A Guilty Mind (26 page)

Cancini cleared his throat. Maybe the girl could be saved and maybe she couldn't. For today only, for this one moment, guilt didn't feel black and white. It was an illness, a disease that had infected too many already. His head pounded with the knowledge that he was liable to have his ass strung up and handed back to him for weeks. He took a deep breath and allowed himself one more glance at the glass.

“Mr. Vandenberg, you are under arrest for the murder of Dr. Edmund Michael. Are you ready to make a statement?”

 

Epilogue

One Year Later

T
HE ORANGE JUMPSU
IT
hung loose on his slim frame and the prison-­issued shoes cut into his feet. He didn't care. Clothing and other material things were irrelevant to him now. George hurried after the guard and burst into the visitors' room. There she was, on the other side of the glass. Her eyes followed him until he sat across from her, both of them picking up the phones hanging near their tables.

“Hello, Sarah.” His heart pitter-­pattered at the sight of her, but not the way it had in his youth, racing with lust and blind love. Now his love was more complicated. Partly based on sweet and distant memories and partly tainted with the truth and harsh reality of the present, it was mostly made up of a mutual love and dedication to their one and only daughter.

“You look good, George,” she said. He smiled at the lie. His hair had turned gray and the lines had deepened around his mouth and eyes. The weight loss wasn't a bad thing but unfortunately, it was more a function of bad food than good health. Prison life was a challenge for George, but he kept that to himself. “Lauren sends her love.”

“When is she getting out?” he asked. Using her husband's connections, Sarah had placed their daughter in an overseas facility. The battle with Lauren had been uphill, but in light of her father's sacrifice and his willingness to save her life, she'd relented.

“Next month. You won't believe how well she's doing in spite of everything. Her prognosis is better, and the doctor says she can move in with me and might be able to get a job soon. The anger is better, too, mostly gone; the medication helps.”

A tear came to his eye. He'd seen her only once after his confession, had marveled at the sight of her, a willowy, darker version of his Elizabeth Grace. Having admitted guilt in the murder, George had waived his right to a jury trial and chosen to be sentenced immediately. Lauren had attended the sentencing with Sarah, standing in the back, apart from Mary Helen and his other children. His two families, neither of which was perfect and neither of which was whole.

“Will she need the medication forever?”

Sarah's hair hung past her shoulders, long and lustrous, as it did in her younger days. “Probably, but they don't know for sure. She's still having a hard time with the guilt. I think when she gets back to the States and can see you, it might help. She needs to see that you're okay.”

A pinched look of concern crossed his face. “What do the doctors say about her seeing me? Are you sure it wouldn't upset her too much?”

“It might, but she's in a better place now. Let's wait and see what's best when she gets out.” Sarah hesitated and placed a hand against the glass. He raised his hand to meet hers. “I'd like her to know you. It would be good for you both.”

The former lovers sat a moment longer, each cradling the phone, saying nothing. So much was still unsaid, yet ultimately unnecessary. She broke the silence. “How are things with Mary Helen?”

“Better. The same. I'm not sure she'll ever forgive me completely, but at least she understands now.”

“Wills and Elizabeth Grace?”

The thought of them made him smile. Oddly, his relationship with them was better than it had ever been. Not at first, but to his great surprise, he discovered he mattered more than he'd thought. He wrote them every day, knew all the details of their lives, was an attentive listener, and loved them without bounds. Yet it was hard on them, knowing their father couldn't come home. There were occasional flashes of resentment, but they were becoming less frequent. “Okay, I guess. As well as can be expected.” Sighing, George put his head against the glass. He hated prison. He wished it could be different. But he'd had no choice. Sarah had understood and so had Mary Helen, to a lesser degree. She just didn't want to accept it.

He admired the beautiful woman on the other side of the glass. There had been so many mistakes, so much sadness and heartbreak. He'd tried to rectify it, tried to give everyone a chance, the kind of chance he'd never given himself. Maybe he hadn't actually murdered Dr. Michael, but he might as well have. The night he pushed Sarah with such force and anger, he had changed all their lives. He'd set things in motion, culminating in his own daughter's rage and hate. Cancini had offered him a chance to change his mind and rescind his confession, but George had refused. With a grim expression, the detective had let it go. He'd clapped George on the back and wished him luck, a vague understanding in his hazel eyes. George had taken responsibility for his actions. Even then, George recognized the guilt would never be gone. Too much had happened.

When their time was up, Sarah rose, her hand dropping back to her side. He nodded and she smiled, tears dotting her lashes. He left the visitors' room and returned to his tiny cell with its hard floor and lumpy bed. It was a lonely and solitary life. But Dr. Michael had been right about one thing. Coming forward, the act of confession, was good for the soul, the highest form of redemption. George Vandenberg, convict for life, was at peace.

 

Acknowledgments

A
G
UILTY
M
IND
is a story that's been swimming around in my brain for close to a decade. Although I left it more than once, distracted by the real world and other projects, I kept coming back to it, drawn to the concepts of guilt and consequences. After so many years, it is an honor to share George's story and to introduce readers to my favorite detective. Thank you to all who have found and read
A Guilty Mind
.

So many ­people helped turn this story into the first Cancini mystery and for that, I will always be grateful. Thank you to Chloe Moffett, my talented editor at Harper­Collins, for inviting me into the Witness Impulse family. Thank you also for finding my work and making the editing process so easy and enjoyable. Thank you to my wonderful agent, Rebecca Scherer at Jane Rotrosen, for your support and your enthusiasm. It is truly appreciated.

In addition to my editor and agent, this book would not have been possible without the support of a long list of friends and family. At the beginning, my local book club selected an early (and very rough) draft of
A Guilty Mind
as their “book of the month.” As with any good book critique group, their questions were pointed and their constructive criticism spot-­on. Although I can never thank that group enough, a special thank-­you goes out to Kate Hamson and Maria Gravely for spearheading the distribution. Thank you also to Roberta Sachs, Julie Ehlers, Lisa Wood, Beth Rendon, and Louise Ingold for reading additional drafts, vetting characters, and parsing plot revisions. Thank you all!

Also unfailing in their support were Mary Mitchell, Ginger Glenn, Virginia Glenn, and Ann Horowitz—­forever willing to spend hours discussing the progress of my novels (over wine and great food, of course) and always encouraging me to stay in the game. Thank you, ladies!

Thank you to all the Freeman moms (you know who you are!) that not only lifted me up but leaped into action to help celebrate this first book. Thank you, Paula Holm, for your generosity and kind spirit.

I am also indebted to another early editor, Anne Victory, and to one of my favorite artists, Guy Crittenden, for providing me a visual landscape. Thank you to my parents, Don and Nancy, and to my late mother-­in-­law, Shirley, who passed away before she could see this story published. I'd also like to give a big shout-­out to my sister and brothers, extended family, and amazing friends—­truly the best group of readers and critics any writer could hope to have.

Most importantly, thank you to my wonderful husband and four beautiful children. Thank you for my detective gifts, my nickname, and my personalized calendar. Without your encouragement and humor, I might have abandoned the process altogether.

 

If you enjoyed

A Guilty Mind,

keep reading for a sneak peek at

Stay of Execution
,

the next exhilarating Detective Cancini Mystery

from K. L. Murphy

 

Chapter One

S
HADOWS DANCE
D 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.”