The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(38)

“Does he agree with your theory? A serial killer?”

“He’s not paid to agree or disagree and we never discuss it. He’s paid to sift through the rubble and alert me if something looks suspicious.”

“Just curious. Where is this guy?”

“I don’t know. He uses different names and addresses, like me. We’ve never met, never chatted on the phone, never will. He promises complete anonymity.”

“How do you pay him? If you don’t mind.”

“Hard cash to a post office box in Maine.”

Lacy was overwhelmed and sat down. She sipped her coffee and breathed deeply. It dawned on her how much Jeri had learned and collected in the past twenty-plus years.

As if reading her mind, Jeri said, “I know this is a lot.” From a pocket she removed a thumb drive and handed it over. “It’s all there, over six hundred pages of research, news articles, police files, everything I’ve found that might be useful. And probably a lot of stuff that’s not.”

Lacy took the thumb drive and stuck it in a pocket.

Jeri said, “It’s encrypted. I’ll text you the key.”

“Why is it encrypted?”

“Because my whole life is encrypted, Lacy. Everything we do leaves a trail.”

“And you think he’s back there somewhere, on the trail?”

“I don’t know, but I limit my exposure.”

“Okay, along these same lines, what are the chances Bannick knows someone is on to him? You’re talking about eight murders, Jeri. That’s a lot of territory you’ve covered.”

“Don’t you think I know that? Eight murders in twenty-two years, and counting. I’ve talked to hundreds of people, most of whom were of no use. Sure, there’s a chance someone from his college days told him that a stranger was asking around, but I never use my real name. And, yes, a cop in Little Rock or Signal Mountain or Wilmington might let it slip that a private investigator was sniffing around an old murder file, but there’s no way to link me to it. I’m too careful.”

“Then why are you so worried?”

“Because he’s so smart, and so patient, and because it would not surprise me if he goes back.”

Lacy waited, then asked, “Back where?”

“Back to the crime scenes. Ted Bundy did that, you know, and other killers did too. Bannick’s not that careless, but he might monitor the police, see what’s happening with the old files, ask if anyone has come around lately.”

“But how?”

“The Internet. He could easily hack the police files and monitor things. Also private investigators, Lacy. You pay them enough and they’ll do the work for you and keep quiet.”

Lacy’s phone buzzed and she looked at it. Darren was checking in. “Things okay up there?” he asked.

“Yeah, ten minutes.” She put her phone down and looked at Jeri, who was wiping her face again and rocking.

Lacy said, “Well, Jeri, consider your complaint filed and the clock ticking.”

“Do I get updates?”

“How often?”

“Daily?”

“No. I’ll let you know when and if we make any progress.”

“You have to make progress, Lacy, you have to stop him. I can’t do anything else. I’m done, okay. I’m physically, emotionally, and financially wiped out and I’ve reached the end. I can’t believe I’ve finally made it here and I cannot go on.”

“I’ll keep in touch, I promise.”

“Thanks, Lacy. Please be careful.”





16


Saturday, March 22, was a warm beautiful day, and Darren Trope, single and twenty-eight, wasn’t keen to spend it indoors at the office. He had arrived in Tallahassee ten years earlier as a freshman, studied business and law for eight glorious years, and had no current plans to get too far away from the campus and all of its related activities. He was, however, infatuated with Lacy Stoltz, his new boss, and when she said meet her at the office at 10:00 a.m. Saturday, and bring designer coffees, Darren arrived ten minutes early. He also brought a standard coffee for Sadelle, the third member of their “task force.” Being the youngest, Darren was in charge of technology, along with coffee.

Lacy told the rest of the staff that the office was off-limits Saturday morning, not that she was too worried about seeing a crowd. For a team that routinely skipped out at noon Friday, there was little chance of anyone pulling overtime over the weekend. Nine o’clock Monday morning would arrive soon enough.

They gathered in the conference room next to the director’s office. Because Darren had driven his boss to meet “The Contact” the previous Wednesday, he knew a few of the details and was eager to learn more. Sadelle, ashen, pale, sick, and as ghost-like as she had been for the past seven years, sat at the table in her motorized chair and savored her oxygen.

Lacy handed each a copy of Betty Roe’s complaint, and they read it in silence. Sadelle inhaled mightily and said, “So this is the murder complaint you mentioned.”

“This is it.”

“And Betty Roe is our mystery girl?”

“She is.”

“Why may I ask are we getting involved? Looks like it belongs with the boys who carry guns.”