Джон Гришэм - The Judge’s List

They had always been close, but seven months earlier their mother had died suddenly and the loss made them even closer. And, Lacy suspected, so had her pending lawsuit. Gunther believed she was due millions and had developed the irritating habit of tossing around investment advice for his kid sister. She was not looking forward to the day when he needed a loan. Gunther lived in a world of debt and would promise the moon to secure more of it.

“Hey Sis,” he said cheerfully. “How’s it going down there?”

“I’m fine, Gunther. And you?”

“Got the tiger by the tail. How’s Allie? How’s your love life?”

“Pretty dull. He’s out of town a lot these days. And yours?”

“Not much to report.” Recently divorced, he chased women with the same enthusiasm as he did banks, and she really didn’t want to hear about it. After two failed marriages she had encouraged him to be more selective, advice he routinely ignored.

“You sound like you’re in the car,” he said.

“I’m driving to Pensacola to chase down a witness. Nothing exciting.”

“You always say that. Are you still looking for another job?”

“I never said I was looking for another job. I said that I’m getting a bit bored with the one I have.”

“There’s more action up here, kid.”

“So you’ve said. I don’t suppose you’ve talked to Aunt Trudy lately.”

“Not if I can help it, you know?”

Trudy was their mother’s sister, a real busybody who was working too hard to keep the family together. She was grieving over her sister’s sudden death and wanted to share her misery with her niece and nephew.

“She called two days ago, sounded awful,” Lacy said.

“She always sounds awful. That’s why I can’t talk to her. Strange, isn’t it? We barely spoke to the woman until Mom died, and now she really wants to be pals.”

“She’s struggling, Gunther. Give her a break.”

“Who’s not struggling these days? Oops. Look, got another call. It’s a banker who wants to throw some money at me. Gotta go. Will call later. Love you, Sis.”

“You too.”

Most of their Tuesday chats ended abruptly when he was besieged with other, more important calls. Lacy was relieved, because he usually asked about her lawsuit. She called Darren at the office just to say hello and reassure him that she would indeed be back tomorrow. She called Allie and left a voicemail. She turned off her phone and turned on the stereo. Adele Live in London.

Thanks to GPS, she found the Brookleaf Cemetery in an old section of Pensacola and parked in the empty lot. Just ahead was a square, bunker-like building that could only be a mausoleum, and beyond it were acres and acres of tombstones and monuments. It was a slow day for burials and there was only one other car.

She was ten minutes early and punched in Jeri’s number. She answered with “Are you in the copper-colored Subaru?”

“I am. Where are you?”

“I’m in the cemetery. Go through the main gate and past the old graves.”

Lacy walked along a paved trail lined with weathered monuments and family tombs, the last stops for the prominent from other centuries. With time the tombs lost their significance and yielded to elaborate headstones. Quick looks to both sides dated burials to mere decades ago. The trail turned to the left, and Jeri Crosby appeared from behind one of the few trees left standing.

“Hello, Lacy,” she said with a smile.

“Hello, Jeri. Why are we meeting in a cemetery?”

“Thought you might ask. I could say it’s privacy, a change of scenery, other reasons.”

“Let’s pursue the other reasons.”

“Sure.” She nodded and said, “This way.” They walked past hundreds of headstones and could see thousands in the distance. On a slight incline far away, a crew of gravediggers labored under a purple canopy. Another casket was on the way. “Here,” Jeri said as she stepped off the trail and wound her way around a row of graves. She stopped and nodded silently at the final resting place of the Leawood family. Father, infant daughter, and son Thad, who was born in 1950 and died in 1991.

After staring at the single headstone for a moment or so, Lacy was about to start asking questions when Jeri said, “Thad was a local boy, grew up around here, went off to college, came back, got a job as a social worker. Never married. He was an Eagle Scout and loved scouting, loved working with kids. Coached youth baseball, taught kids in church, that sort of stuff. Lived alone in a small apartment not far from here. In his mid-twenties he became scoutmaster of Troop 722, one of the oldest troops in the area. He treated it like a full-time job and seemed to love every minute of it. Many of his former scouts still remember him fondly. Others, not so much. Around 1990, he abruptly quit and left the area amid allegations of abuse and molestation. It became a scandal and the police opened an investigation, but nothing came of it because the victims backed away. Can’t really blame them. Who would want the attention? After he left town, things settled down and the alleged victims went silent. The police lost interest. After he died, the case was closed.”

“He died young,” Lacy observed and waited for more.

“He did. He lived in Birmingham for a while, then drifted here and there. They found him in Signal Mountain, a small town outside of Chattanooga. He was living in a cheap apartment and driving a forklift in a warehouse. Went out for a jog one evening and never came back. Some kids found his body in the woods. The same rope around his neck. A nasty blow to the head, then asphyxiation. As far as I can tell, he was the first, but who knows?”

“I’m sure you have a file.”

“Oh yes. There were stories in the Chattanooga paper, and the Ledger covered it down here. A short obit. The family brought him back for a simple ceremony. And here he is. Seen enough?”

“I guess.”

“Let’s walk.”

They followed the trail back to their cars. Jeri said, “Get in and I’ll drive. It’s a brief tour. Have you had lunch?”

“No. I’m not hungry.”

They got in Jeri’s white Toyota Camry and drove away. She was extremely cautious and nervously checked her rearview mirror. Lacy finally said, “You act as though someone is following you.”

“That’s the way I live, Lacy. We’re on his turf now.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious. For twenty years I’ve stalked the killer and at times I think he’s stalking me. He’s back there, somewhere, and he’s smarter than I am.”

“But he’s not following you?”

“I can’t be certain.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

“I don’t think so.”

Lacy bit her tongue and let it go.

A few blocks away Jeri turned onto a wider street and nodded at a church. “That’s the Westburg Methodist Church, one of the largest in town. In the basement there is a large fellowship room, and that’s where Troop 722 has met forever.”

“Can I assume that Ross Bannick was a member of the troop?”

“Yes.”

They drove past the church and weaved through several streets. Lacy bit her tongue to suppress a flood of questions. It was apparent that Jeri was telling the story at her own pace. She turned onto Hemlock, a lovely shaded street with prewar homes, all well preserved with narrow drives and flower beds around the porches. Jeri pointed and said, “That blue one up there on the left, that’s where the Bannick family lived. Ross grew up there and, as you can tell, he could walk to school and church, and Boy Scouts. His parents are dead and his sister got the house. She’s a good bit older. He inherited some land next door in Chavez County, and that’s where he lives. Alone. Never married.”