The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(83)

“No. And just so you’ll know, there’s only one door over there and it’s locked. This little cabin is deep in the woods, far from anyone else, so if you feel like it you can scream until you’re hoarse. If you manage to get outside, good luck. Watch out for rattlesnakes, copperheads, bears, and coyotes, not to mention some heavily armed Bubbas who don’t care for people of color.”

“And I’m supposed to feel safer in here with you?”

“You have no phone, wallet, money, or shoes. I left your pistol in your hotel room, but I have two hidden just over there. I prefer not to use them.”

“Please don’t.”

“How much does Lacy know?”

Jeri stared at the fire and tried to think clearly. If she told the truth, she might endanger Lacy. But, if she told the truth and convinced him that Lacy, and now the FBI, knew everything, he might indeed disappear. He had the means, the money, the contacts, the brains to vanish.

He asked slowly, “How much does Lacy know?”

“She knows what I’ve told her about Verno, Dunwoody, and Kronke. Beyond that, I have no idea.”

“That’s a lie. You obviously know about your own father, Eileen, Danny Cleveland. And you expect me to believe you haven’t told Lacy.”

“I can’t prove them.”

“You can’t prove anything. Nobody can!”

He reached and grabbed one strand of rope and quickly looped it around her neck. He held both ends with his hands and applied a little pressure. Jeri recoiled but couldn’t get away. He was practically on top of her, his face two feet from hers.

He hissed, “Listen to me. I want them in order, one name after the other, beginning with your father.”

“Please get off me.”

He pulled tighter. “Don’t make me.”

“Okay, okay. My father was not the first, was he?”

“No.”

“Thad Leawood was the first, then my father.” She closed her eyes and began sobbing, loud, anguished, uncontrolled. He backed away and let the rope dangle from her neck. She buried her face in her hands and bawled until she finally caught her breath. “I hate you,” she mumbled. “You have no idea.”

“Who was next?”

She wiped her face with her forearm and closed her eyes. “Ashley Barasso, 1996.”

“I didn’t kill Ashley.”

“That’s hard to believe. Same rope, same knot, the double clove hitch you probably learned in scouts, right Bannick? Did Thad Leawood teach you the double clove hitch?”

“I didn’t kill Ashley.”

“I’m in no position to argue with you.”

“And you missed one.”

“Good.”

He stood and walked to the fireplace where he tossed in some more files. When he turned his back, she yanked the rope off her neck and flung it across the room. He picked it up and returned to the stool in front of her, fiddling with the rope.

“Go on,” he said. “Who was next?”

“Who did I miss?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Good point. I don’t care anymore, Bannick.”

“Go on.”

“Eileen Nickleberry, 1998.”

“How’d you find her?”

“By digging through your past, same for all of them. A victim is found strangled with the same rope, tied tight with a weird knot, and eventually the information gets into the FBI clearinghouse on violent crime. I know how to access it. I have some contacts. I’ve done it for twenty years, Bannick, and I’ve learned a lot. With a name, I start the research, most of which leads to dead ends. But persistence pays off.”

“I can’t believe you found me.”

“Am I talking enough?”

“Go on. Next?”

“You took off a few years, a little hiatus, not unusual in your sick world, and tried to go straight. Couldn’t do it. Danny Cleveland was found strangled in his home in Little Rock in 2009.”

“He had it coming.”

“Of course he did. Exposing corruption by good reporting should always be a capital offense. Got him. Another notch in the old belt.”

“Go on. Next.”

“Two years ago, Perry Kronke was found dead in his boat, roasting in the hot summer sun, blood everywhere. He pissed you off when you were twenty-four and he didn’t offer you a job, like every other summer clerk. Another capital offense.”

“You missed another.”

“Forgive me.”

“Go on.”

“Verno and Dunwoody last year in Biloxi. Verno beat you in court when you were a hotshot young lawyer, so of course he deserved to die. Dunwoody showed up at the wrong time. No remorse for his family? Wife, three kids, three grandkids, a wonderful man with lots of friends. Nothing whatsoever, Bannick?”

“Anybody else?”

“Well, that story in the Ledger included Mal Schnetzer, rather recent vintage. Killed only a week ago somewhere near Houston. Seems as though your paths crossed, same as all your victims. I haven’t had time to look at the Schnetzer murder. You’re killing so fast these days that I can’t keep up.” She paused and looked at him. He was listening to her, as if amused.

Keep talking, she told herself. “Why is it, Bannick, that serial killers often get busy at the end? Do you read about them, the others? Are you ever curious about how they operate? Ever pick up pointers or strategies from their stories, most written after they’re caught or dead, I might add. Well, I’ve read them all, and often, but certainly not always because God knows there’s no real method to this madness, they feel trapped and lash out by speeding up. Kronke, then Verno and Dunwoody, now Schnetzer. That’s four in just two years.”