Stay of Execution (27 page)

 

Epilogue

April First

C
ANCINI PULLED INTO
the half-­empty parking lot, squinting into the bright sun. Studying the boxy, gray building in front of him, he ran his fingers through his short, dark hair. Located in southwestern Virginia, Red Onion State Prison was a supermax facility. The majority of its inmates spent twenty-­three hours a day in isolation. It was filled with lifers and those like Spradlin, men whose death was already ordained by the courts.

He got out of the car, shading his eyes. The sun had risen high in the sky and time was running short. He still had to go through security, empty his pockets, and hand over his gun. From there, someone would escort him to the viewing room. On this day, he would watch Leo Spradlin die.

A short, beefy guard said little as he led the way through halls that smelled of bleach and sweat. By the time Cancini entered the last wing of the prison, he had been searched three times. While most of the employees had been polite, none had been friendly. They each wore the same expression of disinterest, their dull eyes and slack mouths as identical as their prison guard uniforms. They didn't care that he almost didn't come. They didn't care that he was tempted to turn around and leave, that he'd seen too much of death already.

Stopping in front of a black metal door, the escort asked, “Do you have any final questions about the rules?” Having been briefed, Cancini shook his head. “Okay. Ten minutes until time,” the guard said, opening the door.

Julia jumped to her feet as soon as he entered the room, hand at her throat. “Mike. I didn't expect to see you.”

Cancini stepped forward slowly, swallowing hard. He hadn't seen her since they'd returned to D.C. She'd written her series, returning to both the paper and, he heard, her husband. Cancini had stayed away. He swallowed again. She was more beautiful than he remembered. Her auburn hair was pulled back from her face in a loose bun at the base of her neck. She wore a black pantsuit and pearl earrings, accentuating her alabaster skin and the cinnamon freckles that seemed to have exploded across her nose. Her eyes, her robin's egg–blue eyes, searched his, waiting.

“I didn't expect to see you, either.” It was the truth. The viewing room was small, walled on three sides, the fourth a single large pane of glass. Spradlin would be on the other side soon. Another uniformed guard stood in the corner. He looked once at Cancini, then back at the wall over the detective's head.

Julia reached out, as though to touch his arm, and then dropped her hand again, shaking her head. She stepped toward him, stood on her toes, and pecked him on the cheek. He stiffened, as uncomfortable as she seemed relaxed and friendly. She waved a hand at the viewing chairs. “I think this is us.”

He sat down. It was difficult not to stare at the one-­way glass. On the other side, a shiny silver table covered with a white cloth had been placed next to a single chair. A flat-­screen monitor on a rolling pedestal sat blank in the corner. Cancini's eyes were drawn to the chair where Spradlin would receive the injection. Its shape and black cushioning reminded him of the chair he sat in when he had his teeth cleaned, only that chair didn't have straps.

“Congrats on your nomination,” he said, breaking the silence. “I heard you've been nominated for some kind of prize. I'm sorry. I don't remember what it was.”

“The Guggenheim. It's for criminal justice reporting.” She looked down at her hands.

“Yeah. That.”

“Thanks.” Turning to face him, Julia asked, “Why are you here, Mike? Is it a closure thing?”

“No. Not like that.” Cancini's attention was drawn back to the glass and the empty chair. “He sent me a letter. Didn't say much, asked if I would be a witness. And you?”

“Same. I got a letter, too.”

He nodded. “Not official capacity then? For the paper, I mean?”

“No.” She raised her chin. “I left the paper.”

He glanced at her ring finger. It was bare. “I see.”

“Some things aren't meant to be, I guess.”

“Yeah.” He didn't know what else to say, so he said nothing.

On the other side of the glass, a man in a white coat came in and placed several items on the white-­covered table, then exited.

