Stay of Execution Read online

  Dedication

  For Mary—­who never lost a friend

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by K. L. Murphy

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  SHADOWS DANCED ALONG the cinder-­block walls. A light shone through the tiny window in the door, then moved past as the guard made his rounds. The prisoner lay still while the steps faded, then rolled to a sitting position, rusty bedsprings squeaking under his weight. His head jerked up toward the door. He waited before standing, bare feet hitting the cold, concrete floor.

  In a few days, a week, it would all be over. No more guards. No more looking at the same walls twenty-­three hours a day. No more crap food. No more of this godforsaken hellhole. He would go home, where he belonged.

  On the far wall, a steel container served as his toilet. The stench of old piss stung his nose, but for once, he didn’t mind. How quickly things had changed. Maybe he should’ve been surprised, but he wasn’t. Hell, he’d been expecting it for a long time. Some would say he was lucky, might even call his release a miracle. Shit. Maybe it was a miracle. After all, it wasn’t every day a man on death row got handed his walking papers. Not that he cared much about cheating death. So what if he wouldn’t be executed tomorrow, or next month, or next year? He would still die eventually. Everyone does.

  He knew how it would go. The lawyers would show up in their tailored suits and Italian shoes, all smug with their accomplishment. There’d be backslapping, and ­people he’d never seen before asking what he needed. No one had done that in a long damn time. He ran a hand over his heavy beard. They’d have clothes in his size, a suit and a tie. A barber would give him a haircut and shave. They’d clean him up. It was part of the deal.

  He understood his role. His lawyers had shown him the newspapers. The governor himself had weighed in. None of the lawyers could understand why he wanted to go back home. His family was dead. He had no friends. Yet his return would not go unnoticed. There would be a press conference and cameras. It was reason enough.

  In the semidarkness, he lay shirtless on his cot. A bead of sweat dripped from his temple to his ear. He’d have to be on his best behavior. Everything he said and did would be watched. Reporters would follow him for a story. The injustice, they’d say. The outrage. An innocent man had suffered, and now his ordeal was over. But they didn’t know anything about injustice. They didn’t know anything about him. He’d been inside for a long time, and the years had not passed quickly. He had unfinished business now, scores to settle. Everything was about to change.

  Chapter Two

  DETECTIVE MIKE CANCINI sat up with a start. For the third time in a week, he’d dozed off in the hard hospital chair. He shifted to look at the old man lying in the bed. The rise and fall of his father’s sunken chest kept time with his snores. Tubes ran from his arms to the green lights on the monitor. His pulse was steady and his blood pressure read normal.

  The television cast a soft light across the room. Cancini stood, stretching his stiff limbs. He used the remote to click to the nightly news. His eyes went back to the old man. His father looked so pale. What little hair remained was snow-­white and combed back. Dark bruises dotted the thin skin of his arms where doctors and nurses had poked and prodded. If it weren’t for the snoring, Cancini would wonder. He shook away the thoughts. His father had always been stronger than he looked. Strong and stubborn.

  “In a surprise move today,” a TV reporter said, “the governor has granted a writ of innocence to Leo Spradlin, the man once known as the Coed Killer.”

  Cancini’s head whipped around. He moved closer to the screen.

  “Mr. Spradlin, currently housed in solitary at Red Onion State Prison, was convicted of the rapes and murders of five women, all students at Blue Hill College. Sentenced more than twenty years ago, Mr. Spradlin was scheduled for execution later this month.” Behind the reporter, a camera panned the dreary prison campus, the highest security facility in Virginia. “A statement from the governor’s office and the attorney general indicated that new DNA evidence exonerates Spradlin.”

  Cancini’s temple throbbed. A headshot of Spradlin appeared in the corner of the screen. The man’s hair was longish now, not short the way he wore it back then. A heavy beard covered his chiseled face, but his pale blue eyes were the same, clear and cold as a winter night.

  “Lawyers working for the newly innocent man had this to say.”

