The Hangman (The Forgotten Files 3)

“Officer Sara Young,” she said. “This is Charlie. You want us to search for cadavers?”

“Crews have been through the house, but I don’t want to overlook anything.”

“Where do you want us to start?”

“How about upstairs.”

“Will do.” She left Novak, and she and her dog climbed stairs that creaked and groaned with each step. He followed.

The second floor was dark, and if not for the sunlight streaming in the windows, it would have been hard to navigate. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on as Charlie moved into the first room, sniffing as Officer Young spoke softly to him.

There were three bedrooms and one bathroom upstairs. A string dangled from an attic pull. The canine checked the first bedroom. It was small, and a soiled twin mattress lay on the floor. The second bedroom wasn’t much different, though this one had a window that overlooked the brick wall of the town house next door.

He moved toward the front room and found a series of yellow numbered tents that he guessed Natasha had left behind when she’d moved her investigation upstairs. He knelt in front of the tents, which were placed on dark spots that stained the room.

Charlie moved to the brown spot and sniffed. He wagged his tail and barked.

“He’s alerting me that he’s found something. Likely blood.”

“Looks like the forensic tech spotted it.”

Charlie barked again as Officer Young rewarded him with a treat. “We’ll move downstairs and to the basement.”

Fishing his phone from his pocket, Novak texted his number to Young and, after the pair left the room, called Natasha.

Her voice was heavy with sleep when she answered. “Natasha Warner.”

“It’s Novak. Did I wake you?”

“Taking a short break. Just in from the Church Hill home an hour ago.”

“Why the yellow tents on the upstairs bedroom floor?”

“Field test showed the presence of human blood.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll have a better idea when I run more tests, but someone bled out in that room. However, I don’t know when.”

“DNA can match it to the victim.”

“It might. That’s assuming we can pull some kind of DNA from her teeth or bones. Still too early to tell given the house was ground zero for countless homeless people.”

“You find anything else while you were upstairs?”

“Place is full of trash. I’ll be back later and sift through what’s there. Again, will let you know.”

“Right.”

“I’ll be in touch soon.”

“Thanks.”

He stood and stared at the brown stain. If she’d been killed up here, it would explain the lack of blood in the basement. Twenty-three years old. She was young, but he’d seen younger kids die.

Novak checked in with Officer Young one last time and drove to Marcus Delany’s house, located in a community twenty-five minutes south of the city. He wound his way down the center drive to a two-story brick colonial with a wide front porch furnished with a handful of white rockers.

Novak parked at the top of a circular drive and climbed the front steps. He rang the bell. Within seconds, the door opened to an older African American woman, who peered at him over half-glasses. “Can I help you?”

He held up his badge. “I’m looking for Marcus Delany. And you are?”

“Susan. I work here. What’s this about?”

“Questions about one of his properties.”

“He’s in the sunroom reading. Let me tell him you’re here. Wait here.” She closed the door, leaving him to stand on the porch. He waited a good five minutes before she returned. “He’ll see you.”

“Thank you.”

She pointed down the hallway. “Follow me. Second door on the left.”

Novak followed, taking in the expensive modern art on the walls and the vaulted ceiling.

“Mr. Delany,” Susan said. “You have the police here to ask you questions about some property.”

Novak found a lean man sitting in a chair by a large window as he read from a laptop. “Mr. Delany, Detective Novak.”

Delany looked up from his screen and rose. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

Novak moved toward him and showed him his badge. “I’ve questions about a property you inherited from your father.”

“Pops left me several properties. Which one?” Delany sat and motioned for Novak to do the same.

He pulled up a straight-back chair and sat. “This is a 1920s row house a block off Broad Street in Church Hill.”

“I turned that over to the city a couple of years ago. I’m in the land development business, and my fortunes rise and fall. A few years ago they were low, so I stopped paying the taxes on that place. Does the city want to give it back to me?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Hell of a location to own property. Has a lot of potential if you can wait for the real estate market to turn. It still hasn’t really taken off in that particular section, which I suppose explains why I couldn’t sell it when I needed to unload it. In the end, I had to walk away. Maybe the current owner will have better luck.”

“The newest owner has a troubling problem. The body of a woman was found in the basement.”

“What does that have to do with me? I’ve not had access to that property in years.”

“We think the victim has been in the basement twenty-five years. You had possession of the property at the time of her death.”

“I did inherit it from my father while I was trying to launch my land development project in the Far West End. Another great location, but I lost my shirt in the early nineties. I was getting back on my feet by the end of the decade.”

“Looks like you’ve done well for yourself.”

“Like I said, the fortunes rise and fall.”

“Was the Church Hill property vacant in the early nineties?”

“It was not. There was a guy whom I allowed to live there. He needed a roof, and I didn’t care as long as he paid the utilities.”

“What was his name?” Novak pulled out his notebook and flipped to a fresh page.

Delany raised a thin hand to his chin and scratched as he dug for the name. “Scott Turner.”

“When is the last time you saw Mr. Turner?”

Delany shook his head. “He packed up his stuff without warning and moved out of the house right about the time you’re asking about. He gave no word to me that he was leaving. And he stuck me with one hell of a heating bill. I haven’t seen him since.”

He scribbled the man’s name on a clean sheet. “What did Mr. Turner do?”

“He bartended in the Slip and worked odd jobs. I met him at one of my construction sites. Likable guy.”

“Did Turner ever mention a woman named Rita Gallagher?”

“Hell if I know. Like I said, I was letting him squat in the place.” He sat back, uncrossed and recrossed his legs again. “I can tell you the guy was good-looking, a real ladies’ man. If half the tales he told on the construction site were true, there were a lot of ladies in and out of his bed.” He shifted in his chair. “Is this Rita Gallagher your victim?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think Turner killed her?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to piece together what happened in and around the house at the time. And you’ve had no contact with Scott Turner at all since?”

“You know, I think he moved to California. Heard one of the boys on the job talking about him. Turner owed him money.”

“Turner have any friends in the area?”

“I was his boss, not his friend. I didn’t keep up with him.”

“Did anyone else live in the house?”

“After Turner bolted, I couldn’t get anyone to live there for free, let alone for money. The area was rough, but I had hopes the real estate market would improve around there. I locked the front door and waited for property valu

es to come around. And as you know now, they didn’t move fast enough and the city took the place.”