The Judge’s List

45

Late Thursday morning, Lacy and her task force met for the last time and were happily retiring the Bannick matter into the “Dismissal” drawer when Felicity interrupted with an urgent call. Sadelle was savoring her oxygen and Darren was debating what size latte to run and fetch.

“It’s Betty Roe and she says it’s important,” Felicity announced through the speaker.

Lacy rolled her eyes and sighed with frustration. She had hoped that she might be able to go a few days without hearing Jeri’s voice, but wasn’t really surprised. Darren bolted for the door on his coffee run. Sadelle closed her eyes as if ready for another nap.

“Good morning, Betty,” Lacy said.

“We can drop the Betty routine, can’t we now, Lacy?”

“Sure. And how are you this morning, Jeri?”

“Marvelous. I feel fifty pounds lighter and I can’t stop smiling. The fact that he’s gone is such a burden off my brain and body. I can’t tell you how wonderful it feels.”

“That’s great to hear, Jeri. It’s been a long time.”

“It’s been a lifetime, Lacy. I’ve lived with that creep for decades. Anyway, though, I couldn’t sleep. I was up all night because I thought of one more little adventure and I need your help. Preferably with Allie in tow.”

“Allie left this morning, for parts unknown.”

“Then bring Darren. I suppose he’s the next available white boy.”

“I guess. Bring him where?”

“To Pensacola.”

“I’m listening but I’m already skeptical.”

“Don’t be. Trust me. Surely I’ve earned your trust by now.”

“You have.”

“Good. Please drop what you’re doing and come to Pensacola.”

“Okay, I’m struggling but still listening. It’s not exactly right around the corner.”

“I know, I know. One hour for me, three for you, but it could be crucial. It could put the final nail in his coffin.”

“So to speak. He didn’t want a coffin.”

“Right. Look, Lacy, I’ve found the truck.”

“Which truck?”

“The truck Bannick was driving the day he killed Verno and Dunwoody in Biloxi. The truck that was spotted by the old man sitting on his porch in downtown Neely, Mississippi, when Bannick dropped the phones in the mailbox. That truck.”

Lacy slowly said, “So?”

“So, it hasn’t been checked for prints.”

“Wait. I believe Darren tracked it down.”

“Yes, sort of. It’s a 2009 half-ton pickup, light gray in color, purchased by Bannick in 2012. He owned it for two years, used it in the Biloxi murders, then traded it in a month later. A man named Trager bought it from a used car lot, drove it two months until he was hit by a drunk driver. State Farm totaled the truck and gave a check to Trager, who signed over the title. State Farm sold it for scrap. This is all according to what you told me three weeks ago.”

“Right, I remember now. Darren said it was a dead end.”

“Well, not exactly. The truck was not sold for scrap, but for parts. I think I’ve found it in a salvage yard outside of Milton, just north of Pensacola. Do you have Google Maps?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, I’ll send you the link for Dusty’s Salvage outside of Milton. It buys wrecks from insurance companies, sells off the parts. Ninety acres of nothing but banged-up cars and trucks. I tracked down the adjuster who handled the Trager claim and he’s pretty sure the truck went to Dusty’s.”

Expecting the worst, Lacy asked, “And what am I supposed to do?”

“Right. The three of us — you, me, Darren — are going to find the truck and have a look. If Bannick owned it for two years then there might be prints. He wouldn’t wipe it down because he didn’t know about his wayward thumb on Verno’s phone. He sold it months before that.”

“Ninety acres?”

“Come on, Lacy, this might be our big break. Sure, it’s a needle in a haystack, but the needle is there.”

“How long do prints last?”

“Years, depending on a bunch of factors — surface, weather, imprint, etc.”

Lacy was not surprised that Jeri knew the ins and outs of fingerprints. “Let’s just call the FBI.”

“Gee, I’ve never heard that before. We’ll call them later. Let’s find the truck first, then decide what to do.”

The impulse was to tell Jeri how swamped she was, how chaotic the office had become in her absence, and so on, but she knew any and all excuses would be blown off, completely ignored. Jeri had tracked down a serial killer the police had never heard of, and she had done so by being tenacious. Lacy simply wasn’t up to an argument.

She frowned at Sadelle, who was dozing, and said, “We can’t be there until four.”

“Dusty closes at five. Hustle up. Don’t wear a dress.”

Ernie worked one end of the long front counter, and when they entered the parts department he was the only one of four “associates” who was not on the phone. Without a smile, he waved them over to his turf. The decor was dented hubcaps and old steering wheels, and behind the counter were tall rows of bins filled with used auto parts. One wall was an impressive rack of used car batteries. The place reeked of stale oil, and all four associates had at least two grease stains on their shirts. Ernie had his share, plus an oil rag hanging from a rear pocket. An unlit cigar was screwed into one side of his mouth. “Help you?” he growled. They were obviously out of place.

