The Hangman (The Forgotten Files 3)

Shaking his head, he said, “I don’t know what the hell that means.”

“Not surprising.”

He was at ease behind the wheel, and she sensed that, like her, he was at his best when he was chasing a case. Nothing warmed the blood better than hunting bad guys and watching them go down. She and Novak had more in common than she originally thought.

Novak parked in front of the simple brick rancher located on a tree-lined street. The neighborhood dated back to the fifties, but the presence of children’s toys in many of the yards proved the area was enjoying a renewal.

Julia walked up to the door and Novak followed, allowing her to ring the bell. Novak liked Julia. Liked her tenacity. Been hooked on her since the first night he’d seen her standing in the back of the ballroom. Also suspected she’d bolt if he told her so.

Inside the house, a steady beat of footsteps approached. Those steps then hesitated on the other side of the front door as Novak assumed Rogers was checking them out through the peephole.

A chain rattled, and the door opened to a slim man with a thinning stock of gray hair. Deep wrinkles lined his face, but his eyes were a brilliant blue. “Novak,” he said.

“Good to see you again, Neil.” Rogers had been on the way out when Novak had made detective, but they’d caught a few cases together. “This is Agent Julia Vargas with the Virginia State Police.”

Julia extended her hand. “Thank you for seeing us.”

“Anything for Novak. And Jim’s kid. Come on inside.” Rogers stepped aside, allowing them into a well-lit hallway that led into a living room and a kitchen beyond. Though the smell of burgers still lingered in the air, Novak could see the kitchen was clean, counters wiped, and dishes stacked in the drying rack by the sink.

The living room was also tidy. The television was off, but a steaming cup of coffee next to the television remote suggested he’d been watching the news.

“Can I get either of you a cup of coffee? Just put a fresh pot on.”

“I’ll take a cup,” Novak said.

“Sounds great,” Julia said.

Rogers moved into the kitchen and grabbed two white mugs from the cabinet. He filled each carefully, then reached for a bowl filled with sugar and creamer packets. “No fresh milk. I drank the powdered kind on the job so long I never could get used to real milk after I retired.”

“Most of my meals come out of vending machines or fast-food joints,” Julia said. “Hate to think what I’d do if I came toe-to-toe with a fresh vegetable.”

Rogers held up a cup. “Novak?”

“Black works,” he said.

The three sat in the living room, Rogers in a well-worn recliner and Novak and Julia on the couch that faced a large picture window.

Rogers swiveled his chair from the television toward the couch as he sipped his coffee. “You surprised me when you called. I haven’t heard the names Vargas and the Hangman in ages.”

Julia cradled her cup in long fingers that looked oddly graceful even with plain, shorn nails. “I’d thought about opening the case, but until this year didn’t act on it. In my spare time I’ve been going through the files and reading my father’s notes. Now I have a private security firm that’s willing to retest some of the samples. I’m hoping something might pop.”

“Since you phoned, I’ve been trying to recall the case. I made it up to the attic and pulled the notes I kept.” He reached for a pad and pencil resting on another small table by his chair. “The forensic guys are light-years ahead of what we could do twenty-five years ago. DNA was only just being accepted by most juries.”

“I’ve read your notes,” Julia said. “Well written.”

Rogers raised his cup to her. “Thank you.”

“Did your notes jog your memory?” Novak asked.

“They did. I remembered that I found hair fibers on all the bodies. I sent them off for testing. Not uncommon for it to take months, even a year to get DNA tests back. After Jim Vargas died and the killer went dark, the case landed on the back burner and the results must have been lost in the shuffle.”

“According to what I read, DNA couldn’t be mapped,” Julia said.

“When some suggested that Jim had been the killer, I wanted to cross-check the DNA scene samples with his. I called the lab and found out the samples had been compromised. They had been improperly stored in plastic. Mold and heat had destroyed them,” Rogers said.

“All three were destroyed?” Novak asked.

“Afraid so.”

“Who was in charge of the samples?” Julia asked.

“Everyone and no one. Procedures have improved considerably since then,” Rogers said.

