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off to college, came back, got a job as a social worker. Never married. He was an Eagle Scout and loved scouting, loved working with kids. Coached youth baseball, taught kids in church, that sort of stuff. Lived alone in a small apartment not far from here. In his mid-twenties he became scoutmaster of Troop 722, one of the oldest troops in the area. He treated it like a full-time job and seemed to love every minute of it. Many of his former scouts still remember him fondly. Others, not so much. Around 1990, he abruptly quit and left the area amid allegations of abuse and molestation. It became a scandal and the police opened an investigation, but nothing came of it because the victims backed away. Can’t really blame them. Who would want the attention? After he left town, things settled down and the alleged victims went silent. The police lost interest. After he died, the case was closed.”
    “He died young,” Lacy observed and waited for more.
    “He did. He lived in Birmingham for a while, then drifted here and there. They found him in Signal Mountain, a small town outside of Chattanooga. He was living in a cheap apartment and driving a forklift in a warehouse. Went out for a jog one evening and never came back. Some kids found his body in the woods. The same rope around his neck. A nasty blow to the head, then asphyxiation. As far as I can tell, he was the first, but who knows?”
    “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