The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(32)

There were no felony convictions for Lanny Verno, at least not in Florida, and he had been involved in no civil litigation. Fortunately, though, the Pensacola City police department had digitized its records a decade earlier, and in the process had memorialized thirty years’ worth of arrests and old court dockets somewhere deep in the cloud. At two thirty in the morning, as she sipped another diet cola, no caffeine, she found a simple entry for the arrest of one Lanny L. Verno in April of 2001. The alleged crime was attempted assault with a weapon. He posted $500 bond and bailed out. She began cross-checking the arrest with the court docket and found another entry. On June 11, 2001, Verno was found not guilty in Pensacola city court. Case dismissed.

At that time, Ross Bannick was thirty-six years old and had been practicing law in the area for ten years.

Could it be the crossing of their paths? Was that where it happened?

It was a long shot, but in Jeri’s world so was everything else.



* * *



—

She chose a private detective from Mobile, one who would claim to be from Atlanta, or anywhere else for that matter. The sparse remnants of Verno’s family had buried him near Atlanta, according to an Internet posting from a low-end burial service.

She hated to pay private detectives but often had no choice. Almost all police investigators were middle-aged white guys who frowned on women digging through old crimes, especially women of color. Theirs was a man’s business, and the whiter the better. Most of her spare cash went to private eyes who looked and talked remarkably like the cops they dealt with.

His name was Rollie Tabor, ex-cop, $150 an hour, no-nonsense, and able to live with her fiction. He’d done it before and she liked his work. He drove to Pensacola, went to the police department, and shot enough bull with the desk jockeys to get himself sent to a warehouse several blocks away where all the old stuff was stored. Primarily evidence—court exhibits, rape kits, thousands of confiscated weapons of every variety—but also unclaimed goods, and rows and rows of tall cabinets filled with too many retired files to count. An ancient clerk in a faded police uniform met him at the front counter and asked what he wanted.

“Name’s Dunlap, Jeff Dunlap,” Tabor said. As the clerk scribbled on a log sheet, Tabor studied his name badge. Sergeant Mack Faldo. He’d been there at least fifty years and could not remember when he stopped caring.

“Got an ID?” Faldo grunted.

Tabor had an impressive collection of IDs. He pulled out his wallet and removed a Georgia driver’s license for Jeff Dunlap, who, as a real person, lived quietly and unsuspectingly in the town of Conyers, just outside of Atlanta. If the sergeant bothered to check, which he never thought about doing, he would find a real person at a real address and immediately lose whatever interest he had. But Faldo was too jaded to even glance at the card and then glance at Dunlap to compare. He grunted again, “Gotta make a copy.”

He walked over to an ancient Xerox, took his time, and walked back with the license.

“Now, what can I do for you?” he asked, as if doing anything would upset his day.

“Looking for a court file from about fifteen years ago. Guy named Lanny Verno got himself arrested but got off in city court. He was murdered a few months back over in Biloxi and his family has hired me to dig through his past. He lived here for a spell and may have left behind a kid or two. Sort of a drifter.”

Tabor handed over a sheet of paper printed from a computer with the name of Lanny L. Verno, his Social Security number, his date of birth, and date of death. It was nothing official but Faldo took it. “When, exactly?”

“June 2001.”

Faldo’s eyelids half closed, as if he might begin a nap right then, and he nodded toward a door. “Meet me over there.”

Through the door, Tabor followed the old man into a cavernous room with more filing cabinets. Each drawer was labeled with months and years. Into 2001, Faldo stopped, reached up, yanked open and removed an entire drawer. He mumbled, “June 2001.” He carried it to a long table covered with dust and clutter and said, “Here it is. Have fun.”

Tabor looked around and asked, “Isn’t this stuff online now?”

“Not all of it. These are the files for the cases that were dismissed, for whatever reason. If there was a conviction, then those files are supposed to be in the archives. These files here, Mr. Dunlap, need to be burned.”

“Got it.”

Faldo was tired when he came to work and exhausted by now. He said, “No unauthorized photos. You need copies, bring it to me. A dollar a page.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Faldo walked away, leaving Dunlap alone with a million worthless files.

There were at least a hundred in the drawer on the table, neatly arranged by date. In a matter of minutes, Tabor found June 12, flipped through it alphabetically, and pulled out a file for Lanny L. Verno.

Clipped inside were several sheets of paper. The first was labeled incident report and an Officer N. Ozment had typed: Victim [name redacted] came to the station, said he had an altercation earlier that day in his garage with Verno, said there was a dispute over payment for services, said Verno threatened him and even pulled out a handgun; after that things settled down and Verno left. There were no witnesses. Victim [name redacted] swore the warrant, charging attempted assault.

Someone had obviously covered the name of the alleged victim with a thick black marker.