Stay of Execution Page 15

  Julia’s eyes wandered to the diaries piled up on the floor next to the chair. What had Spradlin said? Things are happening fast. The tips of her fingers tingled and her heart thumped, almost hurting her chest. What did that mean, and why was it so important that she read the diaries right away?

  “Julia, are you there?”

  “Yeah,” she said, shaking off the questions. She shed her robe and grabbed a button-­down shirt from the closet. “Norm, I’m on it. I’m going up to the college now. Call you when I get there.” She searched her contacts for Ted Baldwin and pushed the call button.

  Chapter Forty-­Five

  BALDWIN PACED THE floor of the college president’s office. His head swung from Talbot to President Sinclair to Talbot and back again. “When are you bringing him in?” Baldwin asked, his voice unnaturally high-­pitched. Cancini sat on the guest sofa, silent.

  “Who? Spradlin?” Talbot asked.

  “Who else? Jesus,” the mayor said. His hands were balled into fists. “This is a goddamn disaster. What am I supposed to tell the ­people now? Don’t worry, folks. I know I told you not to worry before. I stood on the steps and told you we had to welcome the man back. Welcome him! What a joke! I told them we have to follow the letter of the law and all that. And now . . .” He paused, his voice shaking. “Jesus. Now we’ve got not one, but two dead girls. It’s happening all over again.” He slumped into a chair.

  Talbot, leaning against the wall, folded his arms across his chest. He shifted his gaze from the mayor to the college president. “We’ll have a statement soon. Don’t tell anyone anything. We stick to the statement.”

  “Fine,” the president said. He looked at Baldwin. “Ted?”

  Baldwin opened his mouth to say something, then nodded glumly. “Okay, fine. But please tell me you’re bringing him in for questioning. You’re doing that at least, right? I’ve gotta have something.” His eyes searched their faces.

  “Spradlin will be questioned,” Talbot said. “I’ve dispatched two men to bring him in.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “The governor has been apprised of the situation and will be kept in the loop.”

  Baldwin raised a hand, pointing at Cancini. “I told you something bad was going to happen. I prayed he was just blowing smoke, but I knew it. I told you . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Talbot cleared his throat and shifted his focus to President Sinclair. “I know you were considering sending the students home for a few days, but I need to do some interviews first. I need to talk to anyone who might have seen Ms. Thompson in the last few days. We’ve already established her schedule and habits. I need to talk with anyone who had classes in common with the girl, sorority sisters, anyone who might have something to offer.”

  Sinclair picked up a file folder and handed it to Talbot. “Here are both girls’ schedules as well as all classes they’ve taken since they enrolled. Ms. Hallwell was a senior and in a sorority. Ms. Thompson did not go through rush as far as we can tell. Ms. Hallwell ran cross-­country, and I’ve been told she spent most of her time outside of schoolwork training. Ms. Hallwell lived in her sorority house; you have the list of the girls who live there. Ms. Thompson was a freshman, so she lived in one of the freshmen dorms, Heather House. It’s coed, houses close to a hundred kids. The list of residents is in the folder.” He paused. “It’s possible they knew each other, but I haven’t seen any evidence of that yet.”

  Talbot took the folder. “We have a few names of students who’ve been in trouble of one sort or another. We’d like to interview them as well.”

  The president agreed. “Whatever you need.” He walked over to a large table crowded with drawings and building models. “What about the construction on campus? Williams Construction?”

  “They’ve been cooperating. We’re still running the names they gave us. It’s my understanding they’ve agreed to halt all work until the campus is cleared for break.” The president nodded. “Good. Today is Thursday. I’ll try to finish all my interviews by tomorrow afternoon. We’ll issue a press release and increase security around campus. I need you to cancel classes for Monday and Tuesday. Sending the students home Friday night is best.”

  “Agreed.” The president cleared his throat. “There is the matter of the families. When should I speak to them?”

