The Hangman (The Forgotten Files 3)

Bowman sat back in his chair. “What have you found out about Jim Vargas?”

“He’s a hard one to pin down,” Andrews said. “Lives weren’t posted online twenty-five years ago as they are now, so no cells to trace or online profiles to build.”

“I know you. You’ve found something.”

“He had ten thousand dollars in credit card debt. Most of the card transactions were cash advances, so I have no way of knowing what he spent the money on. He also took out a second mortgage on his house. His death was ruled a suicide, so there was no life-insurance payout. His widow lost the house and moved into the apartment above her sister’s bar with Julia.”

Every man reacted differently to death. He’d seen the meekest push through the worst and the strongest break like glass. Jim Vargas broke.

“And there wasn’t a note?” Bowman asked.

“The wife said no. The first cop she called was his partner, Ken Thompson, and he was first on scene. He backed up her story about the note.”

“Partners look out for partners.”

“Possible.”

“Signs of foul play?” Bowman asked.

“None was detected. But his death rattled a lot in his ranks. The department opted not to give him a formal funeral.”

“Do you think he was the Hangman?” Bowman asked.

“Hard to say. A few cops talked anonymously to the media about it.” He had nothing but contempt for anonymous sources. They reminded him of the politically obsessed who’d distanced themselves from him after the explosion. “But there was never any solid proof.”

“You think Julia Vargas really wants to get to the bottom of the case?”

“Not my concern,” Andrews said. “I follow the facts. And if she doesn’t get to the bottom of it, I will.”

It was minutes after 1:00 a.m. when Lana stood outside of Billy’s watching as Julia locked the front door and flipped the “Open” sign to “Closed.”

“Bitch,” she muttered.

She staggered back into the shadows, cursing the extra shots of tequila that made her head spin. Benny always said she got sloppy when she was drunk. He’d be pissed if he saw her now.

But Benny wasn’t here. He was locked up. Awaiting a transport to prison that could eat up the rest of his life thanks to the dirt that bitch cop had dug up. His attorney still might get an appeal, but it was a long shot.

It wasn’t fair. Benny had taken Julia Vargas into his life and given her his trust. Treated her like family.

If she’d let Lana take her beating, then Benny would have gotten over his anger. He always did. He might have escaped the raid. And they’d still be together.

“I should torch this bar with you inside,” she muttered.

Smiling, she staggered as she turned to find herself standing face-to-face with a man. His face was hooded, his hands gloved. Immediately, she tensed. Tried to step around him.

He blocked her path.

“I don’t want any trouble, man,” she said.

“Neither do I.”

His voice had a very familiar ring, and she dug for a smile. “Do you work for Benny?”

“Let’s say I’m doing him a favor.”

The snap of a stun gun came seconds before voltage cut through her body. Her knees buckled, and he caught her, pulling her close against his side.

“Breathe,” he said. “And keep walking unless you want more of that.”

“I didn’t talk to no one,” she whispered. “Tell Benny I’m doing what he said to do.”

“You’re looking to make trouble for that cop, aren’t you?”

He’d been watching her. Shit. This was bad. “Look, maybe we can go somewhere and have some fun.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

The dark glint in his eyes sent a jolt of fear through her. Instinctively Lana balled trembling fingers into a fist and reared back to hit him. As she raised her arm, he zapped her again.

Her entire body constricted, and she nearly vomited. He dragged her down the concrete sidewalk to a van. The side door slid open, and he dumped her inside and climbed in beside her.

“Benny,” she rasped. “Did he want me killed?”

He quickly bound her hands and feet. “Benny knows you talk when you drink too much.”

She tripped and struggled to right herself. Her head was spinning. “I didn’t talk to anyone.”

White teeth flashed. “You talked to that cop last year. He knows you were the one who betrayed him to the cops.” He shoved a rag in her mouth.

She shook her head as a scream rumbled in her throat. She didn’t know that bitch had been a cop until it was too late. If she’d known, she’d never have talked.

She shook her head no.

“You shouldn’t have talked.” He stunned her again, and she crumpled. “Time to play, Lana.”

CHAPTER NINE

Tuesday, October 31, 8:00 a.m.

