Stay of Execution

 

Dedication

For Mary—­who never lost a friend

 

Contents

 

Chapter One

S
HADOWS 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

D
ETECTIVE
M
IKE
C
ANCINI
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.”