Джон Гришэм - The Judge’s List

What bothered Lacy, and she wasn’t sure if it also bothered Allie, was the uncertainty of the future. Where would they be in five years? She had serious doubts of continuing much longer at BJC. Allie’s frustration with the FBI was growing. He thrived in his work and was proud of what he did, but the seventy-hour weeks were taking a toll. If he worked less, could they spend more time together? And if so, could that lead to a closeness? Could that enable them to finally decide if they loved each other? They tossed the L-word around, almost playfully at times, but neither seemed fully committed to it. They had avoided it for the first year and still used it reluctantly.

Lacy’s fear was that she would never truly love him, but the romance would plod along conveniently from one stage to the next until there was nothing left but a wedding. And then, at the age of forty or even forty-plus, she would not be able to walk away. She would marry a man she adored but didn’t really love. Or did she?

Half her girlfriends were telling her to ditch the guy after two years. The other half were advising her to snag him before he got away.

The weekend was supposed to answer their most serious questions, though she had read enough trashy novels and watched enough romantic comedies to know that the big summit, the grand romantic getaway, seldom worked. Crumbling marriages were rarely saved by a few days at the beach, nor did struggling love affairs gain traction and find clear definition.

She suspected they would have some fun in the sun as they avoided the future and simply kept kicking the can down the road.

“Something’s bugging you,” he said as he drove with his left hand and rubbed her knee with his right.

It was too early in the weekend to plunge into the serious stuff, so she did a quick pivot and replied, “We have this case that’s keeping me awake at night.”

“You don’t normally stress over your cases.”

“They don’t normally involve murder.”

He looked at her with a smile and said, “Do tell.”

“I can’t tell, okay. Like yours, my cases are strictly confidential. However, I could probably get the story across if we stick to hypotheticals.”

“I’m all ears.”

“So, there’s a judge, a hypothetical one, let’s say he’s about fifty, been on the bench for about ten years, and he’s a sociopath. Follow?”

“Of course. Most of them are, right?”

“Come on. I’m serious.”

“Okay. We studied those in training at Quantico. The BAU — Behavioral Analysis Unit. Part of our standard routine. But that was a long time ago and I’ve yet to run across one in my work. My specialty is cold-blooded murderers who traffic cocaine and neo-Nazis who mail bombs. Keep going.”

“This is all speculation and none of it can be proven, at least not now. According to my witness, also unnamed and too terrified to show her face, the judge has murdered at least six people over the past twenty years. Six kills in six different states. He knew all six victims, had issues with each, of course, and he patiently stalked them until the right moment. All were killed the same way — strangulation with the same type of rope, same method. His signature. Perfect crime scenes, no forensics, nothing but the rope around the neck.”

“All cold cases?”

“Ice cold. The police have nothing. No witnesses, no prints, no fibers, no boot marks, no blood, no motive. Nothing at all.”

“If he knew them, then there must be a motive.”

“You’re such a brilliant FBI agent.”

“Thanks. Pretty obvious though.”

“Yes. The motives vary. Some seem serious, others trivial. I don’t know all of them.”

“He thinks they’re serious.”

“He does.”

Allie took his right hand off her knee and scratched his chin with it. After a moment he asked, “And this one is on your desk, right?”

“No. The witness has yet to file a formal complaint against the judge. She’s too frightened. And Cleopatra told me yesterday that BJC will not get involved in a murder investigation.”

“So what happens next?”

“Nothing, I guess. If there’s no complaint there’s nothing for us to do. The judge remains untouched and goes about his business, even if it includes murder.”

“You sound like you believe this witness.”

“I do. I’ve struggled with it since Monday, the day I met her, and I’ve reached the point where I believe her.”

“Why can’t she go to the police with her suspect?”

“Several reasons. One, she’s frightened and convinced that the killer will find out and add her name to his list. Perhaps the biggest hesitation is that the police have no reason to believe her. The cops in small-town South Carolina don’t have time to worry about a cold case in south Florida. The cops in Little Rock don’t have time for a similar killing near Chattanooga, one with no forensics.”

Allie nodded as he thought. “That’s four. Where are the other two?”

“She hasn’t told me yet.”

“Who was murdered in Little Rock?”

“A newspaper reporter.”

“And why was his name on the list?”

“We’re getting away from the hypothetical, Agent Pacheco. I can’t give you any more details.”

“Fair enough. Have you discussed the FBI with her?”

“Yes, briefly, and as of now she has no interest. She’s convinced it’s too dangerous and she also has strong doubts about its willingness to get involved. Why would the FBI get excited about a string of murders they have no chance of solving?”

“She might be surprised at what we can do.”

Lacy thought about this for a few miles as they listened to the radio and zipped through traffic. Allie was a compulsive speeder and when he got nailed by radar, at least twice a year, he loved to pull out his badge and wink at the trooper. He boasted of never getting a ticket.

Lacy asked, “How would that work? Say the witness wanted to lay everything on the table in front of the FBI.”

Allie shrugged and said, “I don’t know, but I can find out.”

“Not yet. I have to go real slow with this witness. She’s damaged.”

“Damaged?”

“Yes, her father was victim number two.”

“Wow. This gets better.” His most obnoxious habit, to date, was chewing his fingernails, and only the left ones. The ones on the right were never attacked. When he began chewing he was thoroughly engrossed in something and she could almost hear his brain churning away.

After a few miles he said, frowning at the windshield, “This is pretty intense. Hypothetically, let’s say you’re in the room with the police — us, locals, state, doesn’t matter — and you say, ‘Here’s your killer.’ Name, rank, serial number, address. And here are his six victims, all strangled over the past twenty-plus years, and—”

“And there’s no way to prove it.”

“And there’s no way to prove it. Unless.”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you find evidence from the killer himself.”

“That would require a warrant, wouldn’t it? A document that would be impossible to obtain without probable cause. There’s no cause whatsoever, only some wild speculation.”

“I thought you said you believe her.”

“I think I do.”

“You’re not convinced.”

“Not all the time. You have to admit, it’s far-fetched.”

“Indeed it is. I’ve never heard of anything like it. But then, as you know, I chase a different class of criminal.”

“A warrant is unlikely. Plus, he’s probably paranoid and too smart to get caught.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Nothing. He’s just a hypothetical.”

“Come on. We’ve gone this far.”

“Single, never married, probably lives alone. Security cameras everywhere. A respected judge who gets out enough to appear socially acceptable. Highly regarded by colleagues and lawyers. And voters. You’re the profiler, what else do you want?”