The Judge’s List

10

With discipline on the wane, Fridays were quiet around the office. Friday afternoons were tomb-like, as the higher-ups left for long lunches and never returned, and the dwindling hourly staff sneaked off as soon as Cleo closed her door. No one really worried, because Sadelle would work until dark and handle any stray phone calls.

Lacy left before lunch with no plans to return. She went home, changed into shorts, threw a few clothes in a bag, hid a key for Rachel, her new neighbor who was also her dog sitter, and just before 1:00 p.m. hopped in the car with her boyfriend and raced away in the general direction of Rosemary Beach, two and a half hours west along the Gulf Coast. The temperature was pushing eighty and there were no clouds anywhere. She had no laptop, no files, no paperwork of any kind, and, as per their agreement, Allie was similarly unarmed. All evidence of his profession was left in his apartment. Only cell phones were permitted.

The obvious goal of the weekend was to get out of town, leave work behind, go play in the sun and work on their tans. The real reason was far more serious. They were both approaching forty and uncertain about their future, either alone or together. They had been a couple for over two years and had passed through the initial phases of the romance — the dating, the sex, the sleepovers, the trips, the introductions to families, the declarations to friends that they were indeed a pair, the unspoken commitment to faithfulness. There was no hint that either wanted to end the relationship; in fact, both seemed content to keep it on course.

What bothered Lacy, and she wasn’t sure if it also bothered Allie, was the uncertainty of the future. Where would they be in five years? She had serious doubts of continuing much longer at BJC. Allie’s frustration with the FBI was growing. He thrived in his work and was proud of what he did, but the seventy-hour weeks were taking a toll. If he worked less, could they spend more time together? And if so, could that lead to a closeness? Could that enable them to finally decide if they loved each other? They tossed the L-word around, almost playfully at times, but neither seemed fully committed to it. They had avoided it for the first year and still used it reluctantly.

Lacy’s fear was that she would never truly love him, but the romance would plod along conveniently from one stage to the next until there was nothing left but a wedding. And then, at the age of forty or even forty-plus, she would not be able to walk away. She would marry a man she adored but didn’t really love. Or did she?

Half her girlfriends were telling her to ditch the guy after two years. The other half were advising her to snag him before he got away.

The weekend was supposed to answer their most serious questions, though she had read enough trashy novels and watched enough romantic comedies to know that the big summit, the grand romantic getaway, seldom worked. Crumbling marriages were rarely saved by a few days at the beach, nor did struggling love affairs gain traction and find clear definition.

She suspected they would have some fun in the sun as they avoided the future and simply kept kicking the can down the road.

“Something’s bugging you,” he said as he drove with his left hand and rubbed her knee with his right.

It was too early in the weekend to plunge into the serious stuff, so she did a quick pivot and replied, “We have this case that’s keeping me awake at night.”

“You don’t normally stress over your cases.”

“They don’t normally involve murder.”

He looked at her with a smile and said, “Do tell.”

“I can’t tell, okay. Like yours, my cases are strictly confidential. However, I could probably get the story across if we stick to hypotheticals.”

“I’m all ears.”

“So, there’s a judge, a hypothetical one, let’s say he’s about fifty, been on the bench for about ten years, and he’s a sociopath. Follow?”

“Of course. Most of them are, right?”

“Come on. I’m serious.”

“Okay. We studied those in training at Quantico. The BAU — Behavioral Analysis Unit. Part of our standard routine. But that was a long time ago and I’ve yet to run across one in my work. My specialty is cold-blooded murderers who traffic cocaine and neo-Nazis who mail bombs. Keep going.”

“This is all speculation and none of it can be proven, at least not now. According to my witness, also unnamed and too terrified to show her face, the judge has murdered at least six people over the past twenty years. Six kills in six different states. He knew all six victims, had issues with each, of course, and he patiently stalked them until the right moment. All were killed the same way — strangulation with the same type of rope, same method. His signature. Perfect crime scenes, no forensics, nothing but the rope around the neck.”

“All cold cases?”

“Ice cold. The police have nothing. No witnesses, no prints, no fibers, no boot marks, no blood, no motive. Nothing at all.”

“If he knew them, then there must be a motive.”

“You’re such a brilliant FBI agent.”

“Thanks. Pretty obvious though.”

“Yes. The motives vary. Some seem serious, others trivial. I don’t know all of them.”

“He thinks they’re serious.”

“He does.”

Allie took his right hand off her knee and scratched his chin with it. After a moment he asked, “And this one is on your desk, right?”

“No. The witness has yet to file a formal complaint against the judge. She’s too frightened. And Cleopatra told me yesterday that BJC will not get involved in a murder investigation.”

“So what happens next?”

“Nothing, I guess. If there’s no complaint there’s nothing for us to do. The judge remains untouched and goes about his business, even if it includes murder.”

“You sound like you believe this witness.”

