The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(89)

It was probably Darren Trope, her colleague. Son of a bitch.

He soon crossed into Alabama, took a detour, and drove through the Conecuh National Forest. As he approached the town of Andalusia, population 9,000, he decided to circle around it. It was almost ten thirty on a Saturday night and the cops would be out in force. He didn’t need a GPS because he had memorized the highways and roads. He saw the signs for Gantt Lake and zigzagged his way in its direction. He drove through the quiet village of Antioch without seeing another human, and the roads narrowed. Less than two miles from his next turn onto a gravel road, he was shocked to see blue lights bearing down from behind. His speedometer was at fifty, the limit, and he knew he had not been speeding. There were no traffic lights to run through. He slowed even more and gawked at the county patrol car as it flew past. Saturday night, probably a brawl in a honky-tonk. The blue lights disappeared in front of him.

He would kill her quickly and be on his way. The cabin was clean, no clues as always. He would decorate the job with a perfect knot, only fitting since she was so curious about it.

The gravel road ran deeper into the woods, into the darkness where the cabin waited. Suddenly there were more blue lights, another county boy hot on his trail. He slowed almost to a stop and got out of the way. The car slid past, missing his by inches, a boiling cloud of dust in its wake. Something wasn’t right.

He turned onto the dirt trail that ended at the cabin’s front door, so deep in the woods it could not be seen by anyone passing by. He saw a clearing with a gap in the fence and pulled off the road. He backed into some undergrowth, got out, and jogged toward the cabin. Around a bend, he saw a terrible sight. The cabin was a scene, with cops and blue lights everywhere.



* * *



—

The two boys, ages fifteen and sixteen, had arrived on ATVs before dark. They noticed the smoke from the chimney and knew someone was there for the weekend, but the silver Tahoe had just left. They watched the cabin, watched the road, and waited until long after dark before kicking in the front door. They were looking for guns, fishing gear, anything of value. They found nothing but a dead black woman lying on the bed, her wrists cuffed behind her, her ankles chained together.

They panicked, fled, and didn’t stop until they wheeled into a country store, closed for the evening. They called 911 from a pay phone and reported a dead woman in the old Sutton cabin off Crab Hill Road. When the dispatcher asked their names, they hung up and hurried home.



* * *



—

Jeri was taken by ambulance to a regional hospital in Enterprise, Alabama. She was awake, severely nauseated, dehydrated, and still not lucid, but recovering quickly. At midnight, she was talking to the state police and filling in the gaps. She had been drugged so much by Bannick that she had not seen his vehicle, so there was no description. A quick search, though, gave the police his make, model, and license plates.

At 1:00 a.m., a detective called Lacy’s number. She was at home in Tallahassee, safe, and tending to her brother, who had been X-rayed and given painkillers. The detective smiled, handed his phone to Jeri, and when they heard each other’s voices, they burst into tears.



* * *



—

By then he was cruising into Birmingham, with fake Texas tags on his Tahoe. He parked in the long-term lot at the international airport and, carrying his overnight bag, entered the main terminal. He sipped an espresso at a coffee bar and killed time. He found a row of seats with a view of the runways and tried to nap, just another weary traveler. When the Avis counter opened at six, he ambled over and chatted with the clerk. Using a fake driver’s license and a prepaid credit card issued to an alias, he rented a Honda, one with California tags, and left the airport, headed west. Far west. For the next twenty hours he would drive virtually nonstop, pay cash for gas, pop bennies, and slug endless cups of black coffee.





40


At seven thirty Sunday morning two teams of FBI agents and technicians, backed up by locals, crashed into Bannick’s world. The first entered his home with a crowbar and disarmed his security systems, but not before arousing the neighbors. The second entered the Chavez County Courthouse, with the assistance of Diana Zhang and a janitor, and began combing through his desk, file cabinets, bookshelves, anything he might have touched. They quickly realized the file cabinets were empty, as were his desk drawers. Diana was surprised to see so many of his personal items missing. Framed photos and awards and certificates, letter openers, pens, writing pads, paperweights. She went to her desk to look for files he had dealt with, and found the drawers empty. His desktop computer could not be accessed and its hard drive was missing. It was taken to a van to be shipped to a lab.

In his home, the technicians found a refrigerator that was virtually empty, as were all garbage cans. Piles of clothing and towels had been washed and tossed on the bed. In the small office, they found no phones or laptops. This desktop, too, could not be accessed and was hauled out. Its hard drive was gone.

The searches would take hours if not days, but it was soon apparent that his home and his office in the courthouse had been thoroughly wiped. After two hours of powdering the obvious surfaces, not a single latent print had been identified. But the technicians labored on, methodically, and confident that they would find prints. It was impossible to live and work in an area for years and not leave something behind.