Judge's List (26 page)

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.

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.

Her hands were shaking as she ripped off the tab and removed one of his office envelopes. Inside were four sheets of letter-sized paper. The first was a letter to her. It read:

Dear Diana. When you read this I’ll be dead. Sorry to do this to you but there’s no one else. Please call Dr. Joseph Kassabian at the Pecos Mountain Lodge near Santa Fe and inform him that you are my secretary, my executrix, and my sole heir. As directed in the attached Last Will and Testament, you are directed to have my body cremated immediately and my ashes scattered over the Pecos Mountains here in New Mexico. Do not, under any circumstances, have my body returned to the State of Florida, and do not permit an autopsy. Tomorrow, send the Press Release to Jane Kemper at the Pensacola Ledger. Please delay notifying the police as long as possible. Ross.

She gasped, muffled a shriek, and dropped the papers. She was crying when she picked them up. The second sheet was a “Press Release,” and it read:

The third sheet of paper was titled: “Last Will and Testament of Ross L. Bannick.” It read:

I, Ross L. Bannick, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, do hereby make and declare this to be my last will and testament, expressly revoking all prior wills. This instrument is prepared solely by me and for all intents and purposes is to be considered my final, holographic will.

1. I appoint my faithful friend, Diana Zhang, as my executrix and direct her to probate this will as soon as possible. I waive bond and accounting.

2. I instruct my executrix to immediately have my remains cremated and my ashes scattered over the Pecos Mountains outside of Santa Fe.

3. I give, devise, and bequeath all of my assets to Diana Zhang.

4. Other than the usual monthly bills, there are no liabilities. Attached hereto is a list of assets.

Signed, Ross L. Bannick.

Stapled to the will was the fourth sheet. It listed eight bank accounts with their approximate balances; his home in Cullman, valued at $700,000; a beach bungalow worth $550,000; two shopping centers owned by corporations; and a stock portfolio valued at $240,000.

For a long time she was too stunned to move or to think clearly. Any interest in his assets was negated by the horror of the moment.

She managed to go online and found the website for the Pecos Mountain Lodge. An addiction facility? Nothing made sense. She called the number and was informed that Dr. Kassabian was not available. She would not take no for an answer and pressed on with the urgent matter. When he finally took her call, she explained who she was and so on. He confirmed the death, said it appeared to be an overdose, and could she call back later? No, she could not. He settled down and they had a conversation, one that ended with the arrival of the coroner.

She found the business card for Special Agent Neff, and called the FBI.

The lodge was a pleasant getaway where damaged people began their new lives, not a place where people went to die. Dr. Kassabian had never dealt with the death of a patient, and he wasn’t sure what to do. The last thing he wanted was for such a traumatic event to rattle the other patients. In his second conversation with Ms. Zhang, she mentioned the request for cremation and explained that she had clear directions from the deceased about what to do with his remains. Common sense, though, dictated the preservation of the corpse and the room until higher authorities were on the scene. When two FBI agents from the Santa Fe office arrived, he was not happy about their presence, but he was relieved that someone else would make the next few decisions. When they informed him that Judge Bannick was wanted on kidnapping charges, he quipped, “Well, I think you’re too late.”

They stepped into the room and stared at Bannick.

The first agent said, “We have technicians on the way and we need to fingerprint him.”

“That might be a problem.” Dr. Kassabian slowly reached down, took a corner of a sheet, and pulled it back. Bannick’s hands were swollen grotesquely, his fingers were black from corrosion, and his nails had melted and popped off. A rust-colored liquid stained his gown and the sheets under him.

“Looks like he knew you were coming,” Dr. Kassabian said.

“Okay,” said the second agent. “Don’t touch anything.”

“Don’t worry.”

They were finishing lunch at a downtown café when an urgent call came from Clay Vidovich. They hurried to the FBI office in the federal building and waited in the conference room. Vidovich and Agents Neff and Suarez entered in a rush and it was obvious they had news.

Without sitting, Vidovich announced, “Ross Bannick is dead. An apparent overdose at a rehab clinic near Santa Fe.”

Jeri collapsed and buried her face in her hands. Lacy was too stunned to say anything.

Vidovich went on, “He checked himself in early yesterday morning and they found him dead in his room about three hours ago. Our agents there have confirmed everything.”

Allie asked, “What about prints?”

“Not so sure. I just got a video from one of our agents there. Do you want to see it?”

“Of what?” Lacy asked.

“Our man in rehab. There’s one part that’s pretty graphic.”

Jeri wiped her eyes, bit a lip, said, “I want to see it.”

Agent Murray pressed some buttons on a tablet and the video began on a big screen behind Vidovich. He moved out of the way as they gawked at the image taken with a smartphone. Bannick had not been moved and was lying face-up, eyes closed, unshaven, mouth half open, a white liquid leaking from one corner, dead as a doornail. The camera moved slowly down his body and stopped at his hands, which had been placed next to each other over his crotch.

Vidovich narrated, “Probably dipped his fingers in an acid right before he died.”

Allie mumbled just loud enough to be heard, “That sonofabitch.”

