by K. L. Murphy
It had been difficult to ask questions, but she’d fought her feelings of revulsion. “Then why? Why did you do it?”
“I had no choice. I couldn’t let her talk about being raped. I don’t think she expected me to hurt her.” He’d paused. “It was easier than I thought it would be, taking a life. It was that night when I knew something was wrong with me. Something was missing.”
Every nerve in her body had told her to run then, but she’d stayed in the wooden chair, listening as he talked about each girl, providing details that left no doubts in her mind.
“Death is only a state,” he’d told her at one point. “People are afraid of it, but I don’t know why. There’s no pain after you die.”
She hadn’t wanted to listen anymore. She’d wanted it to stop, but he kept talking. When he was quiet, she’d asked the one question that scared her most of all. “Why’d you come back? Nobody would have ever known the truth.”
His hands had curled up into fists. “To finish what I started.” Her heart beat wildly with his words. Cancini had been right to warn her about Spradlin after all. Lying on the wooden floor, she had no more tears. He was gone now, but the words and thoughts of death hung in the air. It all made sense now, in a sick way.
Had he been gone an hour? More? She couldn’t be sure. The only window was covered, and the light was dim. Her fear gave way to anger and eventually, frustration. There had to be something she could do. With nothing to lose, she started screaming. She screamed over and over again until her throat burned. She strained her ears but heard nothing, only the sound of her own breathing. Fresh tears pricked at her eyes. And then she heard it. Buzz. Buzz. She jolted. Buzz. Buzz. It was coming from her canvas bag. Her cell phone. Someone was trying to reach her. Ignoring her bleeding wrists, she felt fresh energy course through her aching body. There had to be a way.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
“GODDAMMIT,” HE MUTTERED, crossing the backyard and hurrying to the car he’d parked on the next block. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. She’d ruined everything. God, he’d wanted her so bad. The thought of having her thrilled him, but it wasn’t to be. Shit. He’d had to fucking shoot her. It was her own damn fault.
The shock of the gun exploding between them had frozen them both for an instant. Had he missed? Blood spread across her white T-shirt and spattered his own. Her fingers were still wrapped around the barrel of the gun, her mouth open. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed. He hadn’t missed. He grabbed a kitchen towel, loosened her fingers, and wiped down the gun. He replaced it in her hand. Grabbing another towel, he wiped down all the surfaces he’d touched. Stuffing the towels and her underwear into his pockets, he washed his hands and slipped out the door. Three minutes had passed since the shooting.
Back at his car, he pulled on a jacket and ran his fingers through his hair. He drove away, obeying the speed limit, keeping his ears open for sirens. After a few miles, he turned onto the highway, then turned again onto a narrow country road.
“Goddammit,” he said, smacking the steering wheel. Church services would be over by now, and she would be found any minute. The police would swarm the house. He’d done what he could to eliminate any trace that he’d been there. A grin spread across his face. Maybe this was a good thing. Another dead girl. She wasn’t naked like the others, though, and had no marks around her neck. That could make things interesting. How would the FBI reconcile this new event? What would the great Cancini do?
He stopped the car and laughed, sure he couldn’t have planned it better if he’d tried. The confusion would buy him time and, more importantly, the opportunity to clean up a few loose ends. Hell. He was looking forward to it.
Chapter Seventy
“HER NAME IS Nikki Stephenson.” The Little Springs cop directed his report at Cancini, ignoring Talbot. “She’s a student at the college, staying here with the Walshes because of the evacuation.” He nodded toward the couple and young woman huddled outside the kitchen. “That’s them. Their daughter and this girl are classmates. They say her dad is Senator Stephenson, you know, from Alabama.”
Cancini and Talbot exchanged glances. Cancini had seen the man on TV a few times. He was a talker. “Why didn’t she go home to her family?”
The cop stole a look at the Walshes. “They said she didn’t get along with ’em—especially not with the dad.”
“Have they been contacted?”
“No, sir. Not yet.”
“Okay. What happened here this morning?”
The cop read from his notes. “The family went to church, left the house about eight forty-five for a nine o’clock service. Solid alibi. The Walshes are a good churchgoing family.” He cleared his throat. “Ms. Stephenson stayed back saying she didn’t want to go.” He gestured at the broken bowl and spilled batter on the floor. “Apparently, she promised to make pancakes while they were gone. Family returned a little after ten and found her. We had just gotten a call about a loud noise in the neighborhood and were sending a car, so it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before we got here.”
Talbot nodded once, then stepped out to speak to the family. Cancini stayed, assessing the crime scene. The house was probably thirty or forty years old by the look of it, but the kitchen appeared newer. It had shiny new appliances and granite countertops. The refrigerator was covered with family photos and mementos. Several cookbooks stood perched on a shelf near the stove.
A door at the back of the kitchen led to the side yard. The top half was glass, giving a clear view of the yard and the neighbor’s house. No panes were broken.
“Did the neighbors see anything? Hear anything?”
The cop’s eyes followed Cancini’s. “No. Most were at church, too. We’re still canvassing the rest of the street.”
Cancini checked the door again. “Any sign of a break-in?”
“Nothing obvious. Couple of scratches on the lock. Coulda been picked, but might be nothing.”
“Okay.” An open backpack perched near the counter’s edge. Closer to the stove, a bag of flour and a carton of eggs had been left out. He moved closer, pausing at the cooktop. His hand warmed over the griddle, the heat still coming off the pan.
“That was still on when we got here,” said the local cop. “It was pretty smoky for a while. It’s better now.”
Cancini nodded. The burnt smell almost masked the metallic odor of the girl’s blood. He crouched, resting his hands on his thighs. The floor was smeared red, and while the emergency unit had been careful, it was difficult to determine if any evidence had been disturbed.
“What else?”
“There was a gun in her hand. Mr. Walsh says it looks like the one he kept locked in a box in his study. His is missing.”
“I see.” No obvious break-in. The only sign of a possible struggle was the broken bowl and batter on the floor. Did the girl know her attacker? How and when did she get the locked gun from the study?
Cancini stood up, his knees cracking. “Where’s the gun?”
“Forensics has it.”
Walking to the kitchen window, Cancini saw a large yard that opened to the adjacent neighbor’s back lawn. Only a handful of yards were fenced. It would be easy to skip across to another street and disappear.
“Were you here when the medics took the girl?”
“Yes, sir,” the young cop said.
“Any idea whether she’ll make it?”
“I don’t know, sir. It looked pretty bad.”
Cancini gripped the counter’s edge. Was it the same guy? And if it was, why was he taking chances, entering a home?
Talbot came back into the kitchen. “I’ve got what I need for now. I think we should head over to the hospital. See if the girl can talk.”
“Right.” They walked to the front door and stepped outside.
Cancini spotted at least a dozen reporters hover
ing across the street. A handful of neighbors stood in their yards watching, a new fear on their faces. This was different. This wasn’t a campus crime. This was their neighborhood. He got in the car, shutting the door. The cameras turned their focus from the front of the house to them, snapping pictures as they pulled away. The journalists shouted questions, but he heard nothing. Cancini searched the faces for Julia, his skin growing clammy and his mouth dry. Where was she?
Chapter Seventy-One
SPRADLIN 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
“SHE’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.
Cancin
i 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.”