigation. Most importantly, any information I discuss with you is strictly confidential. Those are the rules.”

Cancini ran his hand over his military-­short hair. “Sounds like fun,” he said.

“Are we clear?”

It was perfectly clear, but that didn't mean he liked it. He wanted to know everything, yet he recognized that would come with a price. “Fine. We're clear.” Cancini paused. He also knew without being told that Talbot had done his best. “And thanks.”

“Good.” Talbot nodded, picked up the file again, and flipped several pages. “The girl appears to have died from blunt force trauma, a blow to the head. She was sexually assaulted, but there are no visible signs of fluid or DNA evidence. It's early though. They're working on unidentified particles in her hair and on her skin.” He looked up from the report. “You were right. The body was moved sometime after she was dead. Someone had tried to cover the drag tracks but not well enough.”

“Any idea where she was murdered?”

“Not yet. We're hoping what they found in her hair and under her nails might provide some leads.”

Cancini thought back to the body. “The cause of death. Blunt force trauma. Are you sure?”

“Sure.”

Cancini hesitated. “What about the marks on her neck?”

Talbot sighed again. “The pathologist said her neck was bruised, but barely. The marks were too light to have done any real damage. In his estimation, they most likely occurred after the girl was dead.”

Cancini blinked. “After she was dead?”

“Yes.” Cancini absorbed the information. “You and I both know this can happen sometimes: the headlines, breaking news on CNN, and all that. The publicity is appealing, and some guy who already has a screw loose gets an idea.”

“So, copycat then? That's the theory?”

Talbot nodded. “It makes the most sense.”

It did make sense. But that didn't make it true. “Is it possible that the perp planned to strangle the girl but was forced to hit her with something? Maybe he was interrupted, or he couldn't control her.”

“Anything's possible, Mike. That doesn't make it probable.” The FBI man touched the file on his desk. “This was sloppy. The original murders were efficient. Our profiler has come up with a preliminary description: white male, early to mid-­twenties, easily blends in. Probably has difficulties with women, some anger issues, but nothing like this before. She thinks he's a first-­timer.”

Cancini slumped in his chair. Everything Talbot reported was logical, made sense. There was almost nothing left to say. Then, he asked, “Have you found a match for the DNA from the Fornak case?”

“No, but we've expanded the search to surrounding states.”

“Okay,” Cancini said, nodding. “Will you let me know if you get anything?”

“Sure.”

The detective stood, the meeting over. “Out of curiosity, did you find Spradlin? Did you interview him?”

“We talked to him. We didn't interview him.”

“Did he have an alibi?”

“No, but he doesn't have to, Mike. He's not a suspect. And so you know, he was more than cooperative.”

“He always was—­the absolute picture of cooperation.”

“Yeah, I remember.” The two men sat in silence for a moment. “Leave him alone, Mike.”

Cancini looked across the desk at his old friend. “That would be the smart thing to do, wouldn't it?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Problem is, I'm not very smart.”

 

Chapter Thirty-­Seven

C
ANCINI STEPPED ONTO
the porch, the knots in his back taut and tender. The front door of the house was splintered, its paint chipped and faded. A gutter hung awkwardly, but the stoop had been swept free of cobwebs and dirt. A single rocking chair sat near the front window, which appeared clean and smudge-­free. An old pickup truck was parked around the side of the house, the bed loaded with piles of brush. Squinting, Cancini touched the revolver he wore under his jacket and knocked.

Spradlin opened the door wide, and the light from outside shone into the small front room. “Detective Cancini.” His face was impassive as he looked over the detective's shoulder. “Come alone?”

“I just want to talk.”

Spradlin gestured behind him. “Come in. I've been expecting you.”

Cancini walked through the door into the living area. A threadbare sofa was pushed against the far wall, a hand-­knit throw neatly folded and placed over its arm. A round wooden table with four chairs faced the front window and a basic kitchen stood behind it. The detective knew the back of the house: two bedrooms and one bath. Cardboard boxes filled one corner of the front room.

Spradlin's eyes followed Cancini's. “Been going through my mom's things,” he said. Without asking, he moved to the kitchen counter, pouring two cups of coffee. He placed them on the round table. “It's not much,” he said, nodding toward the back of the house, “but compared to where I was living . . .”

