The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(92)

She began with the death of her father and its aftermath, the lack of clues, the months that dragged by with little contact with the police, and absolutely nothing in the way of progress. And what could possibly have been the motive. She spent years trying to answer that question. Who in Bryan Burke’s world had ever said anything negative about him? No relatives, colleagues, maybe a student or two. He had no business deals, no partners, no lovers, no jealous husbands along the way. She eventually settled on Ross Bannick but knew from the beginning that she was only guessing. He was a long shot. She had no proof, nothing but her hyperactive imagination. She dug through his past, kept up with his career as a young lawyer in Pensacola, and slowly became obsessed. She knew where he lived, worked, grew up, went to church, and played golf on the weekends.

She stumbled across an old story in the Ledger about the murder of Thad Leawood, a local who’d moved away under suspicious circumstances. She tied him to Bannick through Boy Scout records obtained from the national headquarters. When she eventually saw the crime scene photos, a big piece of the puzzle fell into place.

She couldn’t stop rubbing her wrists. She said, “According to my research, the next one was Ashley Barasso, in 1996. However, Bannick said, last Saturday, that he didn’t kill her.”

Vidovich was shaking his head. He looked at Agent Murray, who was also in disagreement. Murray said, “He’s lying. We have the file. Same rope, same knot, same method. Plus he knew her in law school at Miami.”

“That’s what I told him,” Jeri said.

“Why would he deny it?” Vidovich asked the table.

“I have a theory,” Jeri said, sipping coffee.

Vidovich smiled and said, “I’m sure you do. Let’s hear it.”

“Ashley was thirty years old, his youngest victim, and she had two small kids, ages three and eighteen months. They were in the house when she was murdered. Perhaps he saw them. Maybe for once in his life he felt remorse. Maybe it’s the one murder he couldn’t shake off.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” Vidovich said. “If any of it makes sense.”

“It’s all rational in his sick mind. He never admitted to any of the murders, but he did say I missed a couple.”

Murray shuffled some paperwork and said, “We may have found one that you missed. In 1995 a man named Preston Dill was murdered near Decatur, Alabama. The crime scene looks familiar. No witnesses, no forensics, same rope and knot. We’re still digging, but it looks as though Dill once lived in the Pensacola area.”

Jeri shook her head and said, “I’m glad I missed one.”

Agent Neff said, “That’s at least five victims who had ties to the area, though none of them lived there when they were murdered.”

Vidovich said, “With the exception of Leawood, they were just passing through, lived there long enough to cross paths with our man.”

Neff said, “And over a twenty-three-year period. I wonder if anyone, anyone other than you, Jeri, would have ever connected the murders.”

She didn’t respond and no one else ventured a guess. The answer was obvious.





42


For his last meal he dined alone. The kitchen opened at seven and he arrived a few minutes later, ordered wheat toast and scrambled eggs, poured a glass of grapefruit juice, and took his tray outside to a patio where he sat under an umbrella and watched a magnificent sunrise over the distant mountains. The morning was quiet and still. The other patients, none of whom he had made an effort to meet, were waking to another glorious, sober morning, all clear-eyed and clean.

He was at peace with his world, a serenity aided by a couple of pre-breakfast Valium tablets. He took his time and enjoyed the food. When he finished, he returned his tray and went to his room. On his door, a steward had tacked his schedule for the day. A group hike at nine, counseling at ten thirty, lunch, and so on.

He arranged his paperwork, then got down to business. He put on plastic gloves and wiped down all surfaces in the room and bathroom. He removed the small packets of pills from under the chest of drawers, returned to the bathroom, and closed the door. He stopped the sink and ran three inches of water, then dumped in two packets of hydrochloric acid tablets. Upon touching the water, they immediately reacted with pop and fizzle and within seconds the water seemed to be boiling. From two other packets, he shook out forty tablets of oxycodone, 30 milligrams each, ate them and washed them down with water in a paper cup. He flushed the packets, the paper cup, and the gloves down the toilet. He took a small hand towel, crammed it in his mouth to muffle any anguished reactions, then plunged all eight fingers and both thumbs into the bubbling superacid. The pain was immediate and fierce. He groaned and grimaced but kept pressing as the acid burned through the first layer of skin and began corroding the second. His hands felt as though they were on fire and he began to feel weak. When his knees buckled, he grabbed the sink, unstopped it, and opened the door. He fell onto his bed, spat out the hand towel, and stuffed his hands under the sheets. The pain vanished as he lost consciousness.



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Diana was in the reception area when the FedEx envelope arrived at 10:35. She took one look at the Sender’s name and address and took it to her office, closing the door behind her. For the third day in a row, their office suite was besieged by a team of brusque, even rude, FBI technicians, and she needed the privacy.