Stay of Execution (23 page)

 

Chapter Seventy-­One

S
PRADLIN REACHED THE
bottom of the trail a quarter mile from the campus and close to the oldest block of dormitories. Only a few cars sat in the faculty parking lot, even fewer on the street. Ducking behind a building, he dropped the fishing rod and tackle box he'd carried down the narrow trail. He removed his backpack and pulled out a hardhat and work shirt. Slipping on both, he cocked his ear for sounds of large equipment. There. As he'd suspected, while the students were away, the construction company worked to make up for lost time.

Circling the park near the cafeteria, he turned in the direction of the old faculty housing. Keeping his head low, he ducked behind an academic building, walked through the parking lot, and stepped into an alley behind the buildings. After two blocks, the alley ended, and he stepped back onto the sidewalk. Muffled construction noises from the other side of campus drifted his way. He replaced the hardhat with a baseball cap and kept walking along the empty street. Then he saw it, up ahead, past a row of dark buildings. The Baldwin house.

He stood, taking it in. For a brief moment, the years fell away, but he pushed the memories from his mind. Coming here was risky, but he had to do it. He had to follow it through to the end. Like most of the buildings on campus, the house stood dark, every curtain drawn. More mansion than house, it sat perched at the top of a small hill. Stone steps led up from the street to the front doors. The wide porch boasted heavy white columns and a white railing that ran the length of the house. The imposing windows, like the house itself, loomed over the rest of the campus. Exhaling, he walked toward it.

He'd been there a few times with Teddy, when old man Baldwin and his wife were still living. The front rooms had been formal, unlike the rustic house he'd grown up in. Teddy told him they were reserved for elaborate dinners and parties meant to impress visiting dignitaries and to placate the underpaid faculty. He'd never been invited, but Teddy had described the events in detail.

He remembered a back door that led to the kitchen and servants' quarters. Turning left at the end of the road, he walked to within thirty yards of the house, then looked in both directions. No one was around. He ran across the lawn, turned, and sprinted to the back of the house. Out of view, he leaned against the brick and stone wall, catching his breath. The back lawn sloped downward toward a smattering of trees. Colorful flower beds lined a large patio. Outfitted with wrought-­iron sofas, lanterns, and round tables, it stood waiting for guests. The small lake Teddy's grandfather had built shone through the trees. Fully stocked, students used it to fish, canoe, or jog along the path that skimmed its banks. Today, however, it was as deserted as the rest of Blue Hill College.

He moved toward the kitchen door. With long fingers, he touched the heavy steel and the bolt lock. Dropping his hand, he jiggled the handle. Locked. From his pocket, he pulled a lock pick and tension wrench. Crouching slightly, he held the doorknob with one hand and worked the lock with the other. Done, he stood and picked the deadbolt. Glancing around one more time, he slipped inside, closing the door, careful not to make a sound. He stood in the semidarkness and listened. If he'd tripped an alarm, it was silent. He moved inside. He wouldn't be in the house long enough for it to matter.

The house had changed. Shiny stainless-­steel appliances and black countertops replaced the old. A rack laden with sparkling silver and copper pots hung from the ceiling. The old oak table where he and Teddy had eaten leftovers and drunk milk was gone. A massive bank of cabinets stood in its place. He stared at the spot where the table used to be. Mrs. Baldwin would sweep in, pile a plate with cold cuts, rolls, and cookies, and insist the boys eat every bite. A quiet woman, overshadowed by her more effusive husband, she doted on Teddy and any friend he happened to have around, even young Leo. She'd seemed nice, but Spradlin had long ago learned that no one was exactly as they seemed. He blinked. Twin dishwashers and double refrigerators occupied an entire wall. Whatever bit of warmth and coziness that once filled the large kitchen had been erased. It was strictly a workspace now.

He moved toward the back staircase, climbing the steps quickly and quietly. Bypassing the second floor with its large master bedroom and perfectly appointed guest rooms, he headed to the third floor. He hesitated on the landing, listening. Sure he was alone, he walked to the end of the hall. The door was closed. The old “Keep Out” sign that Teddy had hung as a teenager was still taped to the door. The grown-­ups had never used the third floor. It was always Teddy's domain. Although his bedroom was downstairs, he'd been given this large room as a young child. Once a playroom filled with plastic toys, it morphed into a teen hangout fitted with a TV and refrigerator.

He turned the doorknob, opening the door. In spite of the darkness, he dared not turn on a lamp. Switching on a small flashlight, he panned the room. He'd been right. The room was being lived in. Empty water bottles and a ­couple of food cartons had been tossed in the trash can. Heavy black drapes covered the windows, shutting out the world. On the bed, the sheets were rumpled.