  The picture switched to an attorney in a gray suit. “Leo Spradlin is a grateful man tonight.” The lawyer stood on the steps of the state capitol, microphones shoved under his chin. “He is particularly grateful to the governor for hearing his case. As many of you have already heard, DNA evidence that had previously been used to help convict Mr. Spradlin has been reexamined using more current technology. That same evidence now proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mr. Spradlin is not the
Coed Killer. Mr. Spradlin is also immensely grateful to the Freedom and Justice Group and men like Dan Whitmore.” He paused, nodding at the short, squat man standing to his right. “Finally, he would like me to thank all the friends and family who stood by him through this long ordeal and for their strong faith in him.”

  “What friends? What family?” Cancini muttered. His long fingers tightened on the remote. No one had stood by the man. Spradlin had alienated anyone and everyone who might once have cared for him. Not just during the original trial. Through countless appeals and hearings, no one ever appeared on Spradlin’s behalf. Cancini should know. He’d never missed a single one.

  The reporter returned to the screen. She nodded. “The governor’s office also issued the following statement: ‘In an effort to right this terrible miscarriage of justice, Mr. Spradlin will be granted a full pardon along with his writ of innocence and will be released within a matter of days.’ ”

  A heat rose in Cancini. He’d heard rumblings the DNA evidence was getting another look, but he hadn’t given it much thought. It was true some of the evidence in the murder case had been circumstantial, but the DNA evidence—­such as it was at the time—­had been convincing. The jury had deliberated less than two hours. What had changed?

  The newswoman shuffled papers. When she spun to the left, the camera followed. “And on Wall Street today, the Dow Jones took a tumble. Stockholders were warned to brace for another market correction.”

  Cancini hit the mute button, shaking his head. The sheets ruffled behind him. He squared his shoulders, meeting his father’s gaze.

  “What does it mean? Is it true?” His father sounded tired, his words barely audible.

  The detective swallowed. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Long enough. Thought that was your case.”

  Cancini winced. It wasn’t a question. He put the remote back on the nightstand, then tucked the blankets under the old man’s spindly arms. His father’s hands, blue with puffy veins, lay flat on the bed.

  “Well?”

  Cancini didn’t answer, unable to wrap his head around the reversal. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. How could a man as guilty as Spradlin suddenly be innocent? That case had made his career, started him on the road as a homicide detective. Did that mean everything was built on a lie? If it was, he knew what his father would think. His son was a failure.

  “I don’t know anything, Dad. I only knew they were looking into old evidence. Not this.”

  “You said he was guilty. He went to jail.”

  “He went to jail because a jury convicted him. They thought he was guilty. We all thought he was guilty.” He grabbed his jacket and glanced once more at the monitors. Everything appeared normal. “I’ve gotta go.” He started toward the door. “I’ll try to come by tomorrow night.”

  “Michael?”

  “Yes, Dad?”

  The old man’s eyes, still sharp, glowed like shiny coins at the bottom of a murky fountain. “Did you make a mistake?”

  The detective swallowed his resentment. His father wouldn’t be the only one to ask. Had he made a mistake? The governor seemed to think so. But if Spradlin was innocent, who was guilty? After the arrest, the murders and rapes had stopped. Coincidence? Cancini didn’t know if he could accept that.

  “I don’t know, Dad. I’m not sure.”

  “Then get sure.”

  Chapter Three

  JULIA MANNING LOOKED over tortoiseshell readers and peered at the digital clock. After midnight again. She shifted in the worn leather chair, pulling her legs to her chest and resting her head on her knees. It would be another sleepless night. She had no one to coax her to bed, no one to pull her close during the night. She lifted her chin. Damn him.

  Holed up in her office, she felt the emptiness of the large house echo throughout the halls. She’d carved out a workspace from the smallest room, barely larger than a closet, but she loved it anyway. Behind her, a wall of shelves overflowed with books and papers. Her collection of knickknacks and pictures from childhood hung on the walls and cluttered the battered desk. It was a mess, but it was hers.

  “How can you stand it in here?” Jack had asked one day, leaning in the doorway. His eyes had swept across the room to the furniture crammed in corners and the stacks of old magazines. “Doesn’t it make you claustrophobic?”

  “No,” she’d answered honestly. It didn’t and never had. Although the space was small, the window overlooking the backyard made it feel larger, and the light that shone through all day made it bright and warm. “It’s comfortable.”

