“Right.”
“And that includes murder?”
“I suppose, but we’ve never been involved in that. That’s heavier work for the state boys, maybe the FBI.”
“The state boys have tried. The FBI has no interest for two reasons. First, there is no federal issue. Second, there is no evidence linking the murders, thus the FBI doesn’t know, no one knows but me I guess, that we’re dealing with a potential serial killer.”
“You’ve contacted the FBI?”
“Years ago. As the family of the victim we were desperate for help. Got nowhere.”
Lacy drank some more wine. “Okay, you’re making me nervous, so let’s walk through this real slow. You believe a sitting judge murdered your father twenty-two years ago. Was that judge on the bench when the murder occurred?”
“No. He was elected in 2004.”
Lacy absorbed this and looked around. What appeared to be a lobbyist was now sitting at the next table, gawking at her with a sort of leering vulgarity that was not uncommon around the Capitol. She glared at him until he looked away, then leaned in closer. “I’d feel more comfortable if we could talk somewhere else. This place is getting crowded.”
Jeri said, “I have a small conference room on the first floor. I promise it’s safe and secure. If I try to assault you, you can scream and get away.”
“I’m sure it’s okay.”
Jeri paid for the wine and they left the bar and the atrium and rode the escalator up one flight to the business mezzanine, where Jeri unlocked a small conference room, one of many. On the table were several files.
The women settled on opposite sides of the table, the files within reaching distance and nothing in front of them. No laptops. No legal pads. Both cell phones were still in their purses. Jeri was visibly more relaxed than in the bar, and began with “So, let’s talk off the record, with no notes. None for now anyway. My father, Bryan Burke, retired from Stetson in 1990. He’d taught there for almost thirty years and was a legend, a beloved professor. He and my mother decided to return home to Gaffney, South Carolina, the small town where they grew up. They had lots of family in the area and there’s some land that had been handed down. They built this beautiful little cottage in the woods and planted a garden. My mother’s mother lived on the property and they took care of her. All in all, it was a pleasant retirement. They were set financially, in pretty good health, active in a country church. Dad read a lot, wrote articles for legal magazines, kept up with old friends, made some new ones around town. Then, he was murdered.”
She reached to retrieve a file, a blue one, letter-sized, about an inch thick, same as the others. She slid it across the table as she said, “This is a collection of articles about my father, his career, and his death. Some dug up by hand, some pulled from the Internet, but none of the file is stored online.”
Lacy didn’t open the file.
Jeri continued, “Behind the yellow tab there is a crime scene photo of my father. I’ve seen it several times and prefer not to see it again. Have a look.”
Lacy opened to the tab and frowned at the enlarged color photo. The deceased was lying in some weeds with a small rope around his neck, pulled tightly and cutting into his skin. The rope appeared to be nylon, blue in color, and stained with dried blood. At the back of the neck it was secured with a thick knot.
Lacy closed the file and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s weird. After twenty-two years, you learn to deal with the pain and place it in a box where it tends to stay if you work hard enough. But it’s always easy to drop your guard and allow the memories to come back. Right now I’m okay, Lacy. Right now I’m real good because I’m talking to you and doing something about it. You have no idea how many hours I’ve spent pushing myself to get here. This is so hard, so terrifying.”
“Perhaps if we talked about the crime.”
She took a deep breath. “Sure. Dad liked to take long walks through the woods behind his cottage. Mom often went along but she struggled with arthritis. One lovely spring morning in 1992 he kissed her goodbye, grabbed his walking stick, and headed down the trail. The autopsy revealed death by asphyxiation, but there was also a head wound. It wasn’t hard to speculate that he encountered someone who hit him in the head, knocked him out, then finished him off with the nylon rope. He was dragged off the trail and left in a ravine, where they found him late in the afternoon. The crime scene revealed nothing—no blunt instrument, no shoe or boot prints—the ground was dry. No signs of a struggle, no stray hairs or fabrics left behind. Nothing. The rope has been analyzed by crime labs and gives no clue. There’s a description of it in the file. The cottage isn’t far from town but it’s still somewhat isolated, and there were no witnesses, nothing out of the ordinary. No car or truck with out-of-state tags. No strangers lurking around. There are many different places to park and hide and sneak into the area, then leave without a trace. Nothing has come to the surface in twenty-two years, Lacy. It’s a very cold case. We have accepted the harsh reality that the crime will never be solved.”