Stay of Execution

by K. L. Murphy

  “You’re the girl on the cover of NewsWorld, right?”

  She looked past the woman to her table. On it sat a laptop, a notepad and pencils, a black book, and a large canvas bag. A reporter. Nikki had seen a few in her day and recognized the gear. They were always around her father, and he loved it. He had a personal trainer now and a stylist, too. It was disgusting.

  “So?”

  The woman apologized. “I don’t mean to be nosy, and I promise I’m not asking for a story.” Nikki pushed her hair behind her ears, one hand on her hip. “Although it’s a shame you were only quoted once. Something tells me you might have had more to say.” Nikki bit her lip. “That wasn’t a story,” the woman said. “It was a campaign speech.” The woman’s voice was gentle. “Was the article a surprise? I know it’s none of my business, but I couldn’t help overhearing.”

  Nikki nodded once. Shock was more like it. She wondered how many other kids found out they would be paying their tuition—­with no help—­in a magazine. Was it true? She had no idea. The only thing she knew for sure was he’d made her the poster child for hardworking, Chris­tian children. The media would lap it up. His constituents and followers would hold him up as an example of solid parenting. It was a joke.

  “I’m sorry,” the reporter said. “Look, I’ve taken enough of your time.” She nodded at a waiting customer.

  Nikki poured coffee and wiped the counters. Her face burned when she heard the whispers.

  “Did you see her? It’s Senator Stephenson’s daughter.”

  “I’ll never get my parents to pay for spring break now.”

  It was a nightmare. She’d become part of his stump speech. Dropping out was not an option. Her mother and sister—­they would pay the price. She hated her father and everything he stood for. He knew it, too, but didn’t give a damn.

  Her eyes wandered back to the woman. Nikki was rarely allowed to speak to reporters. Her presence was required for family pictures, but after that, she was nothing but a convenient statistic and sound bite. Even though she’d always hated the press, she was starting to be intrigued by the idea of journalism. Reporters might not make the news, but they did have the ability to shape it. Maybe writers were in the background, but at least they were heard. Somehow, she didn’t think her father would approve. She smiled and tossed her dishtowel onto the counter. Within seconds, she stood in front of the red-­haired reporter.

  The woman looked up from her laptop, fingers frozen over the keys. “Hi,” she said.

  Nikki’s mouth went dry. “Hi,” she said back. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.” The woman leaned against the back of the booth, hands folded in her lap. Nikki’s words tumbled out. “About being a reporter. What that’s like. How you do it. Do you even like it?” When the woman laughed, her blue eyes sparkled, and Nikki began to relax. “Sorry. That part is probably none of my business.”

  The reporter laughed. “Then we’re even.” She waved a hand at the other seat. “Actually, if you’re thinking about journalism, that’s the first question you should ask.” Nikki sat down, nodding. “I do like it. Not every day but most of the time. Sometimes it’s hard, but I wouldn’t trade it. I wouldn’t want to do anything else.”

  Nikki nodded again. “So, you don’t mind my asking you some questions?”

  The lady smiled. “Not at all. I’ll be on the other side of the interview for a change.” She stuck her hand out across the table. “You can call me Julia.”

  Grinning, she took the reporter’s hand in her own. “I guess you already know my name, but it’s nice to meet you. I’m Nikki.”

  Chapter Thirty-­Nine

  FROM A BENCH across the street, he peered over the newspaper at the two women. They stood on the sidewalk outside the campus coffee shop. As they talked, the younger woman wiped her hands across her red apron. Julia hooked the straps of her bag over her shoulder, talking as she handed the woman a card. The girl took it, nodded, and smiled. He was too far away to hear their conversation, but he could see they liked each other. He didn’t like complications. Julia reached out and gave the girl a hug, her auburn hair catching the sunlight.

  “Well, well,” the man said out loud. Julia gave a wave and strode off. The young woman stood a moment, watching Julia’s retreating back, a half smile on her face. After a moment, she went back to her job in the coffee shop.

