Judge's List (27 page)

Diana Zhang had never given a thought to serving as the executrix of someone’s will and estate. In fact, as the secretary to a judge, she knew enough about probate to know it should be avoided when possible. Now that she had been victimized by her former boss, and saddled with an unwanted task that gave every indication, at least initially, of being complicated and burdensome, if not impossible, she struggled to find a good attitude toward her new role.

The fourth page, the one with the list of assets, kept her in the game. She had never thought about Judge Bannick’s death—he was so young—and she had certainly never thought about being included in his estate plans. Not long after the shock of his death began to wear off, she couldn’t help but think about her windfall.

Frankly, she didn’t care if he was cremated or where he was buried, especially with the FBI breathing down her neck. They asked her to hold off on any burial plans, and everything else for that matter. There was no hurry. He was being iced in the county morgue far away, and if the FBI wanted her to take things slow, then she had no qualms with that. They had agreed not to tamper with the body as long as she agreed to allow them to extensively photograph the hands and fingers.

She was quoted at length in Wednesday’s edition of the
Ledger.
After some glowing comments about her old boss, she said that he had been ill for some time but was too private to discuss his health. The entire office was “shocked and saddened,” as were his colleagues and members of the bar. The story covered the entire bottom half of the front page, with a fine photo of a younger Bannick. There was no mention of the arrest warrant for kidnapping.

By noon Wednesday, the FBI had seized and searched the SUV he left behind in the long-term lot of the Birmingham airport, as well as the Avis rental they tracked to Pecos Mountain Lodge. Not surprisingly, both had been thoroughly wiped and there were no prints. The FedEx envelope sent to Diana was covered with prints, but none matched the partial found on Verno’s phone. The cabin at Gantt Lake was combed through and yielded nothing useful. Every square inch of his room at the lodge, and every surface he could have possibly touched, had been examined twice over, without success. A steward said he had seen him several times, always with gloves.

A team of the Bureau’s top fingerprint experts hurried down and examined the fingers and thumbs. All were cooked and corroded to the point of being thoroughly destroyed. Since the body was to be cremated, Vidovich made the decision to remove the hands and take them to the lab. He mentioned this to Diana Zhang, who was at first horrified. However, as Vidovich leaned on her and made it plain that the hands and fingers, along with the entire body, were about to be ashes anyway, what was the harm? When she still hesitated, he threatened to haul her before a federal magistrate.

Diana was already tired of her new job. The longer he was in the morgue, the more problems he was creating. She would never see his body, with or without the hands. It was a thousand miles away and that wasn’t far enough. She finally said yes to the amputations, and the hands were removed and rushed to the forensics lab in Clarksburg, West Virginia.

What was left of Judge Ross Bannick was hauled to a crematorium in Santa Fe, properly reduced to ashes, and stuffed in a plastic urn that the mortician put in storage until further orders.

Lacy spoke to Vidovich throughout the day and relayed the developments to Jeri, who was suddenly eager to gather her things and get home.

The FBI had searched her car and found no useful prints, but did find the GPS monitor next to the gas tank. They sent it to Clarksburg for examination.

Somehow, somewhere in the horror and chaos of the kidnapping, Bannick had taken her pistol and small carry-on bag, but had left behind her phone and laptop. She assumed he did not want to risk being tracked with her devices. He also left behind her purse and keys. He didn’t need the small amount of cash, nor her credit cards, and he was driving his own vehicle, though Jeri never saw it.

The same two handsome agents who had driven her away from the hospital on Sunday now appeared in Tallahassee with her Camry and belongings. They had been ordered to follow her back to Mobile and arrange for her door locks to be changed. She said no thanks, and they reluctantly left.

After an early dinner with Lacy and Allie, Jeri hugged them both, offered her heartfelt thanks, promised to see them again soon, and left for Mobile, four hours away. As she left town, she turned the rearview mirror sideways so she wouldn’t keep glancing at it. Some habits would be hard to break.

Her thoughts were scrambled and her moods swung radically. She was lucky to be alive and her sore wrists were a constant reminder of the close call. However, that episode, as terrifying as it was, had a clear end to it. Luck intervened and she escaped a certain death. She was destined to keep living, but for what purpose? She felt as though her project was incomplete, but where was the finish line? She smiled at the pleasant thought of not living in the same world with Bannick, but then she almost cursed at the reality that he got away with his murders. He would never face his victims, never be hauled into a courtroom, perhaps even his own, in an orange jumpsuit with shackles around his ankles. He would never suffer the immeasurable humiliation of seeing his mug shot on the front page, of being scorned by his friends, removed from the bench, convicted of his heinous crimes, and locked away. He would not make history as the first American judge to be convicted of murder, nor would he be remembered as a legendary serial killer. He would never rot in the prison cell he so deserved.