“I'm glad you're here,” she said, her voice soft. “I almost didn't come today. Watching him die . . .” Twisting her body in the seat, she looked into his eyes. “I know what he did. All those girls. I know this is what he deserves. I know this is what he wants, but . . . God, this is hard.” Her voice trembled with emotion. She stopped and took a deep breath. “There has to be some tiny bit of him that isn't all bad. He kept me away from Ted. He could have killed me himself. He could have shot you and then Ted.” Her words came faster and her face closer. “He could have walked away, like you said that day in the cabin. He could have disappeared. He could've done all of those things, but he didn't. Instead, he told me everything. All of it. He says he didn't feel anything, but I think he wanted to. He wanted so much to feel something, anything.” Her voice faded. “Do you know what I mean?”

He did. She wasn't entirely wrong. In a way, Spradlin was giving up. He couldn't find a reason to live, so it was time to die. But Cancini couldn't feel compassion for the man, even on the day of his execution. He'd seen the twisted, brutalized bodies of girls who would never have careers, or get married, or grow old. He knew the man who had banished his mother from his heart. He knew the man who had allowed Teddy Baldwin to assault women over the course of decades.

Everything she'd said, he'd already thought. Spradlin could have walked away. Was it a crisis of conscience? Had all those years in prison changed Spradlin after all, even in some infinitesimal way? He understood the pity in Julia's eyes but couldn't share that sentiment. Just because Spradlin couldn't feel anything didn't make him less guilty or less evil. There was nothing innocent about Leo Spradlin.

Movement on the other side of the glass brought both of them back to the present. Spradlin, hands and ankles cuffed, was led in by two guards who helped him into the chair. They strapped him down, further restricting his movement. The man in the white coat returned along with a second doctor or nurse. The doctors hooked Spradlin up to the monitors, checked the readings, and made notes in their charts. The guards stood stone-­faced near the door.

Cameras angled down at Spradlin would capture everything on videotape, the official record. The door to the viewing room opened, and the prison warden and an elderly man entered. The old man nodded at Cancini and sat on the opposite side of the room.

Behind the glass, Spradlin waited. He lay back in the chair, his eyes closed as though resting. The heavy beard he'd worn for years was back, and the orange jumpsuit hung on his lanky frame. He appeared tired, older than he had only a few months earlier.

Julia sniffed, and out of the corner of his eye, Cancini saw her wipe away a tear. Everyone waited. After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, the first doctor picked up a syringe. “It's time,” he said. Speaking to the prisoner, the doctor explained there would be a succession of shots. The combination of drugs comprised the lethal injection. “Do you have any questions?”

Leo opened his eyes. He looked directly at the doctor, who seemed to visibly shrink under the intensity of the prisoner's gaze. “Are they here?”

“Who?” A brief look of confusion passed over the doctor's face.

Spradlin was still, looking at the two-­way glass.

The warden rose and walked to the glass. He pressed the intercom button. “Both of the invited witnesses are present.”

Spradlin tried to lean forward, straining against the straps. He stared at the glass as though he could burn a hole through it by looking hard enough. One of the officers moved quickly to the chair, pushing him down again. Leo let him, his eyes glittering under the glare of fluorescent lights. The doctor stepped forward, his fingers finding usable veins. One by one, he emptied each syringe. Spradlin's face and body were still at first. Then his fingers twitched and a leg jerked. His face remained impassive. Minutes slipped by, and the instruments on the monitor registered the slowing heart rate. The warden shifted in his seat. The doctors waited. Still, Spradlin's eyes remained open, his body not yet succumbing to the drugs.

Julia sat with her head bowed, silent tears flowing. Cancini reached out, took her hand, and squeezed. She held on tight. When the monitor beeped and the heart rate flatlined, she flinched. The doctor stepped forward and closed Spradlin's eyes. He was gone.

The warden and the other man stood, shaking hands. “You okay?” the warden asked.

The man nodded, shaking wisps of snow-­white hair. “It's finally over.” Deep wrinkles were partially masked by thick glasses. Only then did Cancini recognize the man. It was Cheryl Fornak's father.

The warden glanced at his watch and then at Cancini and Julia. He waved a hand toward the door. “There's going to be a brief press conference. Formality really. Would you like to come?”