The camera zoomed in close on the fingers and Lacy looked away.

Vidovich said, “You asked about prints. We may have a problem. The damage is obviously substantial and the wounds will not heal, not now anyway. Looks like he knew exactly what he was doing.”

Lacy asked, “Can you stop it right there?”

Agent Suarez froze the video. Lacy said, “So, let’s go slow here. He apparently tried to mutilate his fingers to avoid getting printed, which I assume is possible even after death.”

Agent Neff said, “Yes, it happens all the time, assuming the hands and fingers are in decent shape.”

“Okay. So, assuming he wanted to destroy his prints, and assuming that he had already altered them in some way—wouldn’t it be reasonable to assume he knew about the partial thumb print?”

Vidovich smiled and said, “Exactly. Somehow Bannick knew we had a print.”

They looked at Jeri and she shook her head. “No idea.”

Allie asked, “Why would he care? If he’s planning a suicide anyway, why would he worry about getting caught?”

Jeri replied, “Now you’re trying to think like Bannick. He had a death wish, which is not unusual for serial killers. They can’t stop what they’re doing on their own volition, so they want someone else to stop them. The ruined reputation. The disgrace to the memory of his parents. The loss of everything he had worked for.”

Vidovich said, “Some of the more famous killers had strong death wishes. Bundy, Gacy. It’s not at all unusual.”

The video ended. Jeri asked, “Could you please go back to the beginning?” Suarez pressed buttons and there was Bannick’s ghostly face again. Jeri said, “Just freeze it right there. I want to see him dead. I’ve waited a long time.”

Vidovich glanced at Lacy and Allie. After a pause, he continued. “We could have a messy situation brewing here. Evidently he left a new will and some specific instructions, wants to be cremated immediately and his ashes scattered over the mountains out there. How nice. We, of course, want to preserve the body so we can try like hell to get a thumb print. The problem is that he’s not exactly in our custody. You can’t arrest a corpse. Our warrant expired the moment he died. I just spoke with Legal in Washington and they’re scratching their heads.”

“You can’t allow him to be cremated,” Lacy said. “Get a court order.”

“Evidently it’s not that simple. Which court? Florida, New Mexico? There’s no law requiring a dead person to be transported back home for a burial. This guy planned everything and ordered his executor to cremate him out there with no autopsy.”

Jeri stared at the still shot of the corpse, shook her head, and said, “Even from the grave, he’s disrupting our lives.”

“But it’s over, Jeri,” Lacy said, touching her on the arm.

“It’ll never be over now. Bannick will never be brought to justice. He got away with it, Lacy.”

“No. He’s dead and he won’t kill again.”

Jeri snorted and looked away. “Let’s get out of here.”

Allie dropped them off at Lacy’s apartment and went to his. He had been summoned to Orlando for work but, in a rather testy conversation, had informed his supervisor that he needed a couple of days at home.

The women sat in the den and tried to absorb even more drama. What could be next? What could top the news of Bannick’s death?

If there was never a match for the partial thumb print, then there would never be physical evidence linking him to the murders of Verno and Dunwoody.

As for the other murders, they had only motive and method. Convicting him with such flimsy evidence would be impossible. And, now that he was dead, no police—local, state, or federal—would waste time pursuing him. Their cases had been cold for decades anyway. Why get excited now? Jeri was certain they would welcome the news of Bannick’s probable guilt, inform the families, and happily close the files.

His comments, denials, deflections, and assertions the previous Saturday in a dark cabin deep in the Alabama countryside were of little help to the police. None of what he said could ever be admitted in court, and he had been careful not to expressly admit any wrongdoing. He was, after all, a trial judge.

At times Jeri was emotional, and at times inconsolable. Her life’s work had come to an abrupt and unsatisfactory end. Dead as he was, Bannick was walking away practically unscathed. The kidnapping charge, if and when it was ever reported, would only add confusion and prove nothing. The details behind it would never be made known. He had not been arrested for anything. His name would never be linked to his victims.

But there were also moments of visible relief. The monster was no longer on her trail. She would no longer inhabit the same world as Ross Bannick, a man she had loathed for so long that he had become a part of her life. She would never miss him, but how would she fill the vacancy?

She had read somewhere that we often grow to admire, even love, the very thing we so obsessively hate. It can become a part of our life, and we grow to rely on it, to need it. It defines us.

At two thirty, an FBI agent knocked on the door and informed Lacy that her little security detail had been called back to the office. The danger was now gone, the coast was clear. She thanked him and said goodbye.

Jeri asked to spend one more night. It might take some time to completely relax, and she wanted to go for a long walk, alone, through the neighborhood, the campus, and downtown. She wanted to taste the freedom of moving about without glancing around, without worrying, without even thinking of him. And when Lacy came home from the office, she, Jeri, wanted to get in the kitchen and cook dinner together. She had stopped cooking years earlier, even decades ago, when her evenings became consumed with her pursuit.

Lacy said of course. After she left, Jeri sat on the sofa and kept repeating to herself that Bannick was dead.

The world was a better place.