  “I’m going to handle that myself,” Talbot said.

  Cancini shifted on the sofa. He didn’t envy Talbot this part of the investigation. Speaking with the families, doing your best to console them while also seeking any pertinent information, was the hardest part of the job. Talbot would try to learn everything he could from the girls’ loved ones. When had they spoken to them last? Had they had any problems with anyone? Had there been any threats? The questions would be difficult, and some would come close to crossing the line. That was the job. Cancini shifted, restless. They’d already spent too much time in the president’s office. They needed to get back to the investigation.

  The president’s face sagged with relief. “Thank you for doing that.”

  Talbot slipped the folder under his arm. “The official statement from the college, until I tell you otherwise, is to refer to the FBI press release. It should be ready shortly. You are not authorized to make any statements beyond that. Understood?”

  Sinclair frowned. “I’d like to add something about our condolences to the families.”

  “That would be fine,” Talbot said, giving Cancini a nod toward the door. Cancini stood.

  Baldwin sat with his head in his hands. He looked up, his eyes glistening in the fluorescent lighting. “This is a nightmare.” He brushed away the unshed tears, his voice pleading. “You’ve got to stop this, Mike. For good this time.”

  Chapter Forty-­Six

  “DAMN,” JULIA MUTTERED, her cell phone jammed against her ear. Traffic slowed as she approached the campus, and she could see streets blocked off up ahead. She hit end and redial. She’d already called the mayor at least a half-­dozen times, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t pick up. She’d tried Spradlin, too, but he wasn’t answering, either. She’d placed a single call to Cancini, not expecting any response. It didn’t matter. She already knew what he’d say if he did bother to answer. “No comment.”

  The Campus Grounds was packed with students and the noise they brought with them. The air crackled with tension. The young men’s and women’s faces looked anxious, their voices tinged with worry and fear. Julia ordered a latte and found an empty seat where she could work.

  “I heard she was mutilated,” a girl at the next table said, her shoulders shuddering. “I heard they cut off her head.”

  Julia slid her chair closer to the ­couple’s table. She pretended to be absorbed by her computer but listened to every word.

  The boy at the table snorted. “That’s not true. Jason knows one of the guys that found her.”

  “But I heard—­”

  “Her neck was broken, but I know for a fact her head was still there. It was not cut off.” The girl’s lips clamped shut. “Jason said she was beat up pretty badly. Her face was smashed to a pulp is the story.” He paused, then said, “I wish I’d seen it.”

  The girl’s head shot up. “What? How can you say that?”

  He shrugged. “Amy, you know I’m pre-­med. I have to look at stuff like that.”

  “You’re sick,” the girl said, pushing her hair behind her ears. He grunted and looked away. After a moment, she leaned in toward the boy. “I think I know who it was. I mean, I don’t actually know her, but Sarah does. You know Sarah, right?”

  “Yeah, but how could she know? Jason said the guys that found her didn’t recognize her, and they haven’t released any names,” he said doubtfully.

  “Sarah lives in Heather House, and she said this girl named Amanda Thompson didn’t come back to her room last night. Sarah said Amanda’s roommate was completely hysterical this morning when she heard a dead gir
l was found in that courtyard by the cafeteria. It has to be her.”

  Julia typed the names in her computer as they spoke, not daring to look in their direction.

  “Please. Not coming back to your room doesn’t mean anything.” His tone turned suggestive. “You didn’t go home last night.”

  The girl ignored him. “Sarah was pretty sure.”

  Neither said anything for a moment, then the boy said, “I heard there might be another girl.”

  “No way!”

  “I’ve got a pretty reliable source.”

  “Yeah? Who?”

  “My friend Martin works in the campus police building. He said some of the cops were saying a sorority girl went missing a ­couple of days ago. She was found somewhere off campus. Dead.”

  The girl pushed her plate away, her breakfast sandwich untouched. Her face was pale. “This gives me the creeps.”