Lacy turned on the megawatt smile and said, “Yes, thank you. We’re looking for a 2009 Chevrolet pickup truck.”

“Got thousands here. Need to narrow it down, honey.”

At another time, the “honey” would have sent her into orbit, but the moment was not right to set him straight.

“You lookin’ for parts?”

“No, not exactly,” she said, still all smiles.

“Look, ma’am, we sell parts, used parts, nothin’ but parts. We got over a hundred thousand wrecks out there, more comin’ in ever’ day.”

Lacy realized they were getting nowhere. She slid across a business card and said, “We’re investigating allegations of wrongdoing. We work for the State of Florida.”

“You a cop?” he asked, recoiling. Dusty’s gave every indication of being the type of place where cash was king, taxes were routinely avoided, and all manner of criminal activity was just below the surface. Two other associates, both still on the phone, glanced over.

“No,” Lacy said quickly. Jeri was admiring some hubcaps as Darren checked his phone. “Not at all. We just need to find this truck.” She slid across a copy of the title Jeri had found online.

Ernie took it and gazed at the screen of his bulky, 1970s-style computer. It, too, with oil stains. He finger-pecked and frowned and shook his old keyboard. He finally mumbled, “Came in back in January. South lot, row eighty-four.” He looked at Lacy and said, “Got it? Look, lady, we sell parts here. We don’t give free tours, you know?”

A bit louder, she said, “Sure. I can always come back with a warrant.”

It was apparent, from his startled reaction, that warrants were not welcome around Dusty’s. Ernie nodded toward the back and said, “Follow me.” He led them through a rear door. To one side was a long metal building with bays filled with cars and trucks in various stages of demolition. To the other side was a grand view of acres and acres of nothing but wrecked vehicles. He waved to his right and said, “Cars over there.” He waved to his left and said, “Trucks and vans over there. South lot is that way, ’bout half a mile. Look for row eighty-four. With some luck you’ll find it. We close at five and you don’t want to get locked in here at night.”

Darren pointed to a kid in a golf cart and asked Ernie, “Can we borrow that?”

“Ever’thang’s for sale around here, boss. Ask Herman.”

Without another word, Ernie turned and walked away. For $5, Herman would take them to row 84. They piled in the cart and were soon zipping past thousands of wrecked and gutted vehicles, most missing their hoods, all without tires, some with weeds growing through the windows. He stopped in front of a gray truck and they got out.

Lacy handed him another $5 bill and said, “Look, Herman, can you come back and get us at closing time?”

He grinned, took the money, grunted a response, and wheeled away.

The truck had been T-boned at the passenger’s door and was well demolished, but the engine was intact and had already been scavenged. As they gawked at it, Lacy asked, “So what do we do now?”

“Let’s take out some pistons,” Darren said like a real smart-ass.

“Not exactly,” Jeri said, “but you’re on the right track. Think of things Bannick wouldn’t touch, and the engine comes first. Now think of the things he would have touched. Steering wheel, dash, signal switch, gear shift, all the switches and buttons.”

“And you brought your dusting powder?” Lacy said.

“No, but I do know how to find prints. Our backup plan is to get the FBI out here for a proper search. Right now I just want to look around.”

“The glove box,” Darren said.

“Yes, and under the seat, behind the seat. Think about your own car and all the crap that falls through the cracks. Gloves anyone?” She reached into her purse and removed plastic gloves. They dutifully put them on.

“I’m going in,” Jeri said. “Darren, you check the back. Lacy, see if you can look behind the seat on the other side.”

“Watch for snakes,” Darren said, and the women almost shrieked.

Half the bench seat was crushed and mangled, and the passenger door was hanging by a thread. Lacy stepped through weeds and managed to get it open. Its side pocket was empty. She saw nothing of interest on the passenger’s side. Jeri gently scraped glass from the driver’s seat and sat at the wheel. She reached over and tried to open the glove box, but it was jammed tight.

Their first pass produced nothing. Jeri said, “We need to open the glove box. If we’re in luck there’s an owner’s manual and assorted paperwork, same as in every car, right?”

Lacy asked, “What’s an owner’s manual?”

“Typical,” mumbled Darren.

Lacy was suddenly hit with a memory and her knees went weak. She gasped and bent over, hands on knees, trying to breathe.

“Are you okay?” Jeri asked, touching her shoulder.

“No. Sorry. Just give me a moment.”

Darren looked at Jeri and said, “It’s her car wreck, the one where Hugo was killed. Not that long ago.”

Jeri said, “I’m so sorry, Lacy. I just wasn’t thinking.”

She stood and took a deep breath.

“We should’ve brought some water,” Jeri said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine now. Let’s get out of here and report this to the FBI. They can handle the search.”