“I don't think so,” Julia said. She'd wiped away the tears, but Cancini could tell she was still a little shaky.

“No, thanks,” Cancini said.

The old man walked toward them, reached out, and clapped a hand on Cancini's shoulder. Behind the lenses, his eyes were wet with unshed tears. “It doesn't bring her back, does it?” he said.

“No, sir. It doesn't.” It never did. Not a conviction. Not prison. Not even execution. None of it brought back the dead. But it did help. Cancini knew he would never understand a man like Spradlin. He'd said he had no choice. He was wrong. There was always a choice. With young Cheryl Fornak, and every woman after, he'd made the wrong choice.

Mr. Fornak squeezed Cancini's shoulder, his hand stronger than it looked. His eyes cleared. “Thanks,” he said.

Watching the two men leave, it occurred to Cancini that Spradlin had made one right choice after all. The final one.

He took a deep breath and his eyes found Julia. She'd moved close enough for him to smell the vanilla scent of her hair. “I spotted a coffee shop about fifteen minutes up the road. If you want, we could stop and get coffee.”

She smiled. Tiny moon-­shaped lines appeared at the corners of her mouth. “I'd like that.”

 

Acknowledgments

I
CAN'T REMEMBER
when I first started loving books. I just did. I tore through them whenever I could, wanting to be Nancy Drew or Laura Ingalls. By high school, I was reading everything from historical romance to thrillers to horror. Stephen King kept me up many a night during my teenage years. Even now, I have so many favorite writers, it would be hard to put together a list. What hasn't changed is that I'm still thrilled to discover a new writer, try a new genre, or meet a character I can't forget. Thank you to all those writers who continue to mesmerize and inspire.

Writing may be a solitary job, but publishing a book takes a whole slew of talented ­people. First, thank you to Chloe Moffett, my amazing editor at Harper­Collins Witness Impulse, for loving this story and for believing in the Cancini series. Thank you for all your input and hard work and thank you to the entire Witness team. Thank you to Rebecca Scherer, my wonderful agent at Jane Rotrosen, for being in my corner and for all your support.

From the earliest draft through the final edits, I've had incredible support and help. Thank you to Donna McGrath, James Larsen, Helen Larsen, Kate Hamson, Lisa Wood, Julie Ehlers, Maria Gravely, Roberta Sachs, and Beth Rendon for your honest feedback—­especially when the subject matter was sensitive and timely. Each of you offered constructive criticism that made a difference to the story. No writer could have a better “street team.” Thank you also to Ginger Glenn, Virginia Glenn, and Ann Horowitz for their enduring support, and to Mary Mitchell, who is missed by so many.

Thank you to Joni Albrecht for helping me take this story and make it better. Because of you, I feel I've done justice to Detective Cancini and
Stay of Execution
. Thank you to Guy Crittenden for your support and beautiful vision. You will forever be a part of this story.

Thank you to Gram and Pop, always fans no matter what I do. Thank you to my four wonderful children for letting me be distracted (Mom. Mom! MOM!) and understanding. Thank you to my gorgeous daughter, Cameron, for politely listening to more than your share of “book” updates and for taking the time to write out editing comments and notes. And a special thank-­you to my husband, David, for always encouraging me and still making me laugh every day.

Finally, I want to thank all the readers of
A Guilty Mind
who let me know they wanted more Cancini. It's been my pleasure to write the second book in the series for you, and I can't wait to write the third.

 

About the Author

K. L. MURPHY
was born in Key West, Florida, the eldest of four children in a military family. She has worked as a freelance writer for several regional publications in Virginia, and is the author of
A Guilty Mind
and
Stay of Execution
. She lives in Richmond, Virginia, with her husband, four children, and two very large, very hairy dogs. She is currently working on her next novel,
The Last Sin
. To learn more about the Detective Cancini Mystery series or future projects, visit
www.kellielarsenmurphy.com
.

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Also by K. L. Murphy

A Guilty Mind