Джон Гришэм - The Judge’s List

Dr. Kassabian smiled because he heard it all the time. “Believe me, Mr. Bannick, we understand confidentiality. What’s in the bag?”

“A few items, clothing, a toothbrush. I brought no phone, no laptop, no devices.”

“Good. In about a week you can use the phone. Nothing until then.”

“I know. Not my first rodeo.”

“I understand. But I’ll need to take the bag and inventory it. We provide nice linen gowns, Ralph Lauren, for the first two weeks.”

“Sure.”

“You bring a car?”

“It’s a rental. I flew in.”

“Okay. After the paperwork, we’ll do a complete physical. That’ll take most of the morning. You and I will have lunch together, just the two of us, and talk about the past, and the future. Then I’ll introduce you to your counselor.”

Bannick nodded as if thoroughly defeated.

Dr. Kassabian said, “I’m glad you came in sober, it’s a good start. You wouldn’t believe some of the poor folks who stagger in here.”

“I don’t feel sober, Doctor. Anything but.”

“You’re in the right place.”

They walked next door and met the director of admissions. Bannick paid the first $10,000 with a credit card and signed a promissory note for the other $40,000. Dr. Kassabian kept his bag. When the admission was complete he was shown to his rather spacious room on the second floor. Dr. Kassabian excused himself and said he was looking forward to lunch. When Bannick was finally alone, he quickly took off his stylish nylon tactical travel belt and removed small plastic bags from its hidden pockets. The bags contained two sets of pills that would be needed later. He hid them under a chest of drawers.

A steward knocked on his door and handed him a stack of gowns and towels. He waited until Bannick undressed in the bathroom, then left with his clothing, including the belt and his shoes.

He showered, put on one of the soft linen gowns, stretched out on the bed, and fell asleep.

Lacy, Jeri, and Allie dropped Gunther off at the airport and watched him taxi out and take off. When he was in the air, they felt like celebrating. They returned to the FBI office and met with Clay Vidovich and two other agents. Jeri signed an affidavit that recited the facts of her weekend encounter with Bannick. A warrant for kidnapping was issued and circulated nationally, everywhere but the Pensacola area. They were certain Bannick was not hanging around the Panhandle and did not want to alert his friends and acquaintances.

Vidovich gave them an update on the searches of his office and home and was bothered by the fact that no more prints had been found. The FBI was searching his real estate holdings, but so far had found nothing useful.

The room began to fill as other agents joined them. All ties were loosened, all sleeves rolled up, all collars unbuttoned. As a group they gave every indication of having worked through the weekend. Lacy called Darren and told him to join them. Trays of coffee, water, and pastries were brought in by secretaries.

At ten, Vidovich called things to order and made sure the two video cameras were working. He said, “This is for informational purposes only. Since you’re not a suspect, Jeri, we don’t need to deal with Miranda.”

“I should hope not,” she said and got a laugh.

“At the outset, I want to say that we would not be here if not for you. Your detective work over the past twenty years is nothing short of brilliant. It’s a miracle, actually, and I’ve never encountered anything like it. So, on behalf of the families, and all of law enforcement, I say thanks.”

She nodded, embarrassed, and glanced at Lacy.

“He hasn’t been caught yet,” Jeri said.

“We’ll get him.”

“Soon, I hope.”

“I’d like to start at the beginning. A lot of this will be repetitious, but please indulge us.”

She began with the death of her father and its aftermath, the lack of clues, the months that dragged by with little contact with the police, and absolutely nothing in the way of progress. And what could possibly have been the motive. She spent years trying to answer that question. Who in Bryan Burke’s world had ever said anything negative about him? No relatives, colleagues, maybe a student or two. He had no business deals, no partners, no lovers, no jealous husbands along the way. She eventually settled on Ross Bannick but knew from the beginning that she was only guessing. He was a long shot. She had no proof, nothing but her hyperactive imagination. She dug through his past, kept up with his career as a young lawyer in Pensacola, and slowly became obsessed. She knew where he lived, worked, grew up, went to church, and played golf on the weekends.

She stumbled across an old story in the Ledger about the murder of Thad Leawood, a local who’d moved away under suspicious circumstances. She tied him to Bannick through Boy Scout records obtained from the national headquarters. When she eventually saw the crime scene photos, a big piece of the puzzle fell into place.

She couldn’t stop rubbing her wrists. She said, “According to my research, the next one was Ashley Barasso, in 1996. However, Bannick said, last Saturday, that he didn’t kill her.”

Vidovich was shaking his head. He looked at Agent Murray, who was also in disagreement. Murray said, “He’s lying. We have the file. Same rope, same knot, same method. Plus he knew her in law school at Miami.”

“That’s what I told him,” Jeri said.

“Why would he deny it?” Vidovich asked the table.

“I have a theory,” Jeri said, sipping coffee.

Vidovich smiled and said, “I’m sure you do. Let’s hear it.”

“Ashley was thirty years old, his youngest victim, and she had two small kids, ages three and eighteen months. They were in the house when she was murdered. Perhaps he saw them. Maybe for once in his life he felt remorse. Maybe it’s the one murder he couldn’t shake off.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” Vidovich said. “If any of it makes sense.”

“It’s all rational in his sick mind. He never admitted to any of the murders, but he did say I missed a couple.”

Murray shuffled some paperwork and said, “We may have found one that you missed. In 1995 a man named Preston Dill was murdered near Decatur, Alabama. The crime scene looks familiar. No witnesses, no forensics, same rope and knot. We’re still digging, but it looks as though Dill once lived in the Pensacola area.”

Jeri shook her head and said, “I’m glad I missed one.”

Agent Neff said, “That’s at least five victims who had ties to the area, though none of them lived there when they were murdered.”

Vidovich said, “With the exception of Leawood, they were just passing through, lived there long enough to cross paths with our man.”

Neff said, “And over a twenty-three-year period. I wonder if anyone, anyone other than you, Jeri, would have ever connected the murders.”

She didn’t respond and no one else ventured a guess. The answer was obvious.

For his last meal he dined alone. The kitchen opened at seven and he arrived a few minutes later, ordered wheat toast and scrambled eggs, poured a glass of grapefruit juice, and took his tray outside to a patio where he sat under an umbrella and watched a magnificent sunrise over the distant mountains. The morning was quiet and still. The other patients, none of whom he had made an effort to meet, were waking to another glorious, sober morning, all clear-eyed and clean.

He was at peace with his world, a serenity aided by a couple of pre-breakfast Valium tablets. He took his time and enjoyed the food. When he finished, he returned his tray and went to his room. On his door, a steward had tacked his schedule for the day. A group hike at nine, counseling at ten thirty, lunch, and so on.