  Setting aside the paper, he strained to make out the younger woman through the large glass window, but all he could see were shadows in the afternoon glare. Irritated, he scratched at the dark wig. Under the hat and wig, his head was slick with sweat. Precautions were necessary now. He’d seen the police and the FBI on campus. The girl had been found, and while it might not be public knowledge yet, he had no doubt they were already looking for him. Not that it mattered to him too much. They were stupid and incompetent. Looking wasn’t the same as finding.

  From behind the sunglasses, he scanned the street. On the next corner stood an FBI man, propped against the brick exterior of a sandwich shop. The lawman, in his dark suit and sunglasses, garnered far more curious looks than he did. After all, who would notice a dark-­haired man of indeterminate age, wearing a hat, sunglasses, and the rumpled tweed blazer adopted by so many Blue Hill professors? An empty attaché case was propped at his feet. The FBI man, though, stuck out like a fucking sore thumb. It took all his self-­control not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

  The laughter died in his throat when he saw the young girl come out of the coffee shop. The apron gone, she hurried down the street toward her dormitory. His heart pounded, but he stayed on the bench, resisting the urge to follow. Later. He knew where she was going anyway—­straight across campus to her dorm, same as the other times. Her room was on the third floor. The shade would be drawn until the girl yanked it up and threw open the window. She’d climb out, perching on the windowsill, knees pulled up to her chest, and stare out into the distance. Sometimes she’d stay like that for an hour, sometimes longer. He wondered what she thought about, what she dreamed about. Maybe, when the time came, he’d ask her. Maybe not. He didn’t care that much.

  From under his hat, he peered at the FBI man again. Pathetic. The police, the FBI, even the school had acted exactly as he’d anticipated. So predictable. They were confused, and that was good. They were anxious and aware. It wasn’t enough, though. He wanted more. It was time to do something bolder, louder. It was time to make believers out of doubters. He was back.

  Chapter Forty

  THE TWO YOUNG men trudged across campus, shivering in the early morning chill. The taller one pulled the hood of his jacket around his ears. They walked along the tree-­lined street, kicking at the leaves dotting the sidewalk.

  “That test on Monday was a bitch,” the tall boy said.

  “I know,” Jackson said, shaking his head. He was shorter by almost a foot and craned his head to look up at his friend. “If I don’t do well on the final, I’ll be lucky to pass this stupid class. I don’t know why we have to take math anyway when we’re both English majors.”

  “Yeah. Dumb.” They cut across a courtyard, taking the shortest route to the cafeteria. The sidewalks and park were still empty. That would change in another hour.

  “Thanks for grabbing breakfast early today,” Jackson said. “I wanna try and catch Professor Morris before class.”

  “Sure. No problem.” The tall boy slowed, elbowing his friend. He nodded toward a bench across the courtyard, near the largest oak tree. “Look, some girl is sleeping it off.”

  “Damn. Must’ve been some party.”

  The other boy laughed. “How come I never get invited to any of those?”

  “ ’Cause you’re a dork. That’s . . .” The words faded. Both boys froze. The girl’s bare feet hung off the edge of the bench. They looked at each other. “Do you think she’s okay?”

  The tall boy shrugged his shoulders and scan
ned the empty park. “Who knows? We should probably wake her up before she gets in trouble.” He walked toward the bench.

  Jackson nodded, glancing once at the cafeteria, then back at the sleeping girl. “Yeah, okay,” he said, following at a distance.

  “Holy shit!” The tall boy stopped, stumbling backward. His face blanched. He bent over, arms folded across his stomach, and vomited.

  Jackson sprinted forward. Stopping short, he gasped, his eyes wide. “Jesus Christ.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, fingers fumbling as he dialed. “This is bad,” he whispered, backing away from the body. “Really bad.”

  Chapter Forty-­One

  “GODDAMMIT!” CANCINI GLARED at Talbot and slammed the car door. “What are all these kids doing here?”

  “I’ve got a team working to secure the perimeter now,” Talbot said. He nodded toward a handful of agents and Little Springs cops pushing the gawking students from the courtyard.

