Judge's List (25 page)

It was dark when Lacy spotted the white Camry in the motel’s lot. As instructed by Jeri, she parked her rental next to it and got out. Gunther did not.

She entered the lobby a few minutes early and loitered in the gift shop looking at postcards for sale. At 9:01, Gunther entered from a side door and said hello to the receptionist. Lacy took the elevator to the second floor. Gunther took the stairs. The hallway was short, about ten rooms on each side, and a red
exit
sign glowed at the far end. She stopped at the door to room 232 and took a deep breath. She knocked three times, and at that moment all the lights went out.

Across the hall, Bannick used his laptop to turn off the lights and security cameras. He tossed it on the bed, grabbed a cloth with ether, and opened his door. Lacy heard him and turned around just as he lunged for her in the darkness. She managed to yell, “Hey!” before her brother charged from nowhere in the pitch blackness and bulled over them. All three fell into a pile. Lacy screamed and scrambled to her feet while Bannick flailed away at his attacker. He landed a kick somewhere near his ribs and Gunther grunted. Both men punched and grappled violently at each other as Lacy ran to the end of the hall, screaming. Someone opened a door and yelled, “Hey, what’s going on!”

“Call the police!” Lacy said.

Bannick landed a kick in the face and Gunther was stunned. He crawled away, grabbing at anything, finding nothing. Bannick ducked into his room, got his laptop, and disappeared toward the exit.

Lacy and Gunther found the stairs and hustled down one flight to the dark lobby. The receptionist had a flashlight and was saying to some guests, “I don’t know, I don’t know. Same thing happened last night.”

“Call the police,” Lacy said. “We were attacked on the second floor.”

“Who attacked you?”

That’s a long story, Lacy thought, but said, “Hell if I know. Hurry, he’s getting away.” More flashlights appeared from behind the desk as more guests stumbled down in the dark.

Gunther found a chair and took a seat to nurse his wounds. “Son of a bitch can kick like a mule,” he said, still dazed. “I think my ribs are broken.” Lacy sat next to him as things settled down and they waited for the police. She said, “I have to call Jeri. I think she’s in trouble.”

“Who’s Jeri?”

“Betty Roe. Our girl. The source. I’ll explain later.”

Jeri did not answer her phone, which was not at all unusual. Lacy scrolled through her recent calls and punched the number for Clay Vidovich. He answered after the second ring and she told him where she was, what had happened, and said she was certain they had been set up by Ross Bannick. She could not positively identify him but everything added up. He was in the process of fleeing the area. No, she did not see what he was driving. Vidovich was having dinner with his team in downtown Pensacola, an hour away. He would notify the Florida state police and get the authorities in Mobile to check on Jeri. Lacy was certain they would not find her there. Vidovich was headed her way and told Lacy to inform the motel not to touch the two rooms.

Moments later, the local police arrived with blue lights flashing. They found the lobby in chaos as guests milled about in the semidarkness. The motel’s lighting smart panel and security grid had been hacked and no one on the skeletal staff knew what to do. Lacy explained as much as she could and gave a general description of Bannick. No, she had no idea what he was driving. They, too, called the state police, but with no description of the vehicle they were not sure where to begin.

A clerk appeared with two small bags of ice, one for Gunther’s ribs, the other for his jaw, which was swollen but probably not broken. He was still a bit groggy and breathing was painful, but he refused to complain and wanted to get back to his airplane. A janitor rigged up a portable gas generator and, suddenly, the lobby was lit. There was not enough voltage for air-conditioning and the temperature rose fast. Several of the guests spilled into the parking lot and loitered around their vehicles.

He fought the urge to race down the state highway and kept his speed close to the limit. Overreacting would only cause more trouble, and he willed himself to drive reasonably while he thought through what had just happened. He had been ambushed for the first time in his career and he was certain he’d made mistakes. But he still wore plastic gloves and knew he’d left behind no prints, no evidence. He had entered the room with only a smartphone and a laptop and both were now at the bottom of a pond outside of Crestview. His right shoulder ached from the fight, or whatever it could be called. He never saw the man, never heard him coming. He had his hands on Lacy for only a second before being tackled and knocked down. Then she started screaming.

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.

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.