She and Novak exchanged glances. Who’d had access to the samples? The forensic team. Technicians. Cops. It could have boiled down to incompetence, but didn’t seem likely with three separate sets. If Jim hadn’t improperly stored the evidence, someone who knew him might have.

“We have another homicide case,” Novak said. “Her body was found four days ago, but the woman was murdered within days of Jim’s death.” He recapped the details.

Rogers nodded. “Be interesting to see what forensic samples they can pull from her clothing.”

“Agreed,” Julia said. “We also have a recent murder.” She told him what they’d found, keeping her voice steady and clear. “I knew the victim from my undercover days.”

“Funny that you knew the victim. A couple of the Hangman victims knew your father.”

“Jim told you that?” Julia asked.

“I don’t think he told me. He could be pretty tight-lipped when it came to the undercover days. But his partner, Ken, mentioned it to me after Jim died. Ken had been drinking heavily, and his wife asked a couple of us to track him down. We found him in a bar and asked him what was wrong. That’s when he started talking.”

“We were just with Ken,” Novak said. “He said he didn’t know about Jim’s CIs.”

“He might not have known all of them, but he knew some.” Rogers shook his head. “Jim confided in Ken. They were close. Went to the academy together. If Jim Vargas had any secrets and was inclined to tell them, then Ken Thompson would have been the one he confided in.”

Was Ken lying? Or did he not remember? She’d had the sense that both Ken and Wendy were hiding something.

Rogers sat back in his chair, carefully setting his cup on a side table. “I was sorry to hear about your father, Julia. He was the last guy I would ever expect to commit suicide.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” She leaned forward, cradling her cup in her hands. “What was he like to work with?”

“He was a stud,” Rogers said. “I don’t think anything scared the guy. The risks he took while undercover made the toughest cops shudder. If not for him, Popov would never have been brought down.”

“The Popov case made Jim’s career,” she said to Novak.

“Alexi Popov was a drug dealer and a nasty son of a bitch,” Rogers said. “Left a trail of mutilated bodies along the East Coast. No one could get close to him, but your father did. It was a huge bust. Saw to it that the murderer died in prison.”

“Neil, if you can give some more thought on the Hangman, it would be a help,” Novak said. “Any detail would be appreciated. And I’m especially interested in those lost samples.”

“Believe me, all I’ve thought about is the case since you called. I’ll go through my notes again.”

“

Thanks for your help,” Julia said.

“Keep me posted,” Rogers said.

They rose and Novak took Julia’s untouched coffee with him back into the kitchen. He drained both cups in the sink and returned to the living room.

Julia was at the front door. “Thanks again, Neil.”

“You come by anytime. Jim’s kid is always welcome here.”

Outside, Novak dialed Riggs’s number and landed in his voice mail. “I need you to look up the case files of an Alexi Popov. He would have done time for drug trafficking in the late eighties. Arresting officer was Jim Vargas.”

He pocketed his phone and met Julia at his car. As she sat in the passenger seat, he slid behind the wheel. She was quiet as she stared at the house.

“You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve heard people talk about my father before.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Does it look like it does?”

He studied her closely. “You can be hard to read.”

“Good.” A smile hitched the edge of her lip. “Keeps everyone guessing.”

He shook his head. “I’m not a fan of puzzles.”

“Another reason why we’re excellent in the short term.”

As he pulled onto the street, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the text. “Dr. Kincaid will be conducting the Lana Ortega autopsy tomorrow morning at nine thirty.”

“She’s efficient.”

Her phone buzzed with a call from Andrews. She glanced toward Novak. “Andrews, I’m going to put you on speakerphone. I’m with Detective Novak now. He’d liked to be looped into your work.”

“Understood,” Andrews said.

She pressed the proper button. “Go ahead.”

“A video has been uploaded on the Hangman site. The footage looks like it was taken by the killer.”

She looked toward Novak, who frowned as he absently rubbed the worn section of his steering wheel with his thumb.

“It’s the murder of Tamara Brown,” Andrews said. “The coverage is about twenty-five seconds long and was taken with a VHS camcorder.”

“Can you send the link to me?” she asked.