“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.”
They drove past the house. Lacy finally asked, “Was his family prominent?”
“His father was a beloved pediatrician who died at the age of sixty-one. His mother was an eccentric artist who went nuts and died in an institution. The family was fairly well known back then. They were members of the Episcopal church just around the corner. Evidently it was a nice, cozy little neighborhood.”
“Any allegations that he was molested by Thad Leawood?”
“None. And no evidence of it. As I said yesterday, Lacy, I have no evidence. Only assumptions based on unfounded theories.”
Lacy almost said something sarcastic but let it go. They turned onto a wider street and drove for a few minutes with no conversation. Jeri turned and the streets were narrower, the houses smaller, the lawns not as well manicured. She pointed to her right and said, “Up there, the white frame house with the brown pickup. That’s where the Leawoods lived. Thad grew up there. He was fifteen years older than Ross.”
They drove past the house. Lacy asked, “Who lives there now?”
“Don’t know. It’s not important. All the Leawoods are gone.”
Jeri turned at an intersection, then zigzagged away from the residential areas. They were on a busy highway headed north. Finally, Lacy asked, “So how much longer is the tour?”
“We’re getting there.”
“Okay. As we drive around, mind if I ask some questions?”
“Sure. Anything.”
“The crime scene, up in Signal Mountain, and the investigation. What do you know?”
“Almost nothing. The killing was in an area that was popular with joggers and walkers, but there were no witnesses. According to the autopsy, the time of death was between seven and eight p.m., on a warm day in October. Leawood punched the clock at the warehouse at five-oh-five, the usual time, and left. He lived alone and kept to himself, very few friends. A neighbor saw him jog away from his apartment around six thirty, and as far as the police know, that was the last he was seen. He lived at the edge of town, not far from where the walking trail begins.”
The traffic thinned as they left the sprawl of Pensacola. A sign read: cullman, 8 miles.
Lacy said, “I take it we’re going to Cullman.”
“Yes. We’ll cross into Chavez County in about two miles.”
“Can’t wait.”