The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(69)

“It’s Schnetzer, by the way.” Still an ass. “And this happened on a rig, right?” Every injury on an offshore platform was covered by the Jones Act, a lawyer’s bonanza.

“Yes, sir. Three days ago. I’m not sure he’s gonna make it. I’m trying to get over there but I’m disabled and can’t drive right now.”

“And you’re down in Sugar Land, right?”

“Yes, sir. And I got lawyers callin’ right and left, buggin’ the hell out of me.”

“Not surprised to hear that.”

“I just hung up on one.”

“Don’t talk to them. How old is your son?”

“Nineteen. He’s a good boy, works hard, supports me and his mom. Still single. He’s all we got, Mr. Schnetzer.”

“I see. So you can’t drive over here to the office.”

“No, sir. If my wife was here she could drive me, but she’s comin’ in from Kansas. That’s where we’re from. We need to get to the hospital. I don’t know what to do, sir. We need your help.”

“Okay. Look, I can be there in about an hour, if that’ll work.”

“You can come here?”

“Yep, I think I can work in a quick trip over.”

“That’d be great, Mr. Schnetzer. We gotta have someone to help us.”

“Just sit tight, okay?”

“Can you get those other lawyers to leave us alone?”

“Sure, I’ll take care of them, no problem. What’s your address?”



* * *



—

Through the blinds, Bannick watched every car that passed as the minutes ticked by. Finally, a long, shiny Ford pickup with a club cab and oversized wheels slowed, stopped, backed up, and parked behind his rental.

The years had not been kind to Mal Schnetzer. He was much heavier, with an impressive gut hanging over his belt and stretching his shirt, and he had a round face above a double chin. His thick gray hair was pulled back and bunched at the neck. He got out, looked around the neighborhood, sized up the trailer, and touched the automatic pistol in a holster on his hip.

Bannick had never encountered a victim with a weapon and it ramped up the excitement. He moved quickly, grabbed a walking cane off the sofa, opened the door, and stepped onto the small porch, hunched like a man in pain. “Hello there,” he called out as Schnetzer walked past the rental car.

“Howdy,” he said.

“I’m Bob Butler. Thanks for doin’ this. I got a cold beer inside. You want one?”

“Sure.” He seemed to relax as he took Butler in, bent at the waist and nonthreatening.

It had been twenty-one years since the two had been face-to-face, back in their days as lawyers in Pensacola. Bannick doubted he would be recognized, and with the cap pulled low and the cheap eyeglass frames he was confident Schnetzer would have no clue. He stepped inside, held the door open, and they entered the cramped den of the trailer. “Thanks for comin’, Mr. Schnetzer.”

“No problem.”

Mal turned away, as if looking for a place to sit, and in that split second Bannick quickly removed Leddie from his pocket, flicked it so that the telescopic sections doubled and tripled in length, and whipped it at the back of Mal’s head. The lead ball sank hard, splintering his cranium. His hands flew up as he grunted and tried to turn around. Leddie landed against his left temple and he fell across a cheap coffee table. Bannick quickly unsnapped the holster, removed the pistol, and shut the door. Schnetzer kicked as he floundered and looked up with wild eyes and tried to say something. Bannick hit him again and again, shattering his skull into a hundred pieces.

“A hundred and thirty-three thousand dollars,” Bannick said, almost spitting the words. “A nice fat fee that you stole. Money I deserved and desperately needed. What a crook, Mal, what a slimy little piece of shit you were as a lawyer. I was so happy when you went to prison.”

Mal grunted and Bannick hit him again. More blood spattered on the sofa and against a wall.

He took a deep breath and watched him try to breathe. He pulled on the plastic gloves, got the rope, wrapped it twice around his neck, and stared at his bloodshot eyes as he pulled it tight. He put a foot on his chest and tried to crush it as he tightened the rope and watched it cut into the skin. A minute passed, then another. Sometimes they died with their eyes open, and those were his favorite ones. He tied off the rope and stood to admire his work.

“One hundred and thirty-three thousand dollars, taken from a kid, stolen from another lawyer. You piece of shit.”

When Mal breathed his last, his bloodshot eyes stayed open, as if something in there wanted to watch the cleanup. Blood was covering his face and neck and puddling on the cheap carpet. What a mess.

Bannick paused and took a breath. He listened for voices from the outside, for any unusual sound, and heard nothing. He walked to the front bedroom and looked out the window. Two kids rode by on bicycles.

Lingering was a luxury he’d rarely enjoyed, but with this one he was in no hurry. He fished through the pockets of Mal’s pants and found his keys. From a rear pocket he removed his cell phone and placed it on his stomach, where he would leave it. In a closet he found the cheap vacuum cleaner he had bought a month earlier, for cash at a discount store, and cleaned the floors of the kitchen and den, careful not to touch the blood. When he finished, he removed the bag and replaced it with a fresh one. He took a pack of kitchen wipes and wiped down Leddie and the pistol. He changed plastic gloves and put the old pair in an empty grocery sack. He wiped the doorknobs, the kitchen counter, the walls, every surface in the bathroom, though he had touched almost nothing. He flushed the toilet and turned off the water to it. He stripped down to his boxers and put his clothes in the small washing machine. As the cycle ran he took a can of diet soda from the empty fridge and sat in the kitchen, his old pal Mal just a few feet away.