The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(63)

“A woman?”

“Yep. Said she had written several books, offered to send me one.”

“Did she?”

“No, I got off the phone. That was another lifetime, Ross. It’s really sad what happened to Eileen, but I can’t do anything about it.”

A woman. Digging through his cold cases. The long drive and its return leg were now worth the trouble.

“That’s weird,” Ross said. “Just the one conversation?”

“Yep. I got rid of her. And, really, I had nothing to offer. We raised so much hell back then I can’t remember it all. Too much booze and pot.”

“Those were the days.”

“Why don’t you come over for dinner? Roxie’s still a lousy cook but we can do takeout.”

“Thanks, Dave, but I’m meeting some investors for dinner later.”

An hour later, Bannick was back on the road, fighting the traffic on Interstate 95, with six hundred miles to go.





27


Sadelle was ten minutes late for the Monday morning recap, and when she arrived on her little scooter she looked even closer to death. She apologized and said she was fine. Lacy had suggested several times that she take off a few days and get some rest. Sadelle was afraid of that. Work kept her alive.

Darren began with “We’ve done all we can do with the travel records. We finally heard from Delta, after another subpoena threat, and so all carriers are accounted for. Delta, Southwest, American, and Silver Air. We checked all flights originating from Pensacola, Mobile, Tallahassee, even Jacksonville, and going to Miami and Fort Lauderdale. The result is that for the month before the murder of Perry Kronke, no one by the name of Ross Bannick took a flight south.”

Lacy said, “You’re assuming he used his real name.”

“Of course we are. We don’t happen to know any of his aliases, now do we?”

She ignored him and returned to her coffee. He continued, “It’s an eleven-hour drive from Pensacola to Marathon, and, needless to say, we would have no way of tracking him in his car.”

“Toll records?”

“The state keeps them for only six months, then burns them. And, it’s easy to avoid toll roads.”

“What about hotels?”

Sadelle growled as she tried to fill her lungs, and said, “Another needle in another haystack. Do you know how many hotels there are in south Florida? Thousands. We picked a hundred of the likeliest mid-priced ones and found nothing. There are eleven in and around Marathon. Nothing.”

Darren said, “We’re wasting our time digging like this.”

Lacy said, “It’s called investigating. Some of the most infamous crimes were solved by tiny clues that at first seemed insignificant.”

“What do you know about solving infamous crimes?”

“Not much, but I’m reading books about serial killers. Fascinating stuff.”

Sadelle inhaled painfully and, somewhat oxygenized, asked, “Are we assuming he drove to Biloxi and back for the Verno murder?”

“And Dunwoody. Yes, that’s our assumption. It’s only, what, two hours?”

“Two’s about right,” Darren said. “That’s what’s fascinating. If you look at all eight murders, and I know we’re not looking at all eight, but only three, they are all within driving distance from Pensacola. Danny Cleveland in Little Rock, eight hours away. Thad Leawood near Chattanooga, six hours. Bryan Burke in Gaffney, South Carolina, eight hours. Ashley Barasso in Columbus, Georgia, four hours. Perry Kronke in Marathon and Eileen Nickleberry near Wilmington are both twelve hours away. He didn’t have to fly and rent cars and pay for hotel rooms. He could just drive.”

“Those are just the ones we know about,” Lacy said. “I’ll bet there are more. And each crime scene was in a different state.”

Sadelle said, “He knows more about killing than we do.”

“I guess he’s had more experience,” Darren added. “And he’s smarter.”

Lacy said, “True, but we’ve got Betty and she’s tracked him down. Think about it. If she’s right, then she’s identified the killer, something an army of homicide detectives couldn’t do.”

“And something we’re not equipped to do, right?” Sadelle asked.

“No, but we’ve known that from the beginning. Let’s keep plugging away.”

Darren asked, “So, when do we go to the police?”

“Soon.”



* * *



—

The two detectives from the state police pushed the doorbell at exactly 8:00 a.m., as requested. They wore dark suits, drove a dark car, had matching dark aviator sunglasses, and anyone watching from a hundred yards away would know immediately that they were cops of some variety.

They had been summoned to the home of a circuit court judge, an unusual occasion. They had met many judges, but always in their courtrooms, never in their homes.

Judge Bannick was all smiles as he led them into his spacious kitchen and poured two cups of coffee. On the table was a single white, legal-size envelope, addressed to the judge at the home where they were now standing. He pointed at it and said, “It arrived in the mail on Saturday, here at the house, the box by the front door. The third one in a week. Each contained a letter typewritten by an obviously deranged person. I’ll keep the letters to myself for the time being. This third one is by far the most threatening. When I saw this one, after touching and opening the first two, I was more careful. I put on gloves and touched it and the letter as little as possible. I’m sure the postman touched all three of them.”