He bumped into Kronke on the dock one day and got close enough to say hello. The ass did not reply. Back in the day he was known to be a prick. Things hadn’t changed. Staying away from that law firm had been a blessing.
On the day, he watched Kronke unload his boat, buy some fuel, arrange his rods and lures, and eventually speed away from the dock, too fast and leaving a wake. What an ass. He followed him at a distance, one that grew because Kronke’s engines were bigger. When Kronke found his spot, stopped and began casting, he backed away even more and watched him with binoculars. Two months earlier he had drifted in close and used the artifice of engine trouble to seek help. Kronke, ever the prick, left him stranded a mile from shore.
On the day, with Kronke busy with his red drum, he navigated straight to the bigger boat. Realizing he was getting too close, Kronke froze and glared at him as if he were an idiot.
“Hey, I’m taking on water,” he yelled, idling closer.
Kronke shrugged as if to say, That’s your problem. He laid down his rod.
When the boats touched hard, Kronke growled, “What the hell!”
His final words. He was eighty-one years old, fit for his age, but still a step or two slower.
Quickly, the killer looped his rope over a cleat, jumped onto Kronke’s boat, whipped out Leddie, flicked it twice, and smacked the lead ball into the side of Kronke’s head, crunching his skull. He loved the sound. He hit him again, though it was unnecessary. He pulled out the nylon rope, wrapped it twice around his neck, put his knee at the top of his spinal cord, and yanked hard enough to tear skin.
Dear Mr. Bannick:
We enjoyed your term as a clerk this past summer. We were impressed with your work and had every intention of offering you an associate’s position beginning next fall. However, as you may have heard, our firm has just merged with Reed & Gabbanoff, a global giant based in London. This is causing a major shift in personnel. Unfortunately, we are not in the position of hiring all of last summer’s interns.
We wish you a very bright future.
Sincerely,
H. Perry Kronke,
Managing Partner
As he pulled tighter and tighter he kept saying, “And here’s to your very bright future, H. Perry.”
Twenty-three years had passed and the rejection still hurt. The sting was still there. Every other summer intern was offered a job. The merger never happened. Someone, no doubt another cutthroat intern, had started the rumor that Bannick didn’t like girls, didn’t date them.
He tied off the rope with a double clove hitch, and for a few seconds admired his work. He glanced around and saw the nearest boat half a mile away, going for the open water. He grabbed the rope to his boat and pulled it closer, then he eased into the water and went under, washing off any blood that may have splattered.
“And here’s to your very bright future, H. Perry.”
* * *
—
A year later he sold both the boat and the condo at modest profits. Both transactions were done in the name of Robert West, one of thirty-four in the state.
He loved the alias game.
19
From her extensive reading about serial killers, Jeri knew that almost none of them stopped until they were caught or killed, either by the police or by themselves, or otherwise forced into retirement by age or perhaps prison. The demons that drove them were relentless and cruel and could never be exorcised. They could be neutralized by death or incarceration, but nothing else. The few killers who attempted to come to grips with their carnage did so from a prison cell.
According to her timeline, Bannick had once gone eleven years without killing. He murdered Eileen Nickleberry near Wilmington in 1998, then waited until 2009 to catch the reporter, Danny Cleveland, alone in his apartment in Little Rock. Since then he had killed three more times. His pace was quickening, which was not unusual.
She reminded herself that her timeline was essentially worthless, because she had no real idea how many victims were out there. Could there be bodies still unfound? Some killers hid them, then forgot years later where all of them were buried. Other killers, like Bannick, wanted the victims found, and with clues. As an amateur profiler, Jeri believed Bannick wanted someone—the police, the press, the families—to know the killings were related. But why? It was probably his warped ego, a desire for acknowledgment that he was smarter than the police. He took such great pride in his methods that it would be a shame not to be admired, even if by strangers from a distance. It was likely that he wanted his work to become legendary.
She had never believed that Bannick wanted to get caught. He had status, prestige, popularity, money, education—far more going for him than the average serial killer, if there was such a thing. But he loved the gamesmanship. He was a sociopath who killed for revenge, but he thrived on the planning and execution, and the perfection of his crimes.