A rectangle of sunlight poured through the front window brightening the room. Cancini remembered being in this house years ago, congregating early for a day of fishing. Spradlin's mother had moved quietly among them, serving eggs and bacon. They'd crowded around the table, eating and talking, refilling their coffee cups. Although Cancini hadn't thought much of it at the time, Spradlin had stood apart that morning, watching. He'd eaten little and said little. He'd said even less to his mother, who'd cleared the dishes and filled the boys' thermoses one by one. That had been a long time ago. Before the girls.

“Sit down, Detective. You've come all this way to talk.” He grinned, but his eyes were unreadable. “So, let's talk.”

Cancini remained standing. “Where were you last night, Leo?”

Spradlin picked up his mug and took a slow a sip. “I already talked to the feds.”

“I know that, but I want to hear it for myself. Is it a hard question?”

“Nope. Not hard at all. I was here. Alone. I'm not exactly surrounded by a shitload of friends and family—­in case you haven't noticed.”

“Were you here all night?”

“Yep.” He cocked his head to the side. “Do you want to tell me why I'm getting the third degree from you and the feds?”

“No.”

“That's what I thought.” He stood up, carrying his cup to the counter. “Why don't I take a guess, and you tell me if I'm right?” He walked back to the table, his cup refilled. “A girl, a college girl from Blue Hill most likely, is missing, maybe worse than missing. The feds and the big D.C. cop come looking for the man they put away once before to see if he's been up to no good. They ask where I've been. Was I alone? They look around my yard and house. Is there anything out of sorts? Is good old Leo doing something he shouldn't be doing?” He looked up at the detective. “How'm I doing so far?”

Cancini said only, “Have you, Leo? Have you been doing something you shouldn't?”

Spradlin smiled. “That's what you want, isn't it, Mike? It's killing you that I'm out. You can't stand that the law declared me an innocent man.”

Refusing to rise to the bait, Cancini asked, “Why are you meeting with Julia Manning every morning at the library?”

“Have you been following me? You know I could charge you with harassment.” Leo shook his head. “Shame on you, Mike. Your ego is bigger than I thought, stalking an innocent man to save your reputation. It's pathetic.”

The detective kept his voice low, matter-­of-­fact. “I haven't been following you, and neither has anyone else as far as I know. They don't have to. When you come to town, ­people notice. They don't like it, and they talk. I listen.”

The man grunted, his tone biting. “Oh, that's right. I'd forgotten again. No friends. No family. No one wants me here.”

Cancini said nothing for a moment, then asked what he'd been wondering since the press conference. “Why did you come back? It wasn't that bullshit about it being your mother's dying wish, and it wasn't because you have a desire to be a part of this town again. Why?”

Spradlin's gaze wandered around the cabin, settling on the pile of boxes. “I have my reasons.” He faced Cancini. “But I don't feel like telling you.”

“That's too bad,” the detective said. He went to the door and hesitated, his hand on the knob. “What did you mean you'd been expecting me?”

Spradlin finished his coffee, then set the cup on the table. “Do you remember that time we went hunting over at Spruce Valley Mountain? We took Hal's old dog with us because Hal swore he could sniff out anything. But Hal was always a damn idiot. That dog couldn't find a bowl of dog food without a guide. Still, the dog was persistent. He could keep at it for hours even when he couldn't stay on the trail of a herd of deer or anything else for that matter.”

Cancini swallowed. He remembered. It was his one and only experience hunting. “Hal's dog was shot that day accidentally by another hunter.”

A slow smile spread over Spradlin's face. “That's right he was.” Then his expression hardened, the smile gone. “I've been expecting you, Mike, 'cause you're like that old dog. You may not be the best hunter, following the wrong scent, but you are persistent.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Be careful, Mike. Persistence could get you in trouble. Killed even.”

A cold chill ran up Cancini's spine. “Is that a threat?”

Spradlin gave a laugh, arms unfolding. “Hell no, Mike. It's only friendly advice. You're the one who came into my house asking questions. We both know what that means. The feds wouldn't be here if something bad hadn't happened. Neither would you.”

“I didn't say—­”

“You didn't have to. I'm not stupid. There's a girl for sure. For all I know, maybe more.” Clouds covered the sun, and the light in the cabin faded. “Take it however you want. Just remember, I warned you.”