Judge's List (23 page)

She awoke in complete blackness with a heavy cloth over her head that made breathing difficult. Her wrists were locked behind her and her hands and arms ached from being twisted like a pretzel. Her ankles too were stuck together. She was lying on a quilt. She could feel what seemed to be leather behind her, like a sofa. The air was warm, even smoky.

She was alive, at least for now. As her head slowly cleared and she put together two thoughts, she became aware of the soft popping noises of a fire. A man coughed, not far away. She dared not move. But her shoulders were screaming and she couldn’t help but squirm.

“It’s probably time for you to come around,” he said. The voice was familiar.

She jerked and struggled and managed to sit up. “My arms are killing me,” she said. “Who are you?”

“I think you know.”

The sudden movement made her nauseous and she was afraid she would vomit. “I’m sick,” she mumbled as acid filled her mouth.

“Lean forward and puke all you want.”

She swallowed hard and quick and choked it back. The heavy breathing made her sweat. “I need some air, please. I’m suffocating.”

“That’s one of my favorite words.”

He stepped over, leaned down to her face, and yanked off the hood. Jeri gawked at the pale mask with the pockmarks and scars, and screamed. Then she gagged and retched and vomited on the floor. When she finished, he gently reached behind her and unlocked the handcuffs. She pulled her hands free and shook her arms as if to get the blood moving. “Thanks, asshole,” she said.

He walked to the fireplace, to a stack of office files, which he slowly tossed one by one into the flames.

“Can I have some water?” she asked.

He nodded to a bottle next to a lamp. She grabbed it and took a drink, trying not to look at him. He ignored her as he burned the files.

The room was dark, shades pulled down, quilts over the two windows, not a shred of sunlight anywhere. The ceiling was low, the walls were perfect logs with white plaster between them. On a coffee table there was a coil of nylon rope, yards of it, blue and white in color, with two strands cut off, all on display for her to gawk at.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“And you think I’ll answer that?”

“No. Take the mask off, Bannick. I know who you are. I recognize your voice.”

“Have we met?”

“No, thank God, not until now. I saw you onstage,
Death of a Salesman.
”

“How long have you stalked me?”

“Twenty years.”

“How did you find me?”

“How did you find me?”

“You made some stupid mistakes.”

“So did you. My ankles and legs are numb.”

“Too bad. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“So are you. I thought about killing you years ago.”

He was amused by this and sat on the stool in front of her. She couldn’t bear to look at his mask and instead stared at the fire. Her breathing was still heavy and her heart felt like a jackhammer. Had she not been so terrified she would have cursed herself for being stupid enough to get caught by the man she had hated for decades. She needed to vomit again.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” he asked.

“Because you’re not worth prison and I’m not a killer.”

“It’s an art, when done properly.”

“You should know.”

“Oh, I do.”

“Am I next?”

“I don’t know.” He slowly stood, peeled off the mask, and tossed it in the fire, then added some more office files to it. He returned to the stool in front of her, their knees almost touching.

“Why haven’t you killed me yet, Bannick? I would be, what, number nine, ten, eleven?”

“At least. Why should I tell you?”

“So I missed a couple.” A wave rolled through her and she grimaced as she choked it down. She closed her eyes to avoid his stare.

He walked back to the stack of files on the firewood rack, took several, and slowly tossed them into the flames. She wanted to ask what he was burning but it didn’t concern her. Nothing mattered but staying alive, though that looked doubtful. Her thoughts flashed to Denise, the only person on the planet who would miss her.

He returned to the stool and stared at her. “I have a couple of choices, Ms. Crosby—”

“Oh, please, don’t show me any respect. I don’t want yours. Let’s stick with Jeri and Bannick, okay?”

“The more you talk the better your chances, because I want to know what you know, and, more importantly, I want to know what the cops know. I can leave, Jeri, vanish into thin air and never be seen again. How much have you told Lacy Stoltz?”

“Leave her out of it.”

“Oh really? That’s an odd thing to say. You went to her with your complaint, mentioned Verno, Dunwoody, and Kronke, hinted at others, got her involved in whatever the hell she’s doing, and now you say leave her out of it. Not only that, you sent me an anonymous letter with the news that she was formally investigating me for the murders. One of your mistakes, Jeri. You knew she would have no choice but to go to the police, something you were afraid of doing. Why were you afraid of the police?”

“Maybe I don’t trust the police.”

“That’s smart. So you dump me on Lacy because she has no choice but to investigate the judiciary. You knew she would go to the cops. You hid behind her, and now you want me to leave her alone. Right?”

“I don’t know.”

“How much does Lacy know?”

“How am I supposed to know? She’s in charge of her own investigation.”

“So what did you tell her, or I guess the question is—how much do you know?”

“Why does it matter? You’ll kill me anyway. Guess what, Bannick? I caught you.”

He didn’t respond but returned to the files, took several, and methodically tossed them onto the fire, waiting for one to enflame before adding the next. The room was warm and smelled of smoke. The only light came from the fireplace, and shadows darkened the walls and whatever was behind her. He walked away and returned with a cup and asked, “Would you like some coffee?”

“No. Look, my ankles are breaking and my legs are numb. Cut me some slack here so we can talk, okay?”

“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.”

“Just three in my book.”

“Of course. Dunwoody doesn’t count because he never insulted you, or pulled a gun, or embarrassed you in class.”

“Shut up.”

“You told me to keep talking.”

“Now I’m telling you to shut up.”

“I don’t want to, Bannick. I’ve lived in your miserable life for so long and I never dreamed I would one day be able to have a chat like this and tell you what a miserable scumbag I think you are. You’re a coward. Your crimes took no courage.”

“You said that in one of your silly poems.”

“I thought they were rather clever.”

“And quite stupid. Why did you bother with them?”

“Good question, Bannick. Not sure I have the answer. I just wanted to lash out myself, I guess. Maybe as a way to torment you. I want you to suffer. And now that the end is near I can’t believe that it’s you who’s on the run, hiding here in the woods, planning to kill one last time. Your game is over, Bannick; so is your life. Why don’t you surrender like a man and take your punishment?”

“I said shut up.”

“There are so many things I want to say.”

“Don’t say them. I’m tired of your voice. If you want to talk next week, then shut up now.”

He abruptly stood, walked to her, sat on the stool, again with their knees almost touching. She pulled back as far as possible, certain he was about to strike. He reached for his pocket and pulled out two burner phones. “I’m going to get Lacy. I want her here with you. We’ll have us a nice long conversation and I’ll find out how much she knows.”

“Leave her alone. She’s done nothing but her job.”

“Oh really? She’s called in the FBI.”

“Leave her alone. Blame me, not her. She had never heard of you until I entered her life.”

He showed her both phones and said, “These are yours. Not sure which one will work, but I want you to call Lacy and arrange a meeting. Tell her you have a piece of evidence that will prove beyond all doubt that I’m the killer, but you can’t discuss it over the phone. It’s urgent and she must meet with you now.”

“Just go ahead and kill me.”

“Listen to me, you stupid woman. I’m not going to kill you, not now anyway, maybe never. I want Lacy here. We’ll talk, and once I know everything there’s a good chance I’ll simply disappear, go to some exotic village by the sea or in the mountains, someplace where no one speaks English. They’ll never find me. I’ve already been there, you know? It’s all planned.”

She breathed deeply as her heart raced.

“Which phone?” he asked.

She took one of them without looking at it. From nowhere, he produced a pistol, a rather large one, and set it beside him on the stool. “You tell her to meet you at the Bayview Motel near Crestview, just off the interstate. Has she ever seen your car?”