The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(78)

Two hours later, the Camry began moving. He tracked it with his smartphone and soon had it in sight. Jeri stopped at a dry-cleaners, did her business, then drove to her condo.

The tracker worked beautifully.

He returned to Cullman, waited until five thirty when the courthouse was closed, and entered through a rear door with his own key. He had been coming and going as he pleased for ten years and rarely saw anyone after hours. He was committing no crime, just tidying up his office.

He wiped it again and left after dark with two thick briefcases filled with files and notepads. A hardworking judge.





34


On Friday morning Lacy and Darren arrived at a downtown office building at 9:45 for a ten o’clock meeting, a summit of sorts. The FBI office was on the sixth floor, and they were met at the elevator there by Special Agent Dagner, of Pensacola.

From a third-story hotel room two blocks away, Judge Bannick monitored the parking lot through a handheld monocular telescope. He watched Lacy and Darren disappear into the building. Ten minutes later, he saw an unmarked sedan with Mississippi tags park and two men get out. They were in street clothes, even wearing coats and ties for the big meeting. Next was a black SUV. All four doors opened at the same time and the Feds, three men and one woman, in nicer dark suits, spilled out and hustled inside. The last two arrived in a car with Florida license plates. More dark suits.

When the traffic stopped at ten after ten, Bannick sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his temples. The FBI had arrived, the Hoovies from the big office in Washington, along with the state police and the boys from Mississippi.

He could not know what was being said over there. Rafe had failed to penetrate the network.

But the judge had a pretty good idea of what was going on, and he knew how to find out.



* * *



—

They gathered around a long table in the suite’s largest room while two secretaries brought in coffee and pastries. After a round of introductions, so many names that Darren tried to write them all down, the boss called the meeting to order. He was Clay Vidovich, the Special Agent in Charge (SAC), and he assumed the chair at the head of the table. To his right were Special Agents Suarez, Neff, and Murray. To his left were Sheriff Dale Black and Detective Napier from Biloxi. Next to them were two investigators from the Florida state police, Harris and Wendel. Lacy and Darren sat at the far end of the table, as if they really didn’t belong with real cops.

Noticeably absent were the Pensacola police. The suspect was a local guy with plenty of contacts. Loose lips sink ships and all that. The city boys would only get in the way.

Vidovich began with “Now, the paperwork has been completed, all protocols have been cleared, and the FBI is officially engaged in this case. This is now a joint task force with all of us cooperating fully. Sheriff, what about the Mississippi state police?”

“Well, they’ve certainly been kept up to date, but I was asked to not mention this initial meeting. I assume they’re ready if we need them.”

“Not now, maybe later. Lieutenant Harris, have you notified the police down in Marathon?”

“No sir, but I will if we need them.”

“Good. Let’s proceed without them. Now, we’ve all read the summaries and I think we’re up to speed. Ms. Stoltz, since you got all this started, why don’t you take a few minutes and go over the basics.”

“Sure,” she said, flashing a smile. The only other woman in the room was Agent Agnes Neff, a tough-looking veteran who had yet to smile.

Lacy stood and pushed back her chair. “This began with a complaint against Judge Bannick, filed by one Betty Roe, an alias.”

“When do we get her real name?”

“Well, it’s now your case, so I guess anytime you want. But I prefer to keep her out of it as long as possible.”

“Very well. And why is she involved?”

“Her father was murdered in 1992 near Gaffney, South Carolina. The case went cold, almost immediately, and she became determined to find his killer. She’s been obsessed with the case for years.”

“And we’re talking about eight murders, right?”

“Eight that she knows of. There could be more.”

“I think we can assume there are more. And all she has is motive, right?”

“And method.”

Vidovich looked at Suarez, who shook his head and said, “It’s the same guy. Same type of rope and the knot is his trademark. We got the crime scene photos from Schnetzer in Texas, same rope and knot. We’ve studied the autopsies, same type of blow to the head, same instrument. Something like a claw hammer that shatters the skull in one defined point of impact and radiates rupture lines in all directions.”

Vidovich looked at Lieutenant Harris and asked, “And the killer knew him in another life, right?”

Harris said, “That’s right. They were both lawyers here in town many years ago.”

“And you don’t know this judge—right, Ms. Stoltz?”

“No, I’ve not had the pleasure. He’s never had a complaint filed against him. A clean record, and a good reputation.”

“This is remarkable,” Vidovich said to the table and everyone frowned in agreement.

He continued, “Ms. Stoltz, what do you think he would do if we simply asked him to stop by for a few questions? He is a well-known judge, an officer of the court. He doesn’t know about the PTP. Why wouldn’t he want to cooperate?”