The Hangman (The Forgotten Files 3)

“They relate to

my case.”

She was getting edgy for no rational reason and had to rein in her need to control. “Makes sense.”

Novak chuckled. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He clicked his key fob, and the lights of a black Suburban winked. She climbed into the passenger seat, flexing her fingers, already itching to be behind the wheel of her own car.

“Play nice,” she whispered to herself. “He’s a means to an end.”

Novak put the photos in the backseat, then slid behind the wheel of the car.

“The easiest way to get there—” Julia started to say.

“Thanks, I got this,” Novak interrupted as he put on sunglasses.

She clicked her seat belt. “Sure.”

“What was your cover when you worked in Benny’s bar?” he asked.

She tensed, knowing where a question like that led. “Doubleheader. Bartender and a drug dealer.” It was a little more involved than that, but the less said the better. “I’m a natural seeing as I grew up slinging drinks.”

“I’ve pulled Benny Santiago’s arrest record. Heavy into drugs and prostitution.”

“You’ve really been busy.”

Novak didn’t take the bait. He moved easily in and out of the Main Street traffic. “You were saying about the undercover work?”

She’d feed him tidbits like she did everyone else. “I played up the fact that I was in the drug world. I created fake track marks on my arm and was quite the tease. I had a good feel for it most of the time. Soon Lana was my best buddy. And talking.”

“How badly did Benny beat you?”

Cut to the chase. Novak looked like the all-American guy next door, but she sensed a ruthlessness matched by the likes of Benny. “Don’t you know?”

“No one is saying much about that.”

“Good. I’m not interested in a pity party.”

He slid into a parking space across from the lab. “How bad, Julia?”

“Bad enough.” She looked out the window, staring at the city’s tall gray buildings.

He put the car in park and shut off the engine, but didn’t move. He just kept looking ahead.

“It’s water under the bridge,” she said.

Novak pulled off his sunglasses and looked at her. She sensed the patience of Job.

“When I kissed you the first time, you tensed,” he said.

She gritted her teeth. “Things heated up pretty quickly between us. And I don’t remember any complaints.”

“No complaints whatsoever. But I wondered why you tensed.”

“I’m high-strung by nature. And it had been a while since I’d been out with a guy,” she said. “Like I said, what happened at the beach is water under the bridge.”

Out of the car before he could ask another question, she pushed through the front door of the state forensic lab and showed her ID to the receptionist as Novak came up behind her. “I’m Agent Julia Vargas. This is Detective Tobias Novak. I’m here to drop off an item for testing.”

The receptionist buzzed them in, and they made their way to the elevators. As the doors opened, he stepped in close to her. When they closed, she pulled in a deep breath. The ride was only a couple of floors. The confined space was manageable.

When the elevator stopped, Novak held the door and allowed her to go first. She made her way down the long hallway past a series of glass windows that offered a view into the lab. At the end, she found the office and knocked.

Inside, a woman with graying hair and wearing a white lab coat and glasses looked up at her. “Can I help you?”

Julia pulled out her badge and introduced herself again. “Is Lucy Franklin here today?”

“She’s not in today. What can I do for you?”

“I have a section of rope I need tested,” Julia said.

The woman rose and reached for an evidence label. “The rope is in regard to what case?”

Julia pulled off her backpack and removed the bagged rope. “I’m not sure. It was left outside where I live.” She dangled the bag with the noose. “If it was meant to be funny, it failed.”

The woman nodded. “You want latent fingerprints and DNA?”

“If you can get them. Maybe you can lift them where the knot forms. Any touch DNA would be great. I’ll take what I can get.” She hoped whoever was sending her this message had also touched the rope with bare hands and left behind skin cells.

Frowning, the woman peered over her glasses. “Did you report the incident?”

“It’s a fluid situation,” Novak said. “Right now, your lab is our best shot.”

“Do you have any suspects in mind?” the woman asked.

“I think it might have been left by a woman by the name of Lana Ortega,” Julia said. “She’s not a fan, and this would be her way of trying to intimidate me. Be nice to know who left this little memento.”

The woman accepted the bag and attached a label. “Okay. I’ll call you as soon as we have any details.”

Julia left her card, and minutes later they were outside.

Novak fished his keys out of his pocket, jangled them in his hand. “You’re pretty calm about this.”

