Джон Гришэм - The Judge’s List

The two cops absorbed this with more coffee. Napier asked, “Would he have the money for surgery like this?”

Both nodded. Yes.

Lacy said, “I suppose that over a long period of time he could chip away at the project and eventually do all ten fingers.”

“That’s quite a commitment,” Black said.

“Well, he’s committed, determined, and very intelligent.”

More coffee, more thoughts rattling around. Could this be their big break after so many dead ends?

The sheriff said, “It makes no sense, really. I mean, if this guy is so smart, why not pitch the phones in a lake or a river? Why get cute and drop them off in a postal box to be sent to my daughter’s apartment? He had to know that we’d track them and find them within hours. This was a Friday. There was no way the two smartphones would sit undiscovered until Monday.”

“I’m not sure we’ll ever understand what makes him tick or what he thinks about,” Lacy said.

“Pretty stupid if you ask me.”

“He’s making mistakes. He almost got caught by Mike Dunwoody. Later, his truck was spotted at the post office when he dropped off the phones. And, it looks like one of his gloves slipped or maybe tore a bit and now we have a thumb print.”

“Yes we do,” the sheriff said. “So now the question is what do we do with it. The next step is obvious — get some prints from your suspect. If there’s a match, then we’re in business.”

Napier asked, “What are the chances of getting his prints?”

Lacy shot a blank look at Darren, who shook his head as if he had no idea.

“A search warrant?” asked the sheriff.

“Based on what?” Lacy asked. “There is no probable cause, as of right now. Our suspect is a judge who knows forensics as well as he knows criminal procedure. It would be impossible to convince another judge to issue a warrant.”

“So they’ll protect him?”

“No. But they’ll want to see a lot more proof than we currently have.”

“Are you going to give us his name?”

“Not yet. I will, and soon, but I can’t say any more.”

Sheriff Black folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. Napier looked away in frustration. She continued, “We’re on the same team, I promise.”

The cops barely kept their cool as they stewed for a moment. Napier finally said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Lacy smiled and said, “Look, we have an informant, a source, the person who brought us the case. This person knows far more than we do and is living in fear, has been for years. We made promises about how we will proceed. That’s all I can say for now. We have to be extremely cautious.”

Sheriff Black asked, “So, what are we supposed to do for now?”

“Wait. We’ll wrap up our investigation and meet again.”

“I want to get this straight. You have a solid suspect in a double murder, though you admit that you don’t investigate murders, right? And this guy is a sitting judge in Florida who has committed other crimes, correct?”

“That’s right, though I did not refer to him as a solid suspect. Before today, we had no physical proof of his involvement in any crime. There’s still a chance, gentlemen, that our suspect is not the man. What if the partial thumb print doesn’t match?”

“Let’s find out.”

“We will, but not right now.”

The meeting ended with forced handshakes and smiles.

Lieutenant Ohler with the Florida state police called with the expected news that the envelope had produced nothing interesting. Two prints were lifted and traced to the man who delivered the mail each day around noon.

By Thursday he was weary of the well-wishers, their texts and voicemails, their concerns about his health. He waited until the mailman stopped by at noon. He put on gloves, retrieved his mail, and saw another plain envelope. Inside, there was another poem:

“She’s writing about her father now,” he said to himself as he stared at the sheet of paper on the kitchen table.

His bag was packed. He drove to Pensacola, to the shopping center, and parked in front of the gym. He went to his other chamber, opened the Vault, placed the latest letter in a folder, tidied things up a bit, checked his cameras and video footage, and when he was satisfied that his world was perfectly secure, he drove to the airport and waited three hours for a flight to Dallas. He changed planes there and landed in Santa Fe after dark. Reservations for the flight, the rental car, and the hotel were made in his real name and paid for with his credit card.

Dinner was room service. He tried to watch a baseball game on cable but switched to an hour of porn. He fell asleep and managed a few hours before his alarm clock went off at 2:00 a.m. He showered, popped a benny, put his tools in a small gym bag, and left the hotel. Houston was fifteen hours away.

At nine Eastern time, he called Diana Zhang and checked in by telling her he was at the cancer treatment facility in Santa Fe. He said he was feeling fine and mentally prepared to begin his fight against the disease. He sounded optimistic and promised to be back on the bench before he was missed. She passed along the usual sympathies and concerns and said everyone was so worried. Not for the first time, he explained that one reason he was being treated far away was because he didn’t want all the fuss. It would be a long, solitary journey, one that he must face alone. Her voice was breaking when he hung up.

Such a devoted woman.

He turned off the smartphone and removed its battery.

At dawn, he stopped at a rest area near El Paso and changed license plates. He was now driving a four-door Kia registered to a Texan who did not exist. And he drove it carefully, the cruise control set precisely on the posted speed limit, every single rule of the road followed to perfection. A speeding ticket, or, heaven forbid, an accident, would quash the mission. As always, he wore a cap pulled low, one of many from his collection, and never took off his sunglasses. He bought gas and snacks with a valid credit card issued to one of his aliases. The monthly statements went to a post office box in Destin.

He rarely listened to music or books and couldn’t stand the relentless chatter of talk radio. Instead, he had always used the solitude of the open road to plan his next move. He loved the details, the plotting, the what-ifs. He had become so proficient, so highly skilled, and so merciless, that for years now he had believed he would never be caught. Other times, he walked through his old crimes to keep them fresh and make sure he had missed nothing.

When you murder someone you make ten mistakes. If you can think of seven of them you’re a genius. Where had he read this? Or perhaps it was a line from a movie.

What had been his mistake?

How had it happened? He had to know.

He had lived with the certainty that he would never be forced to plan the Exit.

In 1993, when he was barely two years out of law school, the Pensacola law firm where he was employed blew up when the partners argued over a large fee, the usual source of discontent. He found himself on the street with no office. He borrowed $5,000 from his father, opened up his own shop, and declared himself ready to sue. A new gunslinger in town. He didn’t starve but business was slow. He stayed busy writing wills for people with few assets and hustling small-time criminals in city court. His big break came when a party boat loaded with bridesmaids sank in the Gulf and six young ladies drowned. The usual frenzied slugfest ensued as the local bar frothed and fought over the cases. One landed in his office, thanks in part to a $50 will he had prepared for a client.