Without further proof of his guilt, the families of his victims would never know of his probable guilt. She knew their names, all of them. The parents and siblings of Eileen Nickleberry; the two children of Ashley Barasso, now both in their early twenties; the widow and two sons of Perry Kronke; the family of Mike Dunwoody, the only accidental victim she knew of; the children of Danny Cleveland; the families of Lanny Verno and Mal Schnetzer.

And what would she tell her own family—her older brother, Alfred, in California, and Denise at Michigan? Would she upset their worlds with the hard-to-believe story that she found the killer but he escaped justice?

Why bother? The only time they discussed the murder of Bryan Burke was when she, Jeri, brought up the subject.

She managed to lighten up by reminding herself that the case was not closed. The FBI was fully involved and they were due a break. Bannick might yet get implicated in one or more of his murders. If one could be proven, then surely the FBI could inform the local police departments, who could in turn meet with the families. Justice would remain permanently elusive, but perhaps some of the families could find closure if they knew the truth.

For Jeri, closure seemed impossible.

Late Thursday morning, Lacy and her task force met for the last time and were happily retiring the Bannick matter into the “Dismissal” drawer when Felicity interrupted with an urgent call. Sadelle was savoring her oxygen and Darren was debating what size latte to run and fetch.

“It’s Betty Roe and she says it’s important,” Felicity announced through the speaker.

Lacy rolled her eyes and sighed with frustration. She had hoped that she might be able to go a few days without hearing Jeri’s voice, but wasn’t really surprised. Darren bolted for the door on his coffee run. Sadelle closed her eyes as if ready for another nap.

“Good morning, Betty,” Lacy said.

“We can drop the Betty routine, can’t we now, Lacy?”

“Sure. And how are you this morning, Jeri?”

“Marvelous. I feel fifty pounds lighter and I can’t stop smiling. The fact that he’s gone is such a burden off my brain and body. I can’t tell you how wonderful it feels.”

“That’s great to hear, Jeri. It’s been a long time.”

“It’s been a lifetime, Lacy. I’ve lived with that creep for decades. Anyway, though, I couldn’t sleep. I was up all night because I thought of one more little adventure and I need your help. Preferably with Allie in tow.”

“Allie left this morning, for parts unknown.”

“Then bring Darren. I suppose he’s the next available white boy.”

“I guess. Bring him where?”

“To Pensacola.”

“I’m listening but I’m already skeptical.”

“Don’t be. Trust me. Surely I’ve earned your trust by now.”

“You have.”

“Good. Please drop what you’re doing and come to Pensacola.”

“Okay, I’m struggling but still listening. It’s not exactly right around the corner.”

“I know, I know. One hour for me, three for you, but it could be crucial. It could put the final nail in his coffin.”

“So to speak. He didn’t want a coffin.”

“Right. Look, Lacy, I’ve found the truck.”

“Which truck?”

“The truck Bannick was driving the day he killed Verno and Dunwoody in Biloxi. The truck that was spotted by the old man sitting on his porch in downtown Neely, Mississippi, when Bannick dropped the phones in the mailbox. That truck.”

Lacy slowly said, “So?”

“So, it hasn’t been checked for prints.”

“Wait. I believe Darren tracked it down.”

“Yes, sort of. It’s a 2009 half-ton pickup, light gray in color, purchased by Bannick in 2012. He owned it for two years, used it in the Biloxi murders, then traded it in a month later. A man named Trager bought it from a used car lot, drove it two months until he was hit by a drunk driver. State Farm totaled the truck and gave a check to Trager, who signed over the title. State Farm sold it for scrap. This is all according to what you told me three weeks ago.”

“Right, I remember now. Darren said it was a dead end.”

“Well, not exactly. The truck was not sold for scrap, but for parts. I think I’ve found it in a salvage yard outside of Milton, just north of Pensacola. Do you have Google Maps?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, I’ll send you the link for Dusty’s Salvage outside of Milton. It buys wrecks from insurance companies, sells off the parts. Ninety acres of nothing but banged-up cars and trucks. I tracked down the adjuster who handled the Trager claim and he’s pretty sure the truck went to Dusty’s.”

Expecting the worst, Lacy asked, “And what am I supposed to do?”

“Right. The three of us—you, me, Darren—are going to find the truck and have a look. If Bannick owned it for two years then there might be prints. He wouldn’t wipe it down because he didn’t know about his wayward thumb on Verno’s phone. He sold it months before that.”

“Ninety acres?”

“Come on, Lacy, this might be our big break. Sure, it’s a needle in a haystack, but the needle is there.”