  The boy’s phone vibrated on the table. “It’s a text from the dean. Weird.”

  The girl leaned in to see, her long hair falling across her face. “What’s it say? My phone’s dead.”

  “Hold on. I’ll read it to you.” His right index finger swiped across the screen. “It says: ‘Fall break has been rescheduled, and classes will be canceled this Monday and Tuesday. Campus will be closed beginning Friday at five p.m.’ That’s it.”

  A murmur buzzed in the small coffee shop as students received and read the same text message. Julia returned to her keyboard, typing as fast as she could.

  “Oh my God. This is worse than creepy,” the girl said.

  “I don’t know if I’d say creepy. To tell you the truth, it’s the first exciting thing that’s ever happened on this campus.”

  “Jesus, you’re sick, you know,” she said, her voice high and tight. “You wouldn’t be talking that way if you knew one of those girls.”

  He raised his palms. “Okay. You’re right. Exciting is the wrong way to put it. You don’t have to freak out.”

  “Why not freak out? The dean is. Why else would they be sending us home?” She rubbed her arms. “If there really was a girl missing already, and they didn’t tell us, that makes it even worse! Are we supposed to feel safe here?” She leaned toward the boy. “I’m glad we’re going home.”

  Julia looked up from her keyboard. Voices were raised in disbelief. The kids’ faces wore expressions of confusion and doubt. Like the girl at the next table, most seemed afraid.

  Julia’s phone pinged and she snatched it off the table. “Ted?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess you’ve heard?”

  She pulled her chair toward the window, turning her back on the students. Hunching over, she kept her voice low. “Some. Bits and pieces. The story hit the wire earlier, but it didn’t say a whole lot.”

  “I can’t say a whole lot, either, Julia. There’s an investigation and all.” He sounded like he’d been crying. “The official statement will come from the FBI.”

  She took another tack. “The college is going to send the kids home tomorrow. Did you know that?”

  “Yes. I’m on the board.”

  “Oh. Right. Maybe I could ask you a few questions about how the college will handle this situation?” She checked the time. It was nearly nine. “Are you on campus?”

  “Yes. I’m leaving the president’s office now.”

  “Great. Why don’t you meet me at the Campus Grounds? I’ll buy you breakfast. You probably haven’t eaten.”

  He was quiet a moment and then said, “I can’t talk about it.”

  Julia again saw the concern and fear on the faces of the students. Some of them would find out today they knew the victim, lived in her dorm, or shared a class with her. They would have to talk with their parents. The administration would have to answer to those same parents. Baldwin would have to answer to everyone. She spied Nikki behind the counter, her dark eyes wary. Nervous energy filled the small shop. Her mind flashed back to the decades-­old newspaper articles. The fear had started slowly, spreading like a slow-­growing cancer, eating at the college and then the town itself. “It’s okay. I know this is a difficult time. Come anyway, and I’ll buy you breakfast. As a friend. No questions.”

  “As a friend?” His voice brightened.

  What would Norm say to that? What would her get-­the-­story-­at-­all-­costs, soon-­to-­be-­ex say? To hell with it. Julia didn’t care. She liked Baldwin, even if she wasn’t interested in anything more than friendship right now. The mayor was sensitive and thoughtful. The murder of a young college girl, especially so soon after Spradlin’s release, must be killing him. Besides, the FBI was in charge of the investigation, and any release of information would be tightly controlled and might not extend to the mayor. What Baldwin knew was probably limited. With the announcement of the school closing, she had something to give Norm, so this truly would be breakfast with a friend, not a working one. “Yes. You’ve been a friend to me since I got here. It’s my turn.”

  “Julia, that means a lot to me,” he said, relief in his voice. “I’d love to then. I’m starving.”

