If he dropped dead tomorrow, his computers and phones would wait patiently for forty-eight hours, then wipe themselves clean.
He sat at his desk, flipped on his computer, and waited for the screen to come to life. He pulled the two letters out of his briefcase and placed them in front of him. The one in an envelope was postmarked pensacola and informed him of the BJC investigation. The other, a silly poem, was in the envelope postmarked montgomery. Both sent by the same person at about the same time.
He went online, activated his VPN to blow past security walls, and passworded his way into the dark web, where Rafe was always waiting. As an employee of the state, Bannick had long ago hacked his way into the data networks of Florida’s government. Using his customized spyware, called Maggotz, he had created his own data sleuth, a troll he christened Rafe, who roamed the systems and cloud with total anonymity. Because Rafe was not a criminal, was not stealing or holding data for ransom, but rather was only nosing around for esoteric information, his chances of being discovered were almost zero.
Rafe could, for example, observe internal memos between the seven members of the Florida Supreme Court and their clerks, and Bannick would know precisely how one of his cases on appeal would be decided. Since he couldn’t do anything about the case, the information was basically useless, but it was certainly interesting to know which way the wind was blowing.
Rafe could also see sensitive correspondence between the Attorney General and the Governor. He could read comments made by prosecutors about sitting judges. He could dig deep into the files of the state police and report their progress, or lack of it.
And, most importantly at that moment, Rafe could watch the goings-on at the Board on Judicial Conduct. Bannick checked it for the second day in a row and found nothing with his name on it. This was confusing, and troublesome.
Hell, at that moment everything was troublesome.
He swallowed more ibuprofen and thought about a shot of vodka. But he was not much of a drinker and planned to go to the gym. He needed two hours of pounding weights to break the stress.
It was amusing to read the complaints currently being investigated by BJC. He relished the allegations against his fellow members of the judiciary, a few of whom he knew well, a couple of whom he despised. Prolonged amusement, though, was out of the question.
Bannick reveled in his wrongdoing. The other complaints at BJC were chicken feed compared to his crimes. But now someone else knew his history. And, if a complaint had been filed against him, why was it being hidden?
This ramped up the head-spinning and he reached for the pills.
The person who sent the letter, and the poem, knew the truth. That person mentioned Kronke, Verno, and Dunwoody, and suggested others. How much did they know? If that person had filed the complaint with BJC, then he or she did so only with an agreement that there would be no record of it, at least not for the forty-five-day assessment period.
He went to a small room in the rear, undressed, took a long hot shower, and put on workout clothes. Back at his desk, he sent Rafe into the confidential files of the state police, files so sensitive and protected that Rafe had been waltzing through them for almost three years now. He found the Perry Kronke file from the town of Marathon, and was stunned to see a fresh entry by Detective Grimsley, the state’s lead investigator. It read:
call today from chief Turnbull in Marathon; he had a visit on March 31 from two lawyers with the Florida Board on Judicial Conduct—Lacy Stoltz and Darren Trope; they said they were curious about the murder of Kronke; said they might have a suspect but would not divulge anything; gave no names; they went to the approx site of where Kronke was found; revealed nothing; they left and promised to contact later; Turnbull was not too impressed, says he expects to hear nothing back, said no action needed on our part.
He had left nothing behind at the Kronke killing. He had even dipped himself into the ocean.
“Might have a suspect,” he repeated to himself. After twenty-three years of remaining invisible, was it possible that someone finally considered him to be a “suspect”？ If so, then who? It wasn’t Lacy Stoltz or Darren Trope. They were simply low-level bureaucrats reacting to a complaint, one filed by the same person who was now sending him mail.
Deep breathing and meditation did nothing to break the stress.
He started for the vodka but left for the gym, locking his other chamber behind himself, always careful, always noticing everything, every person. As bewildered and frightened as he was, he told himself to relax and think clearly. He walked around the corner to the fitness center and joined a hot yoga class for twenty minutes of sweating before he hit the iron.