“How long do prints last?”

“Years, depending on a bunch of factors—surface, weather, imprint, etc.”

Lacy was not surprised that Jeri knew the ins and outs of fingerprints. “Let’s just call the FBI.”

“Gee, I’ve never heard that before. We’ll call them later. Let’s find the truck first, then decide what to do.”

The impulse was to tell Jeri how swamped she was, how chaotic the office had become in her absence, and so on, but she knew any and all excuses would be blown off, completely ignored. Jeri had tracked down a serial killer the police had never heard of, and she had done so by being tenacious. Lacy simply wasn’t up to an argument.

She frowned at Sadelle, who was dozing, and said, “We can’t be there until four.”

“Dusty closes at five. Hustle up. Don’t wear a dress.”

Ernie worked one end of the long front counter, and when they entered the parts department he was the only one of four “associates” who was not on the phone. Without a smile, he waved them over to his turf. The decor was dented hubcaps and old steering wheels, and behind the counter were tall rows of bins filled with used auto parts. One wall was an impressive rack of used car batteries. The place reeked of stale oil, and all four associates had at least two grease stains on their shirts. Ernie had his share, plus an oil rag hanging from a rear pocket. An unlit cigar was screwed into one side of his mouth. “Help you?” he growled. They were obviously out of place.

Lacy turned on the megawatt smile and said, “Yes, thank you. We’re looking for a 2009 Chevrolet pickup truck.”

“Got thousands here. Need to narrow it down, honey.”

At another time, the “honey” would have sent her into orbit, but the moment was not right to set him straight.

“You lookin’ for parts?”

“No, not exactly,” she said, still all smiles.

“Look, ma’am, we sell parts, used parts, nothin’ but parts. We got over a hundred thousand wrecks out there, more comin’ in ever’ day.”

Lacy realized they were getting nowhere. She slid across a business card and said, “We’re investigating allegations of wrongdoing. We work for the State of Florida.”

“You a cop?” he asked, recoiling. Dusty’s gave every indication of being the type of place where cash was king, taxes were routinely avoided, and all manner of criminal activity was just below the surface. Two other associates, both still on the phone, glanced over.

“No,” Lacy said quickly. Jeri was admiring some hubcaps as Darren checked his phone. “Not at all. We just need to find this truck.” She slid across a copy of the title Jeri had found online.

Ernie took it and gazed at the screen of his bulky, 1970s-style computer. It, too, with oil stains. He finger-pecked and frowned and shook his old keyboard. He finally mumbled, “Came in back in January. South lot, row eighty-four.” He looked at Lacy and said, “Got it? Look, lady, we sell parts here. We don’t give free tours, you know?”

A bit louder, she said, “Sure. I can always come back with a warrant.”

It was apparent, from his startled reaction, that warrants were not welcome around Dusty’s. Ernie nodded toward the back and said, “Follow me.” He led them through a rear door. To one side was a long metal building with bays filled with cars and trucks in various stages of demolition. To the other side was a grand view of acres and acres of nothing but wrecked vehicles. He waved to his right and said, “Cars over there.” He waved to his left and said, “Trucks and vans over there. South lot is that way, ’bout half a mile. Look for row eighty-four. With some luck you’ll find it. We close at five and you don’t want to get locked in here at night.”

Darren pointed to a kid in a golf cart and asked Ernie, “Can we borrow that?”

“Ever’thang’s for sale around here, boss. Ask Herman.”

Without another word, Ernie turned and walked away. For $5, Herman would take them to row 84. They piled in the cart and were soon zipping past thousands of wrecked and gutted vehicles, most missing their hoods, all without tires, some with weeds growing through the windows. He stopped in front of a gray truck and they got out.

Lacy handed him another $5 bill and said, “Look, Herman, can you come back and get us at closing time?”

He grinned, took the money, grunted a response, and wheeled away.

The truck had been T-boned at the passenger’s door and was well demolished, but the engine was intact and had already been scavenged. As they gawked at it, Lacy asked, “So what do we do now?”

“Let’s take out some pistons,” Darren said like a real smart-ass.

“Not exactly,” Jeri said, “but you’re on the right track. Think of things Bannick wouldn’t touch, and the engine comes first. Now think of the things he would have touched. Steering wheel, dash, signal switch, gear shift, all the switches and buttons.”

“And you brought your dusting powder?” Lacy said.

“No, but I do know how to find prints. Our backup plan is to get the FBI out here for a proper search. Right now I just want to look around.”

“The glove box,” Darren said.

“Yes, and under the seat, behind the seat. Think about your own car and all the crap that falls through the cracks. Gloves anyone?” She reached into her purse and removed plastic gloves. They dutifully put them on.