  She hung up the phone, her attention returning to the screen in front of her. She went over her notes from the students’ conversation and mulled over what she would report to Norm. While it would be unethical to report the possible name of the victim without confirmation, she would tell him about the lead on the missing sorority girl and campus security. She would include the information she might have been missing since the previous evening. Key to her report would be the action taken by campus administration. Sending the kids home sent a clear message. Her phone buzzed again. It was a text from Spradlin.

  Are you still reading?

  Chapter Forty-­Seven

  “HE WASN’T THERE.” Talbot shoved his phone in his pocket as the two men walked to the car. The campus was quiet, the specter of the dead coed keeping many students in their dorms.

  Cancini’s steps slowed. “Any sign he’d been there this morning?” Throughout the first investigation, Spradlin had never run away, but met everything head-­on.

  “Coffeepot was still warm. We’ve got a team parked outside the house and a second one searching in town. Best we can do without a warrant.”

  “Why not get—­”

  “Don’t start, Mike. We don’t have enough to get a warrant. The official line is we’re asking questions—­that’s it. After we find him, we can decide if a warrant is justified.”

  “You won’t find him if he doesn’t want to be found,” Cancini said, reflecting on the man he’d known during the first wave of crimes. He hadn’t changed.

  Talbot slid into the driver’s seat. “You don’t have much faith.”

  Cancini closed the passenger door. “Spradlin’s not your average guy. He’s smart, really smart.”

  “Maybe. But he hasn’t been in the real world in a long time.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’ll be found when he wants to and not before.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I went to see him yesterday.”

  The FBI man froze. “I see. Should I even ask?”

  “I didn’t break any rules. I was only paying my respects.”

  “Your respects. Ri-­ight.”

  They maneuvered through the police blockade, leaving the large bluestone buildings and manicured grounds behind. In town, the trees burst with red and gold leaves, the fall colors dazzling under the brilliant sun. Main Street had been subtly revitalized in the years since Cancini had been gone. Thriving shops and charming stores stood where buildings had once been run down. Anyone driving into Little Springs could not fail to see the beauty. It was picturesque, pure.

  Cancini opened the door, breathing in clean, crisp fall air. The heat of the Indian summer had finally waned. He looked at the FBI man over the roof of the car. “Something about the body, the death, is different this time
.”

  Talbot’s face was grave. “The beating?”

  “Yeah, that and the way her neck was broken.”

  “We don’t have an official cause of death.” They walked toward the squat brick building on the corner. “I think we need to wait for the coroner.”

  “Fair enough.” Cancini looked down the street. A black and white was parked at the corner, and another Little Springs cop strolled the sidewalk. “Things are escalating.”

  Talbot looked at Cancini. “Okay. Let’s say I agree with you. Things are escalating. Knowing it doesn’t help anyone stop it from happening.”

  They climbed the stairs to the second floor. Cancini filled two mugs with coffee and brought them into the office. He set the steaming mugs on the desk and pulled up a chair. “Do you know what always struck me as odd about those first murders?”

  “No,” Talbot said, folding his hands together on the desk. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  Cancini blew on his coffee and stretched his legs. “In every case, the cause of death was spinal shock, a broken neck. They were clean breaks, done in such a way that each of the girls died quickly. The M.E. said it was two to three minutes max.”

  “So?”

  “So a broken neck doesn’t guarantee death. It doesn’t always kill a person. You could break your neck and be paralyzed but still live or even recover if the spinal cord wasn’t injured. That’s not what happened. Cheryl Fornak and the others, they died almost instantly with minimal suffering.” Cancini set his coffee on the desk. “For that to happen, the neck has to be broken in precisely the right way, and it didn’t just happen once. It happened five times.”

  Talbot fingered his tie, his eyes on Cancini. “What are you suggesting?”

  “The old murders were cold and calculated. Maybe even an afterthought. He knew exactly how to break their necks to kill them. They weren’t crimes of passion.”

  “I see.” Talbot opened a file on the desk and tapped the thick stack of pages inside. “If I remember correctly, those girls were also beaten. That would imply crime of passion—­if you want to use that description.”