He trained the light on the open closet doors where a small pile of clothes lay in a heap. A yellow shirt with a brownish stain caught Spradlin's eye. He crossed the room and pulled the shirt out from under the other clothes. Several small stains spread across the shirt as though someone had dropped something that had spattered across the fabric. With his finger, he touched one of the larger stains. At the surface, it was slightly crusty, but underneath, still damp. He sniffed the residue on his finger. Blood. Peering closely at the shirt, he saw no tears or holes. Giving no thought as to whose blood it might be, he balled up the shirt and stuffed it in his backpack.

He stood up and swept the flashlight across the room again. A computer tablet peeked out from under the bed. He walked over and picked it up. Clicking it on, he tapped a few icons, navigating his way through a handful of files. “Idiot,” he said, slipping it in the backpack with the stained shirt.

The rest of the room looked clean. He pulled the backpack up on his shoulder and switched off the small light. He was tired of playing games, tired of everything. “Goddammit,” he said to the empty room. “I warned you, Teddy. I warned you.”

 

Chapter Seventy-­Two

“S
HE'S UNCONSCIOUS, AND
there's a lot of internal bleeding. We're doing everything we can,” the doctor said. He glanced from Cancini to Talbot. “Has Senator Stephenson been notified?”

Talbot nodded. “Yes, her parents are on their way.”

The doctor straightened his shoulders. “Right. I don't have anything more to add at the moment. I need to get back.”

“Wait. One question, Doctor,” Cancini said, stepping in front of the doctor. “We need to know. Was Ms. Stephenson sexually assaulted?”

Dr. Charles scowled and his thick white eyebrows seemed to grow above his narrowed eyes. “Detective, we're trying to save that young girl's life. No one has had time to do that kind of examination.” He raised his chin. “Now, if you'll excuse me,” he said, brushing by the men.

They watched him walk back into the critical care ward. Cancini didn't blame him. The man was under a lot of pressure. The girl's father was not only a senator, but a well-­known evangelist and large contributor to the college. Blue Hill Hospital was a teaching facility, and news of Nikki's identity had spread quickly among the hospital staff and to the national media. Cancini understood, but none of that changed his need to ask the question. Whether she lived or died, the question of sexual assault would have to be answered.

Cancini shoved his hands in his pockets. He sighed, looking back at Talbot. “What did you learn from forensics?”

“There was only one set of prints on the gun, and—­” He stopped, cut short by Teddy Baldwin coming toward them. In spite of the well-­fitted suit and finely combed hair, the mayor wore his fatigue on his face. He brushed past the small throng of reporters to find Cancini and Talbot.

“What the hell is going on in this town?” He threw his hands in the air, shaking his head. “First, we've got what you tell me is a copycat rapist, and now we've got a shooter.” Red in the face, the mayor grew louder, his finger aimed at Talbot's chest. “You pushed my police out of this investigation, and what've you got? I'll tell you what you've got. Nothing. Nothing but complete chaos and a whole lotta ­people who are goddamn terrified to leave their homes. Hell, ­people can't even go to church anymore without being scared half out of their minds.” He dropped his hand when he caught Talbot's glare and shifted his focus to Cancini. “Please tell me you've got something. Anything.”

Talbot stood ramrod-­straight, eye to eye with the large man. “We've got something.”

Teddy swung his attention back to Talbot. “Okay. What is it?”

“I can't tell you.”

Red blotches colored Teddy's already florid face. “Wh-­what? Are you kidding me? I have a town full of ­people who have a right to know something.”

Talbot folded his arms across his chest. “Fine. You can tell whomever you need to tell that the FBI has several leads and”—­he lowered his voice—­“a person of interest.”

Cancini repressed a smirk. He knew it wasn't exactly true, but the partial bluff couldn't be directed at a better guy. Talbot didn't need the mayor's interference. He already had the governor, and now a senator, on his back.

The mayor snorted. “A person of interest? That means nothing. You've got nothing on the campus murders, and nothing on this. You should've picked up Spradlin from the beginning, like I told you. I don't know why you're protecting him. Now he's hiding out somewhere, laughing at all of us. In the meantime . . .” He shook his head, his eyes shifting between the two men. “It's a goddamn mess. What am I supposed to tell ­people? Wait, folks, they'll get him after the next dead girl. Christ.”

Pink spots appeared on Talbot's cheeks. Cancini shifted to face Baldwin. “If the girl lives, she can identify her attacker.”

Baldwin looked away with another shake of his head. “The girl has a hole in her belly. I've been told she's in a coma and isn't gonna make it.”

“How do you know that?” Talbot asked. “We haven't released any information.”

Cancini watched the mayor's face. His lips twitched for a moment before he turned his anger on Talbot. “How do I know that?” His voice shook. “How do you think? I'm the mayor of this town, for God's sake. I've known every person, every law officer, and every goddamn doctor and nurse in this town for years.” He waved a hand toward the lobby and the long white corridor. “These are my friends.” Baldwin's eyes slid from Talbot to Cancini. “I expected more from you, Mike. I thought you cared about the ­people here and about the truth. I even warned you about Spradlin coming back. I thought you would help us, protect us. Ha! You're not the detective you once were.” He spun on his heels, pushing his way back through the reporters. He delivered a terse “no comment.”

