The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(15)

Again, her certainty was disarming, yet astonishing. She had been chasing Bannick for so long, his guilt had become a hard fact.

She continued, “I’ve read a hundred books about serial killers. From the gossipy tabloids to the academic treatises. Virtually none of them want to get caught, but yet they want someone out there—the police, the victims’ families, the press—to know they are at work. Many are brilliant, some are incredibly stupid. They run the gamut. Some kill for decades and are never caught, others go crazy and do their work in a hurry. These usually make mistakes. Some have a clear motive, others kill at random.”

“But they’re usually caught, right?”

“Hard to say. This country averages fifteen thousand murders a year. One-third are never solved. That’s five thousand this year, last year, the year before. Since 1960, over two hundred thousand. There are so many unsolved murders that it’s impossible to say this victim or that victim died at the hands of a serial killer. Most experts believe that’s one of the reasons they leave behind clues. They want someone to know they’re out there. They thrive on the fear and terror. As I said, they don’t want to get caught, but they want someone to know.”

“So no one, not even the FBI, knows how many serial killers are loose?”

“No one. And some of the more famous were never identified. They never caught Jack the Ripper.”

Lacy couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Forgive me, but I find it hard to believe that I’m sitting here in Podunk, Florida, having a pleasant cup of coffee and talking about Jack the Ripper.”

“Please don’t laugh, Lacy. I know it’s bizarre but it’s all true.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Just believe me, Lacy. You have to believe me.”

Lacy stopped smiling and drank some more coffee. After a long pause, in which neither made eye contact, she said, “Okay, I’m still listening. Using your theory, are you saying that Bannick wants to get caught?”

“Oh no. He’s too careful, too smart, too patient. Plus he has too much to lose. Most serial killers, same as other killers, are misfits from the fringes of society. Bannick has status, a rewarding career, probably some old family money. He’s a sick man but he puts up a good front. Church, country club, stuff like that. He’s active in the local bar, president of a historical society, even fancies himself as an actor with a county thespian group. I’ve seen two of his performances, just dreadful.”

“You watched him onstage?”

“Yes. The crowds were small, for good reason, but the theaters were dark. It wasn’t risky.”

“He doesn’t sound antisocial.”

“As I said, he puts up a good front. No one would ever suspect him. He’s even seen around the Pensacola area with a blonde on his arm. He uses several, probably pays them, but I don’t know that.”

“How do you know about the blondes?”

“Social media. For example, the local chapter of the American Cancer Society holds an annual gala, black tie and all. His father, the pediatrician, died of cancer, so Bannick is involved. It’s a big gala and they raise a lot of money. Everything gets posted online. Not much is private anymore, Lacy.”

“But he doesn’t post anything.”

“Nothing. No social media presence at all. But you’d be surprised what you can dig up when you live online like I do.”

“But you said everything leaves a trail.”

“Yes, but casual browsing is hard to track. And I take precautions.”

Another long pause as Lacy struggled for the next question. Jeri waited nervously, as if the next revelation might frighten away her new confidante. The waitress breezed by with a pot of coffee and refilled their cups.

Lacy ignored hers and said, “A question. You said that most serial killers want someone to know that they’re out there, or whatever. Same for Bannick?”

“Oh yes. There’s an old saying among FBI investigators that ‘sooner or later a man will sign his name.’ I got that from a book, maybe even a novel. I can’t remember. I’ve read so much.”

“The rope?”

“The rope. He always uses a three-eighths-inch nylon cord, marine grade, double twin-braided, light duty. A length about thirty inches long, wrapped twice around the neck so hard that the skin is always cut, and secured with a double clove hitch knot, probably learned in the Boy Scouts. I have crime scene photos from every murder but Kronke’s.”

“Isn’t that careless?”

“It could be, but then who’s really investigating? There are six murders in six different jurisdictions, six different states, over a twenty-year period. None of the six police departments have compared notes with the others. They just don’t work that way, and he knows it.”

“And only one in Florida?”

“Yes, Mr. Kronke. Two years ago.”

“And where was that?”

“The town of Marathon, in the Keys.”

“So why can’t you go to the police down there and show them your files, give them your theory?”

“That’s a good question. That may happen, Lacy. I might be forced to do so, but I have my doubts. What do you think the police will do? Chase down five cold cases from five other states? I doubt it. You can’t forget that I have no proof yet, nothing concrete to give the police, and for the most part they’ve stopped digging.”