  Jack had not seemed convinced. “When Marta comes next time, you should have her clean in here.” He’d waved a hand toward the junk spilling from the bookcase and said, “It smells.” He’d left quickly, as though the foul odor he’d detected might follow. At the time, she’d laughed. Curled up now, she was no longer amused. Then again, blame comes in all shapes and sizes. Laying it all on Jack would be too easy. She couldn’t deny she’d begun to spend more time in her office. It hadn’t happened all at once, but they had drifted away from each other. Still, she wasn’t the one who’d brought other ­people into it.

  Blinking back tears, she picked up the oversized manila envelope perched on the corner of her desk. It was heavy in her hands, thick with the background research she’d requested. A story of this magnitude came with expectations and a whopping amount of history. Julia rifled through her desk for an empty spiral notebook. She pushed up her glasses and studied the first several pages, photocopies of old newspaper articles.

  Little Springs Gazette

  November 8

  Late yesterday, the body of a young woman was found at the edge of the Thompson River. Three hunters, guests of the Powhatan Lodge, discovered the woman’s remains. The deceased has been identified as Cheryl Fornak, a sophomore at Blue Hill Chris­tian College.

  Julia skimmed the remainder of the article. She picked up her tea, sipping the lukewarm liquid. “Cheryl Fornak,” she said out loud. She’d had a friend named Cheryl in college. They’d been close for a while, even sharing an apartment the first few months after graduation. They’d drifted apart when Cheryl got engaged and followed her fiancé to Texas. In her notebook, Julia wrote the number one, and next to it, the girl’s name, her age, and the date of her murder. On a separate line, she wrote down the names of the police chief, the town, and the college.

  She flipped through the next few pages. After the autopsy, the case had been classified as a rape and murder. Days and weeks had passed with little progress in the investigation when a second girl was found.

  Little Springs Gazette

  December 5

  Early yesterday morning, the body of a second young woman was found nearly ten miles outside Little Springs. A truck driver headed to Blue Hill Chris­tian College spotted the woman, identified as Theresa Daniels, lying on the shoulder of 81 South. The police and a college spokesman confirmed that the young woman was a student at the school, a senior biology major. Authorities revealed that the death would be listed as a homicide. The autopsy is expected to begin as early as today.

  It has been almost one month since the body of Blue Hill Chris­tian College sophomore Cheryl Fornak was discovered on the banks of the Thompson River. Dozens of students and local residents have been interviewed in connection with the case. However, the investigation has stalled, and the police have declined to name any suspects in Fornak’s rape and murder. Police would not make a statement regarding any connection between the two deaths.

  A spokesman for Blue Hill issued this statement, “We are stunned by both murders. Nothing like this has ever happened in the history of our school or in the history of this town. Our highest priority is to protect our students. In light of the second murder, we have instituted a curfew and all school buildings will be locked down by campus security at eleven p.m. each evening. Where it is possible
, the faculty will reschedule evening classes.”

  Manny Fulton, the mayor of Little Springs, attended a town meeting at the high school last night and addressed the murders. “Chief Hobson and the rest of the men are doing their best to find out what has happened to these young women. The best thing we can do is cooperate in any way possible and help them do their jobs so we can all sleep better at night.”

  Julia shifted in her chair and finished her tea. Her notes were a jumble of names and dates. She drew a line connecting the names of the dead girls, adding the words, “one month.” Julia returned to the articles. A third young woman was found just before Christmas break that year.

  Little Springs Gazette

  December 7

  Shocking the town and Blue Hill Chris­tian College, a third victim was found in the early hours of the morning by campus security. The body of Marilyn Trammel, a freshman, was spotted in a Dumpster behind the campus center. Onlookers who saw the naked body pulled from the trash bin reported seeing dark welts and dried blood. Police would not elaborate on the extent of her injuries, only indicating that the woman had probably been dead less than six hours. This murder comes forty-­eight hours after the discovery of the slain Theresa Daniels and a month after that of Cheryl Fornak. Although all three victims were students at Blue Hill, there does not appear to be a connection among the three women. They did not share classes, dormitories, or sororities. One source admits that police are stumped. When asked if each of the victims had been raped and how each was murdered, the police spokesman would not comment.