Book Read Free

The Last Sin

Page 29

by K. L. Murphy


  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, s
he’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.

  Michael Hudgins, dean of student affairs, announced the immediate cancellation of all classes and exams. “In light of recent events and the ongoing investigation, we are suspending exams until after winter break. Campus will officially close at five p.m. tomorrow, and all students are expected to vacate college housing.”

  Julia tapped the notebook with her pen. Only two days between the second and third murders and the first body to be found on campus. The first two girls were found miles from Blue Hill. The third was clearly a departure. Was the killer growing bolder or more reckless?

  Julia rifled through the next set of articles. Although there were no murders over the Christmas break, there was also no apparent progress in solving the first three cases. The lack of an arrest was bad for the town and worse for the college. Some students—mostly girls—had applied for deferrals, opting not to return for the spring semester. The town had invoked a curfew of ten p.m. and had brought in additional police from neighboring towns. Still, the killer remained at large.

  Julia dropped the pages in her lap, thinking about the dead girls from Blue Hill. No doubt their parents thought they were sending their teenage daughters away to a safe place, a college with strong Christian principles and no city crime, a place where they could grow up and get an education. But Cheryl Fornak, Theresa Daniels, and Marilyn Trammel didn’t get to grow up. Head bowed, Julia continued to read. Within days of the students’ return, another girl was found, and then another. Five college girls. All raped. All dead. Shivering in the air-conditioning, Julia rubbed her arms.

  In an unprecedented move, the college had announced the immediate suspension of the semester. She read the statement from old papers.

  The safety of our young women and all of our students is at the forefront of this decision. We cannot, in good conscience, ask the students to remain on campus until this situation has been resolved.

  The FBI had been brought in after the fourth murder, spearheading the interviews with every male student enrolled at the college. With a serial rapist and murderer on the loose, the Little Springs town council was forced to invoke “sunset” curfews. The media dubbed the murderer the Coed Killer, a name that stuck. Rumors of vendettas against the college and the town spread like wildfire. Fights broke out among locals as suspicions ran high. Businesses suffered and still, no suspects.

  Julia circled the dates of all the murders. The timeline was curious. Had the killer had second thoughts after the first? Why the long gap and then increasingly smaller ones? Over the break, they’d stopped. Did that suggest the killer was also a student? After Christmas, he hadn’t waited long to strike again and then again. After the semester was suspended, the murders appeared to stop. Then the police arrested Leo Spradlin.

  Julia sifted through the stack of research for pictures of the victims. She placed the photos in a row. Five girls smiling at the camera, all young, all pretty. There was nothing obvious linking them, no common physical traits that she could see. According to the articles, they had different majors and different friends. Yet they’d all known Spradlin—a one-time student at the school—a fact he’d never denied. She set the pictures aside and picked up Spradlin’s mug shot. He was young, barely older than college-age himself. Attractive, with dark hair, he had a strong chin and a straight nose. It wasn’t hard to see how a young woman might have wanted to be alone with him. She squinted a
t the black and white photo that was more school portrait than mug shot. His hair was combed and he was neatly dressed. He looked directly into the camera. She held the picture closer, trying to read his expression, but saw nothing. No fear. No anger. No remorse.

  Now he would be a free man. His impending release had already made a big splash across Virginia. It was a story that promised to get even bigger, fueling the death penalty debate and causing increased speculation about the governor’s political agenda. The release was one thing, the aftermath another. If Spradlin wasn’t the Coed Killer, who was? No newspaper could resist this story. The Washington Herald was no exception.

  Julia turned the page in the notebook and wrote a list of questions. Rereading the short list, Julia hoped she knew what she was doing. She was not the first choice among the staff, and she knew it. Conroy was the star reporter at the paper, and he wouldn’t miss this story for the world. But Jack owed her. If he wasn’t going to be a great husband, the least he could do was help her rebuild the career she’d let slip from her grasp.

  Now that she had the story, she had to do something with it. She picked up the picture of Spradlin again. He’d spent two decades in prison for crimes he didn’t commit. Was he bitter? Angry? What would that do to a man? She shook her head, stacking the pages and sliding them back into the large envelope. Spradlin was going back to Little Springs after his release. His lawyers had announced he would hold a press conference the day of his homecoming. The town would be flooded with press, publicity-seekers, and gawkers.

  Julia knew a story like this attracted all kinds. She also knew most stories die after a few days. And that was precisely her strategy. She would attend the press conference like the others and position herself for an interview. But when the others were gone, scurrying after the next headline, she would stay. She was in it for the long haul. She was in it for the story of her life.

 

‹ Prev