“I’m going in,” Jeri said. “Darren, you check the back. Lacy, see if you can look behind the seat on the other side.”

“Watch for snakes,” Darren said, and the women almost shrieked.

Half the bench seat was crushed and mangled, and the passenger door was hanging by a thread. Lacy stepped through weeds and managed to get it open. Its side pocket was empty. She saw nothing of interest on the passenger’s side. Jeri gently scraped glass from the driver’s seat and sat at the wheel. She reached over and tried to open the glove box, but it was jammed tight.

Their first pass produced nothing. Jeri said, “We need to open the glove box. If we’re in luck there’s an owner’s manual and assorted paperwork, same as in every car, right?”

Lacy asked, “What’s an owner’s manual?”

“Typical,” mumbled Darren.

Lacy was suddenly hit with a memory and her knees went weak. She gasped and bent over, hands on knees, trying to breathe.

“Are you okay?” Jeri asked, touching her shoulder.

“No. Sorry. Just give me a moment.”

Darren looked at Jeri and said, “It’s her car wreck, the one where Hugo was killed. Not that long ago.”

Jeri said, “I’m so sorry, Lacy. I just wasn’t thinking.”

She stood and took a deep breath.

“We should’ve brought some water,” Jeri said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine now. Let’s get out of here and report this to the FBI. They can handle the search.”

Jeri said, “Okay, but first I want to see what’s in that glove box.”

Parked five feet away was a large Ford with a crushed roof. Darren poked around it and found a torn piece of the left door rocker panel. He twisted it free and eased into the seat of the gray Chevy truck. He jammed his new tool into the damaged glove box but it would not open. He pried, shoved, dug, jammed again and again, but its door would not open. The glove box was partially crushed and locked tight.

“I thought you were stronger than that,” Lacy observed as she and Jeri watched every move.

Darren glared at her, took a deep breath, wiped his forehead, and attacked the glove box again. He finally pried open a narrow gap and managed to snap off the door.

He grinned at Lacy and Jeri and tossed his tool into the weeds. He pulled his gloves tight, then slowly removed a plastic bifold; a brochure for tire warranties; a receipt for an oil change, charged to a Mr. Robert Trager; a AAA solicitation of some variety; and two rusted screwdrivers.

He handed the bifold to Jeri and got out of the truck. The three of them stared at their loot. “Should we open it?” Lacy asked.

Jeri held it with both hands and said, “Odds are Bannick touched this at some time. Odds are he didn’t wipe it down, couldn’t have really, at least not in the past month when he was scrubbing everything else.”

Lacy said, “Let’s play it safe and take it to the FBI.”

“Yes, absolutely. But let’s have a peek first.” She slowly opened the bifold and removed the owner’s manual. Stuffed inside it were extended warranty papers, an old Florida registration card issued to Robert Trager, and two receipts from an auto parts store.

A card fell out and floated to the ground. Lacy picked it up, read it, smiled, and said, “Bingo.”

It was a State Farm insurance card issued to Waveland Shores, one of Bannick’s fronts. It covered the six-month period from January to July of 2013, and listed the policy number, limits of coverage, VIN, and agent’s name. On the back side were instructions on what to do in case of an accident. She showed it to Jeri and Darren, who were afraid to touch it, then placed it back in the owner’s manual.

Jeri said, “I like our odds right now.”

“I’m calling Clay Vidovich,” Lacy said as she pulled out her phone.

They hiked for ten minutes until they saw Herman in his golf cart. He drove them to the front where they checked in with Ernie, who, of course, wanted $10 for the owner’s manual. Lacy bargained him down to $5, to be covered by the taxpayers of Florida, and they left Dusty’s.

An hour later, they were in downtown Pensacola having a soda in the conference room with Vidovich and Agents Neff and Suarez. As they detailed their adventure, two technicians were poring over the manual, insurance card, and other items from the glove box.

Vidovich was saying, “Yes, we’re heading out in the morning, flight’s at eight. We’ll get back to Washington in the afternoon. Thanks to you, Jeri, it’s been a rather productive trip, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s a mixed bag,” she said without a smile. “We found our man, but he got away, on his own terms.”

“The killings have stopped, and that’s not always the case. We can close this one, but we have others.”

“How many, if I may be so bold to inquire?” Darren asked.

Vidovich looked at Neff, who shrugged as if she couldn’t say.

“About a dozen, of all varieties.”

“Anyone like Bannick?” Lacy asked.

He smiled and shook his head. “Not that we know of, and we don’t pretend to know them all. Most of these guys kill at random and never know their victims. Bannick was certainly different. He had a list and he stalked them for years. We would have never found him, Jeri, without you.”