“Goddamn hothead,” Talbot muttered.

Cancini's head shot up. His eyes followed Baldwin until the mayor emerged from the mob of shouting journalists. With reporters trailing, he pushed through the glass doors.

“How'd you ever stand him?”

“Huh?”

“How'd you ever stand that asshole?”

Cancini stared after the retreating mayor, his mind racing. Baldwin was more than a hothead. His emotions still swung wildly. “He's worse now.”

“Yeah? Guess politics will do that to a man.”

“I guess.” The reporters returned to the waiting room. Whipping out their notebooks and phones, they huddled together, but none of them was Julia. Cancini's shoulders tightened. It was odd that she wasn't here, large bag on her shoulder and microphone in her hand, angling for a snippet of information.

“Hey, you all right? You seem a million miles away.” Talbot touched Cancini on the shoulder.

“Yeah, sorry.” He cleared his throat, turning his back on the reporters and thoughts of Julia. “I was thinking about Baldwin and Spradlin. They were best friends once. Now, I think Baldwin would flip the switch on Spradlin himself if he could. Strange, don't you think?”

“A little, but friendships don't always last. Maybe Baldwin decided being friends with a convicted rapist and murderer didn't look good anymore.”

“At the trial, Baldwin testified for the defense. Remember? He even had some half-­assed, cockamamie story giving Spradlin an alibi.”

Talbot nodded. “That's right. It was a bit of a bombshell, wasn't it?”

“You could say that.” The detective remembered the day Teddy came to him about testifying. He remembered his shock and his anger.

“The defense has called me as a witness,” Teddy had said. “I'm gonna testify about seeing Leo in Harrisonburg the night Cheryl Fornak was murdered.”

The news had stunned Cancini at the time. Teddy had never mentioned seeing Leo Spradlin in Harrisonburg on that night or any night of the murders. “What are you talking about? We've been putting this case together for weeks. You've never said a word about this.”

Teddy hadn't been able to look him in the eye. “Yeah, well, I'm telling you now.”

“You're lying for him.”

Teddy hadn't denied the accusation, only apologized. “I thought you should know,” he'd said.

During the trial, Teddy's testimony was easily discounted. It was late, the lighting had been poor, and he'd only been passing through the town. No one was with him when he saw the man who resembled Spradlin. No one could corroborate his story. He wasn't accused of lying or charged with perjury. It was too hard to prove. Folks around town assumed he'd made a mistake or had testified out of some misguided sense of loyalty. Cancini hadn't cared about Baldwin's misplaced loyalty. He'd cared that Baldwin had lied. Their brief friendship over, Cancini hadn't spoken again to Teddy Baldwin until after Leo's release.

Cancini bristled still at the memory. “His testimony wasn't credible.”

“But as I recall, no one could prove he was lying.”

“He was.”

“Fine. Baldwin was lying.” Talbot frowned. “But he was in law school, right? He had to know what committing perjury would do to his career before it even started. Why do it?”

It was a question Cancini hadn't considered back then. He'd been young and wholly focused on seeing the case through to trial. In hindsight, Teddy had taken a huge risk. “I don't know. I don't understand a lot of what Baldwin does.”

“Yeah. He talks big, like he hates Spradlin, but I don't know. I mean, that pension he gave Spradlin's mother? Why do that?”

Cancini's brows drew together. “What pension?”

“After Spradlin's mother lost her job.” Cancini shook his head. “Sorry. I thought you knew.” Talbot buttoned his jacket, his eyes on the growing cluster of reporters. “When Spradlin was convicted, the college let her go. Not surprisingly, she couldn't get work anywhere in town and she couldn't afford to move. She was broke. The lady had used every penny of her retirement to send Spradlin to school before he dropped out.”

“And?”

“She stayed. Had money for groceries and electricity with no obvious source of income. I couldn't understand it at first, so I had our financial forensic team go through her statements. Turns out when she stopped working, she started receiving a monthly check to her savings account until the day she died, deposited directly into her account at the college. I'm not sure if she even knew where it came from.”

“And you traced it to Teddy?”

“Well, yes and no. It was actually Dr. Baldwin who initiated the original transfers.”

Cancini said nothing, but found himself wondering why a college president would authorize money to Mrs. Spradlin, her son a pariah in town.

“After Dr. Baldwin died, Teddy continued the payments. He took care of her until her death, I presume, for Spradlin.”

“Did Spradlin know?”

“I don't know. I doubt it,” Talbot said, shrugging. “You're right though. That friendship, or whatever you want to call it, was strange. Is strange.”

Teddy was full of surprises, and supporting Spradlin's mother out of loyalty to a long-­dead friendship was just another in a long string of surprises. Teddy had made no secret of his feelings for Spradlin now. He'd lynch the man if given the opportunity. “Yeah,” Cancini said, “very strange.”