The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(5)

“Almost. Thirty-nine, so I’ll turn forty soon enough. Traumatic?”

“Well, sort of, I guess. But life goes on. So, twenty-two years ago you were still in high school, right?”

“I suppose. Why is this relevant?”

“Relax, Lacy, I’m talking now, okay? We’re getting somewhere. You were just a kid and you probably never read about the murder of Bryan Burke, a retired professor of law.”

“Never heard of it. Your father?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. For almost thirty years my father taught at Stetson Law School in Gulfport, Florida. In the Tampa area.”

“I’m familiar with the school.”

“He retired at the age of sixty, for family reasons, and returned to his hometown in South Carolina. I have a thorough file on my father which I’ll give you at some point. He was quite a man. Needless to say, his murder rocked our world and, frankly, I’m still reeling. Losing a parent too young is bad enough, but when it’s murder, and an unsolved murder, it’s even more devastating. Twenty-two years later the case is even colder and the police have all but given up. Once we realized that they were getting nowhere, I vowed to try everything to find his killer.”

“The police gave up?”

She drank some wine. “Over time, yes. The file is still open and I talk to them occasionally. I’m not knocking the cops, you understand? They did the best they could under the circumstances, but it was a perfect murder. All of them are.”

Lacy drank some wine. “A perfect murder?”

“Yes. No witnesses. No forensics, or least none that can be traced to the killer. No apparent motive.”

Lacy almost asked: And so what am I supposed to do?

But she took another sip and said, “I’m not sure the Board on Judicial Conduct is equipped to investigate an old murder case in South Carolina.”

“I’m not asking for that. Your jurisdiction is over Florida judges who might be involved in wrongdoing, right?”

“Right.”

“And that includes murder?”

“I suppose, but we’ve never been involved in that. That’s heavier work for the state boys, maybe the FBI.”

“The state boys have tried. The FBI has no interest for two reasons. First, there is no federal issue. Second, there is no evidence linking the murders, thus the FBI doesn’t know, no one knows but me I guess, that we’re dealing with a potential serial killer.”

“You’ve contacted the FBI?”

“Years ago. As the family of the victim we were desperate for help. Got nowhere.”

Lacy drank some more wine. “Okay, you’re making me nervous, so let’s walk through this real slow. You believe a sitting judge murdered your father twenty-two years ago. Was that judge on the bench when the murder occurred?”

“No. He was elected in 2004.”

Lacy absorbed this and looked around. What appeared to be a lobbyist was now sitting at the next table, gawking at her with a sort of leering vulgarity that was not uncommon around the Capitol. She glared at him until he looked away, then leaned in closer. “I’d feel more comfortable if we could talk somewhere else. This place is getting crowded.”

Jeri said, “I have a small conference room on the first floor. I promise it’s safe and secure. If I try to assault you, you can scream and get away.”

“I’m sure it’s okay.”

Jeri paid for the wine and they left the bar and the atrium and rode the escalator up one flight to the business mezzanine, where Jeri unlocked a small conference room, one of many. On the table were several files.

The women settled on opposite sides of the table, the files within reaching distance and nothing in front of them. No laptops. No legal pads. Both cell phones were still in their purses. Jeri was visibly more relaxed than in the bar, and began with “So, let’s talk off the record, with no notes. None for now anyway. My father, Bryan Burke, retired from Stetson in 1990. He’d taught there for almost thirty years and was a legend, a beloved professor. He and my mother decided to return home to Gaffney, South Carolina, the small town where they grew up. They had lots of family in the area and there’s some land that had been handed down. They built this beautiful little cottage in the woods and planted a garden. My mother’s mother lived on the property and they took care of her. All in all, it was a pleasant retirement. They were set financially, in pretty good health, active in a country church. Dad read a lot, wrote articles for legal magazines, kept up with old friends, made some new ones around town. Then, he was murdered.”

She reached to retrieve a file, a blue one, letter-sized, about an inch thick, same as the others. She slid it across the table as she said, “This is a collection of articles about my father, his career, and his death. Some dug up by hand, some pulled from the Internet, but none of the file is stored online.”

Lacy didn’t open the file.

Jeri continued, “Behind the yellow tab there is a crime scene photo of my father. I’ve seen it several times and prefer not to see it again. Have a look.”

Lacy opened to the tab and frowned at the enlarged color photo. The deceased was lying in some weeds with a small rope around his neck, pulled tightly and cutting into his skin. The rope appeared to be nylon, blue in color, and stained with dried blood. At the back of the neck it was secured with a thick knot.