Джон Гришэм - The Judge’s List

As Tabor drove away in his rental, he called his client.

Jeri felt dizzy and her knees were weak. She reclined on the sofa in her cluttered condo, closed her eyes, and made herself breathe deeply. Eight dead people in seven different states. Seven victims of the same type of strangulation, all unlucky enough to have bumped into Ross Bannick along the way.

The cops in Biloxi would never find Norris Ozment, and they would never know of the courtroom altercation between Lanny Verno and Bannick. They would dig deep enough to know that Verno’s criminal record was only a DUI in Florida, and they would dismiss that as nothing. Verno was, after all, the victim, not the killer, and they were not too concerned with his past. The case was already cold, the investigation at a dead end.

The killer had stalked his prey for almost thirteen years. He was far ahead of the police.

Breathe deep, she told herself. You can’t solve all the murders. You just need one.

In addition to the substantial increase in salary, which she was happy to accept, and the larger office, which she was even happier to decline, her promotion offered little in the way of perks. One, though, was a state-owned vehicle, a late model Impala with low mileage. Not too many years earlier, all of the investigators drove state cars and never worried about their travel expenses. Budget cuts had changed things.

Lacy had decided that Darren Trope would become her wingman, and as such he would do a lot of the driving. He would soon learn of the mysterious witness and her breathtaking accusations, though he would not know her real identity, at least not in the near future.

Darren parked in the half-empty lot of a hotel beside Interstate 10 a few miles west of Tallahassee. Lacy said, “The contact will watch us enter the hotel, so the contact knows you are here.”

“The contact?”

“Sorry, but that’s as far as I can go right now.”

“I love it. All this intrigue.”

“You have no idea what you’re getting into. Just hang out in the lobby or the café.”

“Where are you meeting this contact?”

“A room on the third floor.”

“And you feel safe?”

“Sure, plus I have you downstairs ready to come to my rescue. Got your gun?”

“Forgot it.”

“What kind of agent are you?”

“I don’t know. I thought I was just a lowly investigator working for minimum wage.”

“I’ll get you a raise. If I’m not back in an hour, then assume I’ve been kidnapped and probably tortured.”

“And then I do what?”

“Run.”

“You got it. So look, Lacy, what exactly is the purpose of this little rendezvous?”

“Right. What are we doing here? I expect the contact will hand me a formal complaint against a circuit court judge, and in the complaint there will be allegations that the judge has committed murder while on the bench. Perhaps more than once. I have tried numerous times to send the contact away, preferably to the FBI or some other crime-fighting outfit, but the contact is adamant and frightened. The investigation, whatever it looks like, will begin with us. And where it ends, I have no idea.”

“And you know this contact pretty well?”

“No. We met two weeks ago. In the coffee shop, ground floor of Siler. You took her photo.”

“Oh, so that’s the woman?”

“Yep.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I think so. I go back and forth. It’s an outrageous accusation, but the contact presents some pretty strong circumstantial evidence. No real proof, mind you, but enough suspicion to make things interesting.”

“This is awesome, Lacy. You gotta let me in on the investigation. I love this cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

“You’re in, Darren. You and Sadelle. That’s the team. Got it? Just the three of us. And you have to promise you will not ask for the real identity of the contact.”

He sealed his lips and said, “Promise.”

“Let’s go.”

There was a café on the far left side of the lobby behind the registration desk. Darren peeled off without a word as Lacy walked to the elevators. She rode alone to the third floor, found the right room, and pushed the doorbell.

Jeri opened the door without a smile, without a word. She nodded toward the room behind her, and Lacy stepped in slowly, glancing around. It was a small room with only one bed.

“Thanks for coming,” Jeri said. “Have a seat.” There was one chair next to the television.

“Are you okay?” Lacy asked.

“I’m a wreck, a total disaster.” Gone were the stylish clothes and fake designer frames. Jeri was garbed in an old black jogging suit and scruffy sneakers. She wore no makeup and looked years older. “Sit down, please.”

Lacy sat in the chair and Jeri sat on the edge of the bed. She pointed to some papers on the desk. “There’s the complaint, Lacy. I kept it short, used the name of Betty Roe. I have your word that no one else will ever know my real name?”

“I can’t promise that, Jeri. We’ve been through this. I can guarantee that no one at BJC will know who you are, but beyond that there are no promises.”

“Beyond that? What is beyond that, Lacy?”

“We now have forty-five days to investigate your complaint. If we find evidence to support your allegations, then we’ll have no choice but to go to the police or FBI. We can’t arrest this judge for murder, Jeri. We’ve had that discussion. We can remove him from the bench, but by then losing his job will be the least of his worries.”

“You have to protect me at all times.”

“We’ll do our job, that’s all I can promise. At BJC, your name will be known to no one.”

“I prefer to stay off his list, Lacy.”

“Well, so do I.”

Jeri stuck her hands in her pockets and rocked forward, and then back, lost in another world. After a long, awkward pause she said, “He’s killing again, Lacy, not that he ever stopped.”

“You said there might be another one.”

“There is. Five months ago he killed a man named Lanny Verno in Biloxi, Mississippi. Same method, same rope. I found out why. Me, Lacy, not the police, but me. I found Verno’s trail in Pensacola thirteen years ago. I searched for the intersection, the crossing of the paths, and found it, but not the police. They have no clue.”

“They also have no idea about Bannick,” Lacy said. “What happened?”

“An old dispute over some remodeling in Bannick’s house. Looks like Verno pulled a gun, should’ve pulled the trigger. Bannick was just a lawyer then, not a judge, and he took him to court on assault charges. Lost. Verno walked, and I guess he walked himself right onto Bannick’s list. Thirteen years he waited, can you believe that, Lacy?”

“No.”

“He’s killing more frequently, which is not unusual. Every serial killer is different and there are certainly no rules to the game. But it’s not unusual for them to speed up and then slow down.” She rocked slowly back and forth, staring ahead, trance-like.

She said, “He’s also taking chances, making mistakes. He almost got caught with Verno when some poor guy showed up at the wrong time, wrong place. Bannick cracked his skull, killed him, but didn’t use a rope. It’s reserved for chosen ones.”

Lacy again marveled at the certainty with which she described things she had never seen and certainly couldn’t prove. It was frustrating how convincing she was. Lacy asked, “And the crime scene?”

“We don’t know much about it because it’s an active investigation and the police are sitting on everything. The second guy was a local builder with lots of friends and the police are taking heat. But, as always, it appears as though Bannick left nothing behind.”