  Cancini followed his gaze. Several of the young ­people held up phones, snapping pictures of the crime scene. “They’re taking pictures.”

  Talbot stopped as they reached the tape. “Mike, we’ll take care of it.” He put a hand on Cancini’s shoulder, leaning in close. “I know I don’t need to remind you, but this is not your investigation.”

  “Right,” Cancini muttered. Groups of students were herded away, and police cruisers stood ready, stationed at every corner. It would have to do. The kids were the least of his concerns. The fact that another girl was dead was all that mattered. The short amount of time between the two murders sent cold chills up and down his spine. Someone—­Spradlin, a copycat, or someone else entirely—­was clearly trying to make a statement. No matter which turned out to be the case, a murder scene was no place for college kids. “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  “Who found the girl?”

  ­“Couple of students on their way to breakfast, a little before six. One of them called 911. We’ve taken them in for questioning and confiscated their phones.”

  “Photos?”

  “I don’t think so. I actually think those boys were too traumatized to snap any, but we’re taking every precaution.” Talbot paused and motioned toward the bench. “It’s not pretty,” he said, his tone somber.

  The detective sighed. He recognized the defeated slope of Talbot’s shoulders and the troubled expression on his face. “It never is.”

  Talbot lifted the tape, and the two lawmen ducked underneath. A forensic team had arrived and was waiting for Talbot to give them the go-­ahead. He held up a hand indicating they should wait. Cancini pulled on a pair of gloves, the rubber snapping at his wrists. Talbot led the way. “Early estimates place time of death between midnight and this morning when the body was found. Appears to have been sexually assaulted. She was beaten, her neck snapped.” Talbot’s straightforward report couldn’t disguise his sadness.

  Cancini stiffened as he approached the girl. She was naked from the waist down, a dark piece of clothing tossed across her bruised legs. He crouched by her feet. Barely touching the toes, he pulled them apart and angled his head to look at the soles of her feet. “She was forced to walk somewhere without her shoes. Clay soil, some cuts, dried blood.”

  He stood and moved toward her head; it hung awkwardly from her neck. Cancini bent at the waist, his face close to the girl. He inspected the bruises that covered her shoulders and upper torso, pushing aside the thin fabric of her shredded blouse with the tips of his gloved fingers. He looked at her swollen face, one eye already dark with pooled blood. He picked up a hand and, one by one, opened the clenched fingers. The hair on the back of his neck rose. There, in the palm of that dead hand, lay a single button with several blue threads. Like the others, she had fought hard. Unlike them, she’d done something no one else had been able to do. She’d brought them evidence. Careful not to disturb that evidence, he folded her fingers and let go of her hand. “Get the photographer. She got a button from the perp.”

  Chapter Forty-­Two

  THE INSISTENT KNOCK on the door jerked her awake. Rubbing her eyes, Julia struggled to make out the numbers on the wind-­up clock. “Ugh,” she groaned. It wasn’t even seven in the morning. No one she knew would bother her at such an ungodly hour. She pulled a pillow and the covers over her head. A few minutes passed before the pounding started again. “For God’s sake,” she muttered, throwing off the pillow.

  Sliding from under the sheets, she shuffled to the bathroom, grabbing her robe from the hook on the door. Her face in the mirror reflected puffy eyes and creases along one cheek. The annoying presence at the door knocked again. “Okay, okay,” she grumbled, “I’m coming.” Julia ran her fingers through her hair and slipped on the robe.

  She opened the door and inhaled sharply. Fingers shaking, she pulled her robe tighter.

  “Sorry to wake you,” Spradlin said. He brushed by her, carrying a stack of diaries. He dropped the books on a pile of folders and papers on the desk. Arms folded across her chest, she watched, saying nothing. “These are the rest of the diaries,” he said.

  Julia eyed the books and sighed. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want me to know?”

  His eyes wandered to the unmade bed and pile of clothes strewn across the chair near the window. “I can’t do that.”

