KL paused to give Jeri time to respond. She shook her head in frustration as she remembered her often futile efforts to go through police files that had been gathering dust for years. As was always the case, the fewer clues the investigators had, the more zealous their protection of their files. They didn’t want anyone to know of their paltry progress.
She wrote: What do you know about the rope and the knot?
Method and motive. The first was in plain sight for the detectives to ponder and the lab technicians to analyze. The second, though, could take weeks and months to track down.
KL replied: I have the report filed by the state crime lab with the FBI clearinghouse. The rope is described as nylon, green in color, 3/8 inch, a 30 inch section, tied and secured in place and left behind, obviously. There is no mention of a knot, tourniquet, ratchet, or any device to hold the rope in place. No photos were attached to the report. The crime is obviously unsolved, the investigation is open and in full swing, so most of the relevant details are being guarded by the police. Standard procedure. The old stonewall.
Jeri walked to her kitchen and took a diet soda from the fridge. She popped the top, took a drink, and returned to the sofa and her laptop. She wrote: Okay, I’m in. Send what you have. Thanks.
My pleasure. In fifteen minutes.
* * *
—
Driving along the Gulf Coast on Interstate 10, Mobile was only an hour from Biloxi, but the two towns were in different states, different worlds. Mobile’s Press-Register had few readers next door, and Biloxi’s Sun Herald had even fewer subscribers in Alabama.
Jeri was not surprised that the Mobile press had not covered a double murder sixty miles away. She opened her laptop, turned on her security VPN, and began searching. On Saturday, October 19, the front page of the Sun Herald was covered with breaking news of the twin homicides. Mike Dunwoody was a well-known builder around Biloxi and along the Gulf Coast. There was a photo of Mike taken from his company’s website. He left behind his wife, Marsha, two children, and three grandchildren. His funeral arrangements were incomplete when the story was published.
Of Lanny Verno, much less was known. He lived in a trailer park somewhere near Biloxi. A neighbor said he had been there for a couple years. His live-in girlfriend came and went. One of his employees said Lanny was from somewhere in Georgia but had lived all over the place.
In the days that followed, the Sun Herald worked hard to keep the story fresh. The police were incredibly quiet and offered almost nothing. No one in the Dunwoody family would venture a word. The funeral was at a large church and drew a crowd. Reporters were kept away by deputies, at the request of the family. A distant cousin of Verno’s showed up to reluctantly claim the body and take it back to Georgia. He cursed a reporter. A week after the murders, Sheriff Black held a press conference and divulged absolutely nothing new. A reporter asked if any portable phones were retrieved from the bodies, and this drew a firm “No comment.”
“But isn’t it true that two cell phones were recovered from a postal box in the town of Neely?”
The sheriff looked like someone had just revealed the killer’s name, but managed to recover with a stern “No comment.”
Virtually every other question was met with the same response.
The lack of cooperation by the sheriff fueled gossip that something big was coming down, that perhaps they were so tight-lipped because they were closing in on the killer and didn’t want to spook him.
Nothing happened, though, and the days dragged into weeks and months. The Dunwoody family posted a reward of $25,000 for any information about the murders. This attracted a rash of calls from nuts who knew nothing.
The Verno family was never heard from.
* * *
—
At midnight, Jeri was drinking strong coffee and preparing for another sleepless night at the computer. KL sent his summary along with a copy of the official violent crime report the Mississippi state police had filed with the FBI.
She had been down this road many times and did not look forward to opening another file.
12
BJC was governed by a five-person Board of Directors, all retired judges and lawyers who had found favor, or something along those lines, with the Governor. The big donors and heavy hitters were awarded appointments far more prestigious than BJC—college boards and gaming commissions and such, gigs with nice budgets and perks that allowed the chosen ones to travel and rub elbows with the powerful; whereas BJC board members got meals, rooms, and fifty cents a mile. They met six times a year—three in Tallahassee and three in Fort Lauderdale—to review cases, hold hearings, and occasionally reprimand judges. Removal from office was rare. Since the BJC’s creation in 1968, only three judges had been kicked off the bench.