Julia arrived early outside the medical examiner’s office. She’d closed up the bar after midnight and then spent a couple of hours reading the Hangman case file. And when she had closed her eyes and nodded off to sleep, she’d dreamed again of apples and blood. She’d awoken twice last night, her nerves rattled and her hands trembling. Now, her eyes were burning and the countless cups of coffee weren’t putting a dent in her fatigue.

In the lobby she showed her ID and took the stairs to the basement. After one final swig of java, she dumped her cup in the trash. She pushed through the doors to the autopsy suite.

Dr. Addison Kincaid, one of the top medical examiners in the country, was tugging on latex gloves when she looked toward Julia. The doctor had pinned her hair in a neat bun and wore a face shield that accentuated bright-green eyes full of curiosity. The medical examiner’s technician wheeled in the sheet-clad remains and positioned the gurney under the overhead light. Behind the gurney was a long stainless-steel sink equipped with bottles filled with solutions, extra supplies, and instruments.

“Agent, which autopsy are you here for?” Dr. Kincaid asked.

“I understand you’re autopsying Rita Gallagher’s remains now.”

“That’s correct. Is this your case now?”

“No. She belongs to Detective Novak. I’ve an interest in the case, and he’s letting me tag along.”

“Ah.” Questions lingered behind the statement, but Dr. Kincaid rarely bothered with the jurisdictional questions of an investigation. She already had enough to worry about.

Julia shrugged off her jacket. “Is Novak here yet?”

“He called to say he was hung up at the forensic lab. He should be here any minute. Generally, you can set your clock by him.”

Julia pulled a hair band from her wrist and coiled her hair on top of her head. Then she suited up.

The technician pulled back the shee

t, revealing the yellowed bones of Rita Gallagher. The clothes were gone, and the bones had been laid out in anatomical order. The mandible gaped as empty eye sockets stared sightlessly toward the ceiling.

“Where are her clothes?” Julia asked.

“They’ve been sent to the state lab for processing,” Dr. Kincaid replied.

That explained Novak’s visit to the lab. Honestly, she was glad to be here first. Gave her a moment to get her bearings and shore up her barriers. Novak was very perceptive, and if anyone picked up on her fatigue, it would be him. She straightened her shoulders, determined it would not happen.

The doors opened to Detective Novak. He wore a dark suit, crisp blue shirt, and a red tie. Shoes polished. Always so pulled together.

“Agent Vargas and Dr. Kincaid,” he said. “Sorry I’m late. I was at the forensic lab.”

A glance at the clock nailed him as one minute late. “No problem,” Dr. Kincaid said.

“Just started,” Julia said. “You checking on the victim’s clothing?”

“Spoke to Natasha about them. She’ll have something for us in a few days.”

“Great.”

Novak slid off his jacket and carefully laid it over a chair before donning a gown and pulling on gloves and eye protection. Julia stood across from Dr. Kincaid, while Novak slid into the spot beside her. His aftershave was barely noticeable, just like an expensive aftershave would be.

“Any theories on when she died?” Julia asked.

“There was a clothing receipt in her pocket that Natasha was able to enhance,” Novak said. “It dates to November 1, 1992. Because the line items match the clothing she wore when her body was discovered, we believe it confirms Ms. Gallagher was still alive until that day. Your aunt said Gallagher went missing after your father died. She also didn’t make her rent in November. My guess is she died around the first of November.”

“Any family?” Julia asked.

“A brother. Still trying to track him down.”

Julia shifted her attention back to the bones. “Twenty-five years alone and forgotten in that room.”

“Let’s see if we can find out how she died,” Dr. Kincaid said.

Dr. Kincaid moved up to the exam table and positioned the overhead microphone closer to her mouth. She leaned in and asked her assistant for tweezers. She spoke her name, the date, and the names of the persons in attendance. “We took X-rays of Rita Gallagher’s skull and body. As was noted at the crime scene, she suffered a blunt force trauma to the back of her skull. A closer look reveals she wasn’t hit once, but twice in the same spot. The blows would have been enough to knock her out and likely cause severe cranial hemorrhaging.” She turned to the X-ray pinned to the lit monitor. She pointed to the fractures, which were the size of quarters and slightly overlapped. “Note there are two sets of edges, indicating two strikes. One would have knocked her to the ground, and the second was so violent it caused this small fracture that radiated up to the center of her skull.”