Jeri was discharged at noon. She was still suffering from nausea and couldn’t eat, but there was nothing else the doctors could do but ply her with meds. Her head ached and the ibuprofen did little to ease the throbbing. Her wrists and ankles were numb but slowly growing more sensitive. She had talked to Denise twice and assured her that she was safe and healthy and there was no need for her to rush down. She set off with two escorts, both young and rather cute FBI agents, one the driver, the other in the back seat doing most of the talking. However, she was not in a glib mood and after a few miles they left her alone. She stared through the passenger window, reliving the past forty-eight hours, still in disbelief that she was alive.

And Bannick had not been found. She had believed for a long time that the man was capable of anything, especially moving in the shadows without being detected. He had boasted of vanishing to some faraway place. As the miles clicked by and the hours passed, a horrible reality began to consume her. What if he walked away? And was never brought to justice? And his monstrous crimes were never solved? What if her lonely quest to find her father’s killer was for nothing?

Mobile was out of the question. He had been to her home, rang her doorbell, knew exactly where she lived. He had tracked her to the motel and abducted her without being seen or leaving behind a clue. As always. She wondered if she could ever go home.

Two hours later they entered Tallahassee and were soon winding through downtown. When they stopped at the renovated warehouse, Lacy was waiting on her stoop. She and Jeri hugged and cried and eventually went inside.

Allie had returned a few hours earlier and had been debriefed by Lacy. And by Gunther, who relished his role as the hero. Lacy had little doubt that as the story was told and retold, his fearless attack of a serial killer would only be embellished and become legendary.

Lacy asked one of the agents to go fetch a pizza. The other sat by the door, guarding the place. Inside, the four lounged in the den and swapped stories. Eventually they found humor, especially when Gunther, always animated, stopped midsentence to clutch his ribs. His swollen jaw did not throttle his narratives.

For her own benefit, Jeri recounted her conversations with Bannick. He had not explicitly admitted to any of the murders, but had grudgingly acquiesced to parts of her narrative. He denied killing Ashley Barasso, though that seemed hardly credible. More troubling were his assertions that he had killed others that Jeri had missed.

At five, they arrived at the FBI office in the federal building. Clay Vidovich welcomed them and they settled around a table in the main conference room. The big news was that they had recovered two latent prints from Bannick’s garage. The bad news was that they were not from his thumb. He was confident, though, that they would find more prints, but admitted they were taken aback by Bannick’s efforts to wipe everything clean. His cell phone had stopped working in Crestview. He’d probably tossed it. No one named Ross Bannick had booked a flight in the past seventy-two hours. His secretary had not heard a word. He had no family in the area, only a sister who lived far away and had had no contact.

Nonetheless, Vidovich was certain they would find him. A nationwide manhunt was in full swing and it was only a matter of time.

Jeri wasn’t so sure but kept her thoughts to herself. When she finally relaxed, she began talking about the past two days. She was not feeling well, though, and promised a longer debriefing on Monday.

Thank God someone broke into the cabin.

He stopped in Amarillo long enough to leave an overnight FedEx envelope in a drop box. He was the “Sender” and used his office address at the Chavez County Courthouse. The “Recipient” was Diana Zhang at the same address. If everything went as planned, it would be picked up by five Monday afternoon and delivered to her by ten thirty Tuesday morning.

At 8:00 a.m. Monday, he parked the rental outside Pecos Mountain Lodge and took a moment to admire the beautiful mountains in the distance. The high-end rehab facility was tucked into a hillside and hardly visible from the winding county road. He changed gloves and wiped down the steering wheel, door handles, console, and media screen. He had worn gloves for the past twenty hours and knew the car was clean, but he took no chances. With his small bag, he walked inside the plush lobby and said good morning to the receptionist.

“I have an appointment with Dr. Joseph Kassabian,” he said politely.

“And your name please?”

“Bannick, Ross Bannick.”

“Please have a seat and I’ll get him.”

He sat on a sleek leather sofa and admired the contemporary art on the walls. At $50,000 a month the wealthy drunks certainly deserved pleasant surroundings. Pecos was kept busy by rock stars, Hollywood types, and jet-setters, and, in spite of being so well known, it prided itself on keeping a low profile. Its challenge with confidentiality was that so many of its former patients couldn’t wait to sing its praises.

Dr. Kassabian soon appeared and they retired to his office down the hall. He was about fifty, a former addict. “Aren’t we all?” he’d said on the phone. They sat at a small table and sipped designer water.

“Tell me your story,” he said with a warm, welcoming smile.
Your nightmare is over. You’ve come to the right place.

Bannick wiped his face with his hands and seemed ready to cry. “It’s all booze, no drugs. Vodka, at least a quart a day, for many years now. I can function okay. I’m a judge and the job is demanding, but I gotta quit the stuff.”