She didn’t dare permit fear as they got into the car. If she allowed it, others would sense blood in the water. Game over if that happened. “I focus on what I can control. And right now, I’ve done all I can do. I’ll worry later when I have more facts. Ready to view a crime scene?”

He started the car. “Sure.”

“The warehouse crime scene where the first victim, Rene Tanner, was found has been converted into a restaurant on the bottom floor and upscale condos on the top levels.”

As she paused, he said, “The second Hangman murder site is now an apartment building.” He drove down Cary Street, which cut through the heart of Shockoe Bottom.

“I bet your mom had the bumper sticker ‘My Kid’s an Honor Roll Student,’” Julia said. “And that you also sat in the front of the class and asked lots of questions.”

Novak slid into a parallel parking spot. “I know this area well, and I spent a good portion of last night getting up to speed on the Hangman case basics, like that the site of the third murder has remained relatively unchanged.”

They walked the brick sidewalk under the bridge toward the long dark building that hugged the James River. Ten years ago, this entire area was submerged in water after a freak storm. So if by some fluke evidence did survive, it would likely have been destroyed.

“I’m mostly interested in what the space looks like. Why choose warehouses? What was it about this building that attracted the killer?” Julia asked.

He reached for the warehouse door posted with a “No Trespassing” sign, ratting the lock. Then he pulled a small case from his breast pocket and opened it, working with two small picks. The lock yielded in seconds.

“I’d be impressed if I actually saw that.”

They stepped inside the dark structure, where Novak found a light switch and turned it on. Large fluorescents buzzed overhead and gave off a faint glow. Even in the dim light, the stain left on the walls from the flood was visible. A dank, musty smell clung to the air.

From her backpack, Julia removed a crime-scene photo tucked in her case folder. She angled the image until she had the exact space in her sights. “Our luck is turning,” she said, grinning.

A chill passed through her as she thought about her father standing in this exact spot, staring up at the body of the third victim, Vicky Wayne. Like her, her father had studied the same beams, smelled the same moist, dense air, and walked the wood floor.

Novak stepped back; his gaze methodically swept over the open warehouse space. “What do you remember about your father?”

“He wasn’t around much, and when he was, he was bone-tired and on edge. He was also a good guy, and he loved us.” A distant memory coaxed a small smile. “He always grilled hamburgers on my birthday.”

“What did your mother say about him when he wasn’t around?”

“Always positive, but as I grew older she said less and less. Said he was one hell of a cop. Aunt Cindy tries not to complain about him, but she never liked him. She always thought he took the easy way out.”

“At least your father didn’t try to take anyone with him when he killed himself.”

She hesitated, waiting for him to expand on the comment. When he didn’t, she handed him several photographs. The light above them had brightened, chasing away the shadows and revealing the old brick walls of the large barren room. He held up the crime scene captured in the photograph.

In the picture, the woman’s suspended figure was front and center in the shot. Her body was wrapped in a series of knots that began with coils around her ankles. The ropes twisted around and up her legs until they banded around her waist. From there the rope snaked across her breasts and then around her neck. Her hands were bound behind her back.

“I also have video,” she said. She dug a tablet from her backpack and selected a computer file created from the original VCR tape. She hit “Play” and handed it to Novak.

“We’re at the third murder scene.”

She recognized the deep baritone voice of her father. She wished she could say she had better memories of him reading bedtime stories, but she didn’t.

“She looks like she was strangled to death similar to the other two,” the voice continued.

A much younger and more muscular Ken Thompson stepped into the frame. While her father was forever frozen in time as a young man in the prime of his life, Ken had since become old. Seeing Ken’s broad shoulders, thick dark hair, and trimmed mustache caught her off guard. She’d forgotten how handsome he had been.

Ken opened a small spiral notebook. “I spoke to a dozen people in the area, and no hits.”

“No one who’s around here is going to call it in even if they did see something. Only trouble comes here.”

In the background, several officers grabbed the rope holding the woman, and while one cut, another held the body, digging his feet in so it wouldn’t drop to the floor.

Slowly the woman’s body came to the floor, the stiff legs and torso coming to an awkward rest. Her feet were discolored a dark blue.

“She’s rigid, which means rigor mortis has set in. She’s been dead, what, about twenty-four hours?” Ken asked.