Джон Гришэм - The Judge’s List

“The rope used by the killer — is it in the evidence file?”

“You bet. We have it.”

“And you’re familiar with it?”

“Of course. It’s the murder weapon.”

“Can you describe it?”

“Sure, but I won’t. Come back with your court order.”

“I’ll bet it’s nylon, about thirty inches in length, double twin braid, marine grade, either blue and white or green and white in color.”

The wrinkles broke out again as his jaw dropped. He rocked back in his chair and clasped his hands together behind his head. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Close enough?” Lacy asked.

“Yes. Close enough. You’ve seen this guy’s work before, I take it.”

“Maybe. Maybe we have a suspect. I can’t talk about him now but maybe next week or next month. We’re on the same team, Chief.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to see the file, all of it. And everything is confidential.”

Turnbull bounced to his feet and said, “Follow me.”

Two hours later, they parked at a marina and followed Turnbull, their new buddy, down a dock to a thirty-foot patrol boat with the word police painted boldly on both sides. The captain was an old cop in official shorts, and he welcomed them aboard as if they were headed for a luxury cruise. Lacy and Darren sat knee-to-knee on a bench starboard side and enjoyed the ride over the smooth water. Turnbull stood next to the captain and they chatted in indecipherable cop-speak. Fifteen minutes into the trip the boat decelerated and floated almost to a stop.

Turnbull walked to the front and pointed at the water. “Somewhere right around here is where they found him. As you can see, it’s pretty remote.”

Lacy and Darren stood and took in the surroundings, endless water in all directions. The nearest shore was a mile away and dotted with homes that were barely visible. There was no other watercraft to be seen.

“Who found him?” Lacy asked.

“Coast Guard. His wife got worried when he didn’t show and she made some calls. We found his truck and trailer at the marina and figured he was still on the water. We called the Coast Guard and began searching.”

“Not a bad place for a murder,” mused Darren, practically his first words of the day.

Turnbull grunted and said, “Damned near perfect, if you ask me.”

He owned the boat, had bought it a year earlier as the master plan came together. It wasn’t a particularly nice one, not nearly as fancy as the one owned by the target, but he wasn’t trying to impress. To avoid a trailer and parking and all that hassle, he rented a slip at a marina south of Marathon. Ownership would negate the need to rent. He would sell it later, as well as the small condo near the harbor, both, hopefully, at a profit. Established in the area, and knowing no one, he fished the waters, something he came to enjoy, and he stalked his target, something he lived for. The paperwork — the bill of sale for the boat, the local bank account, the land records, the fishing license, property taxes, the fuel receipts — was all easily forged. State and local paperwork were child’s play for a man with a hundred bank accounts, a man who bought and sold things with fake names just for the fun of it.

He bumped into Kronke on the dock one day and got close enough to say hello. The ass did not reply. Back in the day he was known to be a prick. Things hadn’t changed. Staying away from that law firm had been a blessing.

On the day, he watched Kronke unload his boat, buy some fuel, arrange his rods and lures, and eventually speed away from the dock, too fast and leaving a wake. What an ass. He followed him at a distance, one that grew because Kronke’s engines were bigger. When Kronke found his spot, stopped and began casting, he backed away even more and watched him with binoculars. Two months earlier he had drifted in close and used the artifice of engine trouble to seek help. Kronke, ever the prick, left him stranded a mile from shore.

On the day, with Kronke busy with his red drum, he navigated straight to the bigger boat. Realizing he was getting too close, Kronke froze and glared at him as if he were an idiot.

“Hey, I’m taking on water,” he yelled, idling closer.

Kronke shrugged as if to say, That’s your problem. He laid down his rod.

When the boats touched hard, Kronke growled, “What the hell!”

His final words. He was eighty-one years old, fit for his age, but still a step or two slower.

Quickly, the killer looped his rope over a cleat, jumped onto Kronke’s boat, whipped out Leddie, flicked it twice, and smacked the lead ball into the side of Kronke’s head, crunching his skull. He loved the sound. He hit him again, though it was unnecessary. He pulled out the nylon rope, wrapped it twice around his neck, put his knee at the top of his spinal cord, and yanked hard enough to tear skin.

Dear Mr. Bannick:

We enjoyed your term as a clerk this past summer. We were impressed with your work and had every intention of offering you an associate’s position beginning next fall. However, as you may have heard, our firm has just merged with Reed & Gabbanoff, a global giant based in London. This is causing a major shift in personnel. Unfortunately, we are not in the position of hiring all of last summer’s interns.

We wish you a very bright future.

Sincerely,

H. Perry Kronke,

Managing Partner

As he pulled tighter and tighter he kept saying, “And here’s to your very bright future, H. Perry.”

Twenty-three years had passed and the rejection still hurt. The sting was still there. Every other summer intern was offered a job. The merger never happened. Someone, no doubt another cutthroat intern, had started the rumor that Bannick didn’t like girls, didn’t date them.

He tied off the rope with a double clove hitch, and for a few seconds admired his work. He glanced around and saw the nearest boat half a mile away, going for the open water. He grabbed the rope to his boat and pulled it closer, then he eased into the water and went under, washing off any blood that may have splattered.

“And here’s to your very bright future, H. Perry.”

A year later he sold both the boat and the condo at modest profits. Both transactions were done in the name of Robert West, one of thirty-four in the state.

He loved the alias game.

From her extensive reading about serial killers, Jeri knew that almost none of them stopped until they were caught or killed, either by the police or by themselves, or otherwise forced into retirement by age or perhaps prison. The demons that drove them were relentless and cruel and could never be exorcised. They could be neutralized by death or incarceration, but nothing else. The few killers who attempted to come to grips with their carnage did so from a prison cell.

According to her timeline, Bannick had once gone eleven years without killing. He murdered Eileen Nickleberry near Wilmington in 1998, then waited until 2009 to catch the reporter, Danny Cleveland, alone in his apartment in Little Rock. Since then he had killed three more times. His pace was quickening, which was not unusual.

She reminded herself that her timeline was essentially worthless, because she had no real idea how many victims were out there. Could there be bodies still unfound? Some killers hid them, then forgot years later where all of them were buried. Other killers, like Bannick, wanted the victims found, and with clues. As an amateur profiler, Jeri believed Bannick wanted someone — the police, the press, the families — to know the killings were related. But why? It was probably his warped ego, a desire for acknowledgment that he was smarter than the police. He took such great pride in his methods that it would be a shame not to be admired, even if by strangers from a distance. It was likely that he wanted his work to become legendary.