“I do. I’ve struggled with it since Monday, the day I met her, and I’ve reached the point where I believe her.”

“Why can’t she go to the police with her suspect?”

“Several reasons. One, she’s frightened and convinced that the killer will find out and add her name to his list. Perhaps the biggest hesitation is that the police have no reason to believe her. The cops in small-town South Carolina don’t have time to worry about a cold case in south Florida. The cops in Little Rock don’t have time for a similar killing near Chattanooga, one with no forensics.”

Allie nodded as he thought. “That’s four. Where are the other two?”

“She hasn’t told me yet.”

“Who was murdered in Little Rock?”

“A newspaper reporter.”

“And why was his name on the list?”

“We’re getting away from the hypothetical, Agent Pacheco. I can’t give you any more details.”

“Fair enough. Have you discussed the FBI with her?”

“Yes, briefly, and as of now she has no interest. She’s convinced it’s too dangerous and she also has strong doubts about its willingness to get involved. Why would the FBI get excited about a string of murders they have no chance of solving?”

“She might be surprised at what we can do.”

Lacy thought about this for a few miles as they listened to the radio and zipped through traffic. Allie was a compulsive speeder and when he got nailed by radar, at least twice a year, he loved to pull out his badge and wink at the trooper. He boasted of never getting a ticket.

Lacy asked, “How would that work? Say the witness wanted to lay everything on the table in front of the FBI.”

Allie shrugged and said, “I don’t know, but I can find out.”

“Not yet. I have to go real slow with this witness. She’s damaged.”

“Damaged?”

“Yes, her father was victim number two.”

“Wow. This gets better.” His most obnoxious habit, to date, was chewing his fingernails, and only the left ones. The ones on the right were never attacked. When he began chewing he was thoroughly engrossed in something and she could almost hear his brain churning away.

After a few miles he said, frowning at the windshield, “This is pretty intense. Hypothetically, let’s say you’re in the room with the police — us, locals, state, doesn’t matter — and you say, ‘Here’s your killer.’ Name, rank, serial number, address. And here are his six victims, all strangled over the past twenty-plus years, and—”

“And there’s no way to prove it.”

“And there’s no way to prove it. Unless.”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you find evidence from the killer himself.”

“That would require a warrant, wouldn’t it? A document that would be impossible to obtain without probable cause. There’s no cause whatsoever, only some wild speculation.”

“I thought you said you believe her.”

“I think I do.”

“You’re not convinced.”

“Not all the time. You have to admit, it’s far-fetched.”

“Indeed it is. I’ve never heard of anything like it. But then, as you know, I chase a different class of criminal.”

“A warrant is unlikely. Plus, he’s probably paranoid and too smart to get caught.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Nothing. He’s just a hypothetical.”

“Come on. We’ve gone this far.”

“Single, never married, probably lives alone. Security cameras everywhere. A respected judge who gets out enough to appear socially acceptable. Highly regarded by colleagues and lawyers. And voters. You’re the profiler, what else do you want?”

“I’m not a profiler. Again, that’s a different section.”

“Got it. So if you took the six murders and didn’t mention the suspect, and presented them to the top FBI profilers, what would they say?”

“I have no idea.”

“But could you ask someone, you know, sort of off the record?”

“Why bother? You already know the killer.”

Their favorite hotel was the Lonely Dunes, a quaint little boutique getaway with forty rooms, all facing the water and just inches from the sand. They checked in, left their bags unpacked in their room, and hurried to the pool where they found a shaded table and ordered lunch and a bottle of cold wine. A young couple cavorted at the far end of the pool; something was happening just under the surface. Beyond the patio the Gulf shimmered in a brilliant blue as the sun beat down upon it.

When their drinks were half gone, Allie’s cell phone vibrated on the table. Lacy said, “What’s that?”

“Sorry.”

“I thought we agreed no phones at lunch. I left mine in the room.”

Allie grabbed his and said, “It’s the guy I mentioned. He knows a couple of the profilers.”

“No. Let it ring. I’ve said too much and I don’t want to talk about the case.”

The phone eventually stopped vibrating. Allie put it in his pocket as if he would never touch it again. The crab salads were served and the waiter poured more wine. As if on cue, the clouds rolled in and the sun disappeared.

“Chance of scattered showers,” Allie said. “As I recall from my weather app, which is still on my phone, which is tucked away in my pocket and untouchable.”

“Ignore it. If it rains it rains. We’re not going anywhere. A question.”

“Sure.”

“It’s almost three on a Friday afternoon. Does your boss know where you are?”

“Not exactly, but he knows I’m off with my girlfriend for the weekend. And Cleopatra?”

“I don’t care. And she doesn’t either. She’ll be gone in a few months.”

“And you, Lacy? How much longer will you be there?”

“Oh, that’s the great question, isn’t it? I’ve stayed too long in a dead-end job and now it’s past time to leave. But where do I go?”

