The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(6)

Lacy closed the file and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s weird. After twenty-two years, you learn to deal with the pain and place it in a box where it tends to stay if you work hard enough. But it’s always easy to drop your guard and allow the memories to come back. Right now I’m okay, Lacy. Right now I’m real good because I’m talking to you and doing something about it. You have no idea how many hours I’ve spent pushing myself to get here. This is so hard, so terrifying.”

“Perhaps if we talked about the crime.”

She took a deep breath. “Sure. Dad liked to take long walks through the woods behind his cottage. Mom often went along but she struggled with arthritis. One lovely spring morning in 1992 he kissed her goodbye, grabbed his walking stick, and headed down the trail. The autopsy revealed death by asphyxiation, but there was also a head wound. It wasn’t hard to speculate that he encountered someone who hit him in the head, knocked him out, then finished him off with the nylon rope. He was dragged off the trail and left in a ravine, where they found him late in the afternoon. The crime scene revealed nothing—no blunt instrument, no shoe or boot prints—the ground was dry. No signs of a struggle, no stray hairs or fabrics left behind. Nothing. The rope has been analyzed by crime labs and gives no clue. There’s a description of it in the file. The cottage isn’t far from town but it’s still somewhat isolated, and there were no witnesses, nothing out of the ordinary. No car or truck with out-of-state tags. No strangers lurking around. There are many different places to park and hide and sneak into the area, then leave without a trace. Nothing has come to the surface in twenty-two years, Lacy. It’s a very cold case. We have accepted the harsh reality that the crime will never be solved.”

“We?”

“Yes, well, but it’s more like a one-cowboy rodeo. My mother died two years after my father. She never recovered and kinda went off the deep end. I have an older brother in California and he hung in for a few years before losing interest. He got tired of the police reporting no progress. We talk occasionally but rarely mention Dad. So, I’m on my own. It’s lonely out here.”

“Sounds awful. It also seems a long way from the crime scene in South Carolina to a courthouse in the Florida Panhandle. What’s the connection?”

“There’s not much, honestly. Just a lot of speculation.”

“You haven’t come this far with nothing but speculation. What about motive?”

“Motive is all I have.”

“Do you plan to share it with me?”

“Hang on, Lacy. You have no idea. I can’t believe I’m sitting here accusing someone of murder, without proof.”

“You’re not accusing anyone, Jeri. You have a potential suspect, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. You tell me his name and I tell no one. Not until you authorize it, okay? Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Now, back to motive.”

“Motive has consumed me since the beginning. I’ve found no one in my father’s world who disliked him. He was an academic who drew a nice salary and saved his money. He never invested in deals or land or anything like that. In fact, he was disdainful of developers and speculators. He had a couple of colleagues, other law professors, who lost money in the stock market and condos and other schemes, and he had little sympathy for them. He had no business interests, no partners, no joint ventures, stuff that generally creates conflict and enemies. He hated debt and paid his bills on time. He was faithful to his wife and family, as far as we knew. If you knew Bryan Burke you would have found it impossible to believe that he would be unfaithful to his wife. He was treated fairly by his employers, Stetson, and admired by his students. Four times in thirty years at Stetson he was voted Outstanding Professor of Law. He routinely passed up a promotion to the dean’s office because he considered teaching the highest calling and he wanted to be in the classroom. He wasn’t perfect, Lacy, but he was pretty damned close to it.”

“I wish I had known him.”

“He was a charming, sweet man with no known enemies. It wasn’t a robbery, because his wallet was in the house and nothing was missing from his body. It certainly wasn’t an accident. So, the police have been baffled from the beginning.”

“But.”

“But. There could be more. It’s a long shot but it’s all I have. I’m thirsty. You?”

Lacy shook her head. Jeri walked to a credenza, poured ice water from a pitcher, and returned to her seat. She took a deep breath and continued. “As I’ve said, my father loved the classroom. He loved to lecture. To him it was a performance, and he was the only actor onstage. He loved being in full command of his surroundings, his material, and, especially, his students. There’s a room on the second floor of the law school that was his domain for decades. There’s a plaque there now and it’s named for him. It’s a mini lecture hall with eighty seats in a half moon, and every performance was sold out. His lectures on constitutional law were captivating, challenging, often funny. He had a great sense of humor. Every student wanted Professor Burke—he hated being called Dr. Burke—for constitutional law, and those who didn’t make the cut often audited the class and sat through his lectures. It was not unusual for visiting professors, deans, alumni, and former students to squeeze in for a seat, often in folding chairs in the rear or down the aisles. The president of the university, himself a lawyer, was a frequent visitor. You get the picture?”