Jeri said, “Okay, but first I want to see what’s in that glove box.”

Parked five feet away was a large Ford with a crushed roof. Darren poked around it and found a torn piece of the left door rocker panel. He twisted it free and eased into the seat of the gray Chevy truck. He jammed his new tool into the damaged glove box but it would not open. He pried, shoved, dug, jammed again and again, but its door would not open. The glove box was partially crushed and locked tight.

“I thought you were stronger than that,” Lacy observed as she and Jeri watched every move.

Darren glared at her, took a deep breath, wiped his forehead, and attacked the glove box again. He finally pried open a narrow gap and managed to snap off the door.

He grinned at Lacy and Jeri and tossed his tool into the weeds. He pulled his gloves tight, then slowly removed a plastic bifold; a brochure for tire warranties; a receipt for an oil change, charged to a Mr. Robert Trager; a AAA solicitation of some variety; and two rusted screwdrivers.

He handed the bifold to Jeri and got out of the truck. The three of them stared at their loot. “Should we open it?” Lacy asked.

Jeri held it with both hands and said, “Odds are Bannick touched this at some time. Odds are he didn’t wipe it down, couldn’t have really, at least not in the past month when he was scrubbing everything else.”

Lacy said, “Let’s play it safe and take it to the FBI.”

“Yes, absolutely. But let’s have a peek first.” She slowly opened the bifold and removed the owner’s manual. Stuffed inside it were extended warranty papers, an old Florida registration card issued to Robert Trager, and two receipts from an auto parts store.

A card fell out and floated to the ground. Lacy picked it up, read it, smiled, and said, “Bingo.”

It was a State Farm insurance card issued to Waveland Shores, one of Bannick’s fronts. It covered the six-month period from January to July of 2013, and listed the policy number, limits of coverage, VIN, and agent’s name. On the back side were instructions on what to do in case of an accident. She showed it to Jeri and Darren, who were afraid to touch it, then placed it back in the owner’s manual.

Jeri said, “I like our odds right now.”

“I’m calling Clay Vidovich,” Lacy said as she pulled out her phone.

They hiked for ten minutes until they saw Herman in his golf cart. He drove them to the front where they checked in with Ernie, who, of course, wanted $10 for the owner’s manual. Lacy bargained him down to $5, to be covered by the taxpayers of Florida, and they left Dusty’s.

An hour later, they were in downtown Pensacola having a soda in the conference room with Vidovich and Agents Neff and Suarez. As they detailed their adventure, two technicians were poring over the manual, insurance card, and other items from the glove box.

Vidovich was saying, “Yes, we’re heading out in the morning, flight’s at eight. We’ll get back to Washington in the afternoon. Thanks to you, Jeri, it’s been a rather productive trip, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s a mixed bag,” she said without a smile. “We found our man, but he got away, on his own terms.”

“The killings have stopped, and that’s not always the case. We can close this one, but we have others.”

“How many, if I may be so bold to inquire?” Darren asked.

Vidovich looked at Neff, who shrugged as if she couldn’t say.

“About a dozen, of all varieties.”

“Anyone like Bannick?” Lacy asked.

He smiled and shook his head. “Not that we know of, and we don’t pretend to know them all. Most of these guys kill at random and never know their victims. Bannick was certainly different. He had a list and he stalked them for years. We would have never found him, Jeri, without you.”

The door opened; a technician walked in and said, “We have two very good thumb prints, both from the insurance card. I just sent them to the lab at Clarksburg.”

He left and Vidovich followed him out.

Suarez said, “They’ll give them priority and ram them through the data banks. We can check millions of prints in a matter of minutes.”

“Pretty amazing,” Darren said.

“It is.”

Lacy asked, “So, if there’s a match, what happens?”

“Not much,” Neff said. “We’ll know for sure that Bannick killed Verno and Dunwoody, but it will be impossible to pursue the case.”

“If he were alive?”

“Still a tough one. I wouldn’t want to be the prosecutor.”

“What about the other murders?” Jeri asked.

Suarez said, “Not much we can do, really. I’m sure we’ll meet with the local police and pass along the news. They’ll meet with the families, if the families are up to it. Some will want to talk, others will not. What about your family?”

Jeri said, “Oh, I’m sure I’ll tell them at some point.”

The conversation waned as they waited. Darren went to the men’s room. Lacy freshened the soft drinks.

Vidovich returned with a smile and said, “We have a clear match. Congratulations. It can now be proven that Judge Bannick did indeed kill Lanny Verno and Mike Dunwoody. At this point, folks, that’s the best we can hope for.”

Lacy said, “I need a drink.”

Vidovich said, “Well, I was thinking about a drink followed by a long, celebratory dinner. Courtesy of the FBI.”

Jeri nodded her approval as she wiped tears.