“That’s a lot of vodka.”

“It’s never enough, and it’s getting worse. That’s why I’m here.”

“When was your last drink?”

“Three days ago. I’ve always managed to quit for short periods, but I can’t kick the stuff. It’s killing me.”

“So you probably don’t need detox.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve done this before, Doctor. This is my third rehab in the past five years. I’d like to stay for a month.”

“How long were your other rehabs?”

“A month.”

“Thirty days won’t do it, Mr. Bannick. Trust me on this. Thirty days will get you dried out and feeling great, but you need at least sixty. Ninety is our recommended stay.”

I guess so. At $50,000 a month.

“Maybe. Right now I’m just praying for thirty days. Just get me sober. Please.”

“We’ll do that. We’re very good at what we do. Trust us.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll introduce you to our admissions director who’ll do the paperwork and such. Do you have insurance or will it be private pay?”

“Private. I have assets, Doctor.”

“Even better.”

“Okay. Look, I’m an elected official, so confidentiality is a prime concern. No one can know I’m here. I’m single, no family, a few friends, but I’ve told no one. Not even my secretary.”

Dr. Kassabian smiled because he heard it all the time. “Believe me, Mr. Bannick, we understand confidentiality. What’s in the bag?”

“A few items, clothing, a toothbrush. I brought no phone, no laptop, no devices.”

“Good. In about a week you can use the phone. Nothing until then.”

“I know. Not my first rodeo.”

“I understand. But I’ll need to take the bag and inventory it. We provide nice linen gowns, Ralph Lauren, for the first two weeks.”

“Sure.”

“You bring a car?”

“It’s a rental. I flew in.”

“Okay. After the paperwork, we’ll do a complete physical. That’ll take most of the morning. You and I will have lunch together, just the two of us, and talk about the past, and the future. Then I’ll introduce you to your counselor.”

Bannick nodded as if thoroughly defeated.

Dr. Kassabian said, “I’m glad you came in sober, it’s a good start. You wouldn’t believe some of the poor folks who stagger in here.”

“I don’t feel sober, Doctor. Anything but.”

“You’re in the right place.”

They walked next door and met the director of admissions. Bannick paid the first $10,000 with a credit card and signed a promissory note for the other $40,000. Dr. Kassabian kept his bag. When the admission was complete he was shown to his rather spacious room on the second floor. Dr. Kassabian excused himself and said he was looking forward to lunch. When Bannick was finally alone, he quickly took off his stylish nylon tactical travel belt and removed small plastic bags from its hidden pockets. The bags contained two sets of pills that would be needed later. He hid them under a chest of drawers.

A steward knocked on his door and handed him a stack of gowns and towels. He waited until Bannick undressed in the bathroom, then left with his clothing, including the belt and his shoes.

He showered, put on one of the soft linen gowns, stretched out on the bed, and fell asleep.

Lacy, Jeri, and Allie dropped Gunther off at the airport and watched him taxi out and take off. When he was in the air, they felt like celebrating. They returned to the FBI office and met with Clay Vidovich and two other agents. Jeri signed an affidavit that recited the facts of her weekend encounter with Bannick. A warrant for kidnapping was issued and circulated nationally, everywhere but the Pensacola area. They were certain Bannick was not hanging around the Panhandle and did not want to alert his friends and acquaintances.

Vidovich gave them an update on the searches of his office and home and was bothered by the fact that no more prints had been found. The FBI was searching his real estate holdings, but so far had found nothing useful.

The room began to fill as other agents joined them. All ties were loosened, all sleeves rolled up, all collars unbuttoned. As a group they gave every indication of having worked through the weekend. Lacy called Darren and told him to join them. Trays of coffee, water, and pastries were brought in by secretaries.

At ten, Vidovich called things to order and made sure the two video cameras were working. He said, “This is for informational purposes only. Since you’re not a suspect, Jeri, we don’t need to deal with Miranda.”

“I should hope not,” she said and got a laugh.

“At the outset, I want to say that we would not be here if not for you. Your detective work over the past twenty years is nothing short of brilliant. It’s a miracle, actually, and I’ve never encountered anything like it. So, on behalf of the families, and all of law enforcement, I say thanks.”

She nodded, embarrassed, and glanced at Lacy.

“He hasn’t been caught yet,” Jeri said.

“We’ll get him.”

“Soon, I hope.”

“I’d like to start at the beginning. A lot of this will be repetitious, but please indulge us.”

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.