Джон Гришэм - The Judge’s List

The more Jeri watched him around her daughter, the more convinced she became that Link was the future. And she was fine with that. He was engaging, smart, quick-witted, and obviously enamored with Denise.

After he left to play, Denise said, “Okay, Mom, I want to know how you found this guy.”

“Which guy?”

“The killer.”

Jeri smiled, shook her head, and finally said, “The whole story?”

“Yes. I want to know.”

“This might take some time.”

“What else are we doing for the next few hours?”

“Okay.”

Late Saturday morning, Lacy and her boyfriend left Tallahassee for a three-hour drive to Ocala, north of Orlando. Allie did the driving as Lacy handled the entertainment. They began with an audiobook by Elmore Leonard, but she soon decided she’d had enough of crime and dead bodies and switched to a podcast on politics. It, too, quickly became depressing so she found NPR and they laughed through an episode of Wait Wait... Don’t Tell Me! Their appointment with Herman Gray was at 2:00 p.m.

Mr. Gray was an FBI legend who had overseen the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico for two decades. Now pushing eighty, he had retired to Florida and lived behind a gate with his wife and three dogs. Allie had been referred to him by a supervisor and had made the necessary calls. Herman said he was bored and had plenty of time, especially if the conversation was about serial killers. He had tracked and studied them throughout his career, and, according to the legend, knew more about the breed than anyone. He had published two books on the subject, neither of which was particularly helpful. Both were more or less collections of his war stories, complete with gory photographs and a bit too much self-congratulation.

He greeted them warmly and seemed genuinely pleased to have guests. His wife offered lunch, which they declined. She served them iced tea without sugar, and they talked for the first half hour on the patio with the spaniels licking their ankles. When he began talking about his career, Lacy interrupted politely with “We’ve read both of your books, so we know something about your work.”

He liked that and tried to defer with “Most of that stuff is accurate. Maybe a bit of embellishment here and there.”

“It’s fascinating,” she said.

Allie said, “As I explained on the phone, Lacy would like to walk through each of the victims and get your thoughts.”

“The afternoon belongs to you,” Herman said with a smile.

Lacy said, “It’s extremely confidential and we won’t use any real names.”

“I understand discretion, Ms. Stoltz. Believe me, I do.”

“Can we go with Lacy and Allie?”

“Sure, and I’m Herman. I see you’ve brought a briefcase, so I assume there’s paperwork, maybe some photos.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps we should go to the kitchen and use the table.”

They followed him inside, as did the dogs, and Mrs. Gray refilled their glasses. Herman sat on one side of the table and faced Lacy and Allie. She took a deep breath and began, “There are eight murders that we know about. The first was in 1991, the most recent less than a year ago. The first seven were by strangulation, same type of rope, same method, but for the last one no rope was used. Just a few blows to the head.”

“Twenty-three years.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could we drop the ‘sirs’?”

“Yep.”

“Thank you. I’ll be eighty in two months but I am refusing to let the old man in.” Thin as a weed, he looked like he could walk ten miles in the hot sun.

“Obviously, we believe our suspect killed all eight people. Six men, two women.”

“There are probably more, you know?”

“Yes, but we have no knowledge of them.”

Herman took out his pen and found a notepad. “Let’s talk about Number One.”

Allie opened the briefcase and handed Lacy a file. She said, “Number One was a forty-one-year-old white male — all but one were white — who was found beside a walking trail in Signal Mountain, Tennessee.” She handed Herman a sheet of paper she had prepared with the words Number One typed in bold letters at the top. Date, place, age of victim, cause of death, and a color photo of Thad Leawood lying in the bushes.

Herman studied the summary and the photo and took notes. They watched him carefully and said nothing. When he had reviewed it, he asked, “Other than the body, was there anything from the crime scene?”

“The police found nothing. No prints, fibers, hair, no blood other than the victim’s. Same for all the crime scenes.”

“A strange knot, something like a clove hitch.”

“A double clove hitch, not very common.”

“Rare indeed. If he used it every time, then it’s obviously his calling card. How many blows to the head?”

“Two, with what appears to be the same weapon.”

“Autopsy?”

“The skull splintered, numerous cracks radiating from the contact point. The police in Wilmington, North Carolina, at another crime scene, thought it was something like a hammer or small round metal ball.”

“Works every time, though it does make a messy scene. The blood spatters to such a degree that the suspect probably had some on his clothing.”

“Which, of course, was never found.”

“Of course not. Motive?”

“The theory is that Number One sexually abused the killer when he was a young boy.”

“That’s a lot of motive. Any proof of this?”

“Not really.”

“Okay. How about Number Two.”

Lacy handed him the sheet for Bryan Burke and said, “The following year, 1992.”

Herman looked at it and said, “South Carolina.”

“Yes, each was in a different state.”

He smiled and made notes. “Motive?”

“Their paths crossed in college when the killer was a student. Number Two was one of his professors.” Lacy was careful not to use the words “law school.” That would come later. Allie had not told Herman much about her and had not revealed where she worked or who she investigated. Again, that would be discussed later in the afternoon.

Number Three was Ashley Barasso. Lacy said, “Four years later, in Columbus, Georgia. We know nothing of motive, only that they were in school together.”

“College?”

“Yes.”

“Was she sexually abused in any way?”

“No. She was fully clothed, nothing was disturbed, no sign of molestation.”

“That’s unusual. Sex is a factor in about eighty percent of serial crimes.”

Number Four was Eileen Nickleberry, in 1998.

With Number Five, Danny Cleveland, Lacy said, “Our man took a break for eleven years, at least as far as we know.”

“That’s quite a gap,” Herman said, studying the photo. “Same knot. He doesn’t want to get caught, too smart for that, but he wants someone to know that he’s out there. Not at all uncommon.” He scribbled more notes as his wife appeared and offered them cookies. She did not stay in the kitchen but Lacy got the impression she was close by, probably listening.

Number Six was Perry Kronke down in Marathon. Herman studied the photos and asked, “Where did you get these?”

“They were given to us by a source who’s been working on this for many years. Freedom of Information Act, FBI clearinghouse, the usual. We have photos from the first six crime scenes but not the last.”

“Too recent, I suppose. Poor guy was out fishing, just minding his own business. In broad daylight.”

“I’ve been to the scene and it was pretty remote.”

“Okay. Motive?”

“They crossed paths in the workplace, probably a disagreement over a job offer that didn’t materialize.”

“So he knew him too?”