“It’s not a dead end. You enjoy your work and it’s important.”

“Perhaps. Maybe occasionally. But it’s not exactly heavy lifting anymore. I’m bored with it and I probably say that to you too often.”

“It’s just me here. You can tell me anything.”

“My deepest, darkest secrets?”

“Please. I’d love to hear them.”

“But you wouldn’t tell me, Allie. You’re not wired that way. You’re too much of an agent to drop your guard.”

“What do you want to know?”

She smiled at him and sipped her wine. “Okay. Where will you be one year from now?”

He frowned and looked away. “That’s a punch in the gut.” A sip of his own wine. “I don’t know, really. I’ve been with the Bureau for eight years and love it. I always figured I’d be a lifer, that I’d chase the bad guys until they put me in an office at the age of fifty and kicked me out the door at fifty-seven, the mandatory. But, I’m not so sure now. What I do is often thrilling and rarely boring, but it’s definitely a younger man’s job. I look at the guys who are pushing fifty and they’re burning out. Fifty is not that old, Lacy. I’m not sure I’ll be a career guy.”

“You’ve thought about leaving?”

“Yes.” It was tough to admit and she doubted he had ever said so before. He sniffed his wine, drank some, and said, “And, there’s something else. I’ve been in Tallahassee for five years and it’s time for a change. There are more and more hints of transfers. It’s part of the business, something we all expect.”

“You’re getting transferred?”

“I didn’t say that. But there might be some pressure over the next few months.”

Lacy was stunned and tried hard not to show it. After a moment she was surprised by how unsettling it was. The thought of not being with Allie was, well, inconceivable. She managed to ask, calmly, “Where would you go?”

He casually glanced around, the way savvy agents learn to do, saw no one even remotely interested in them, and said, “This is on the quiet. The director is organizing a national task force on hate groups and I’ve been invited to sort of try out for the team. I have not said yes or no, and if I said yes there’s no guarantee that I would be chosen. But it’s a prestigious group of elite agents.”

“Okay. Where would you be assigned?”

“Either Kansas City or Portland. But it’s all preliminary.”

“Are you tired of Florida?”

“No. I’m tired of lost weekends chasing cartels. I’m tired of living in a cheap apartment and not being sure about the future.”

“I can’t handle a long-distance romance, Allie. I prefer to have you close by.”

“Well, as of now, I have no plans to leave. It’s just a possibility. Can we talk about you?”

“I’m an open book.”

“Anything but. The same question: Where will you be one year from now?”

She drank some wine. The waiter brushed by, stopped long enough to top off both glasses, and disappeared. She shook her head and said, “I really don’t know. I doubt I’ll be at BJC, but I’ve been telling myself that for several years now. I’m not sure I have the guts to quit and leave the job security.”

“You have a law degree.”

“Yes, but I’m almost forty and I have no speciality, something that law firms prefer. If I hung out my shingle and started drafting wills I’d starve to death. I’ve never written one. My only option is to do what most government lawyers do and scramble up the food chain for a bigger salary. I’m thinking of something different, Allie. Maybe a midlife crisis at the age of forty. Any interest?”

“A joint crisis?”

“Sort of. More like a partnership. Look, both of us have doubts about our futures. We’re forty years old, give or take, still single, no kids, and we can afford to take a chance, do something stupid, fall flat and pick ourselves up.”

There it was. Finally on the table. She took a deep breath, couldn’t believe she had gone so far, and watched his eyes carefully. They were curious and surprised. He said, “There were a couple of important words in there. The first I heard was ‘afford.’ I’m in no position to stop working at my age and launch myself into a crisis.”

“What was the second word?”

“ ‘Stupid.’ ”

“Just a figure of speech. As a general rule, neither of us do stupid things.”

The waiter appeared with a tray and began clearing the table. When he grabbed the empty wine bottle he asked, “Another?” Both shook their heads.

They charged the lunch to their room, which was $200 a night, off-season, and when they checked out on Sunday they would split the bill. They tried to split everything. Both earned around $70,000 a year. Hardly retirement money, but then no one had mentioned retirement.

They left the pool and walked to the edge of the ocean where they realized the water was too cold even for a quick plunge. Arm in arm, they strolled along the beach, drifting aimlessly like the waves.

“I have a confession,” he said.

“You never confess.”

“Okay, try me. For about a year I’ve been saving money to buy you a ring.”

She stopped cold as they disentangled and looked at each other.

“And? What happened to it?”

“I haven’t bought one because I’m not sure you’ll take it.”

“Are you sure you want to offer it?”

He hesitated, for too long, and finally said, “That’s what we have to decide, right, Lacy? Where are we going?”

She crossed her arms and tapped her lips with an index finger. “You want to take a break, Allie?”

“A break?”

“Yes, some time off. From me.”

“Not really. Do you?”

“No. I kinda like having you around.”

They smiled, then hugged, then continued along the beach. With nothing resolved.