  She started to protest, then noticed the dark circles and sunken cheeks. His shirt was rumpled, as if he’d slept in his clothes or not at all. Her face softened. “It would save time if you could. Tell me, I mean.”

  “You have to read them to know. Right away.”

  “Right away?” She bit back on her irritation. Norm was already pressuring her to come up with something more, something different. That wasn’t going to come from the words of a dead woman. Julia needed an interview with the man standing in front of her.

  “Yes. As soon as possible actually. Things are happening fast.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve got a deadline. It would be helpful if I could ask—­”

  “It has to be today.” His tone was strained. He walked toward her and placed both hands on her shoulders. She breathed the musky scent of his soap. “It can’t wait.”

  Julia hesitated. She’d never seen him show any emotion. Maybe pushiness didn’t qualify as an emotion exactly, but something was going on. “Leo, what’s wrong?”

  He looked down at her, his blue eyes soft. He tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. His finger trailed down the side of her face, tracing her cheekbone. He dropped his hand, and his face was once again unreadable. “Read the diaries,” he said. “Please.” And then he was gone.

  Chapter Forty-­Three

  THE RISING SUN brought clarity after the confusion of the night. The man had done things he’d never done before, things he didn’t even know he had in him. He’d been the aggressor plenty of times, but he wasn’t cruel by nature—­only when necessary. This time, though, he’d become something more, someone he hadn’t recognized. It was the girl. She’d provoked him, hurling vile words and accusations. He’d hit other girls before, to shut them up, but he’d never before beaten a woman to death. It was her fault, though. The bitch had asked for it, and, once he’d started, he’d been unable to stop. It was odd. He’d never felt so fucking strong, never more invincible. He wasn’t sorry. Not one damn bit.

  He’d wanted to be there when the body was discovered, but he knew that was just ego. This girl would make the news for sure. It wouldn’t be a little boy the police stifled. Dozens of kids would know about this girl in minutes, thanks to social media.

  He fumbled with the top of the medicine bottle and shook one single pill into the palm of his hand. His body and hands hurt, but he needed to stay alert. He couldn’t afford to sleep or lose focus. The FBI, the police, and Cancini would hunt him with renewed intensity. The media would again descend on the small town. He smiled. He would not be afraid. He wouldn’t h
ide, and he wouldn’t run. Not yet. He still had work to do.

  Chapter Forty-­Four

  “WHERE THE HELL are you?” Norm demanded.

  Julia rolled her eyes. Absently flipping through the diary in her lap, she held the cell phone to her ear, wishing she’d let it go to voice mail. She didn’t have the energy to hear that she needed to get more from Spradlin. Norm wouldn’t be thrilled about the stack of diaries sitting in her lap. “I’m in my hotel room.”

  “Have you been out? Heard anything?”

  “What? No.” The most she’d managed was a large cup of coffee from room ser­vice and a little reading. Curled up in a chair near the window facing Main Street, she pulled the soft robe around her legs. She stifled a yawn and started to tell him about her morning visitor. “Listen, I—­”

  “Tell me later,” he said, breathless. “Get over to the campus right away. If you can, get your mayor friend or even Cancini to make a statement. Conroy is on his way back to Little Springs. Until then, you’re our man on the ground.”

  She stood up, diary dropping to the floor. “What’s going on, Norm?” She pushed the drapes aside. An increased police presence stirred on the street below.

  “Jesus, Julia, they found a dead girl right in the middle of the campus. There might even be two; I’m not sure. Anyway, it looks like the girl they found was raped and murdered—­like the girls from before.”

  “What?” Her hand went to her throat.

  “Crazy, right? It just came over the wire, a brief statement about a girl being found dead on the campus and that the FBI has sectioned off the area. No one will comment, but I’ve got a guy who says she was half naked and beaten pretty bad. Here’s the real kicker: I’ve got a ­couple of unconfirmed reports that she’s not the first. I’m still working on that lead, but I’m told the FBI has been in Little Springs for two days. Two days!”