The Hangman (Forgotten Files Book 3)

by Mary Burton

  “He was a hostile witness from the start,” Ken said. “He was irritated and angry each time Jim and I interviewed him. He was uncooperative and considered unstable.”

  Julia clicked to a crime-scene photo displaying a naked body hanging in a bleak warehouse. “Note the bindings securing the victim’s hands and feet. The knot work wasn’t elaborate and was associated with some bondage fetish cultures.”

  “Do you think she was a willing participant?” Bowman asked.

  “I think she knew her killer. She was arrested for prostitution and drug distribution several times. The medical examiner tested her blood and found high levels of cocaine.”

  “There were no signs of bruising on her body, suggesting she might have known her killer,” Ken said. “Another reason we focused on Gene Tanner.”

  The next slide featured a young African American woman. “This is the second victim, Tamara Brown, who was age twenty-one at the time of her death. Tamara also had an arrest record for prostitution and drugs. She was found in an abandoned warehouse two blocks from Stella’s.” The next image featured Tamara Brown’s lifeless body suspended from a beam.

  “She’s displayed differently,” Shield noted.

  Julia nodded. “Yes. The knots were more complex, and her arms were extended as if she were a puppet. The medical examiner believed she asphyxiated over several hours.”

  “That’s slower than Tanner. He was prolonging the kill,” Bowman said.

  “That was the theory.” Julia clicked to a series of forensic slides. “Hair and semen samples were found on her body and tested for DNA, but there were no hits. I’m hoping subsequent technology might discover what wasn’t available to the lab in 1992.”

  “The clothes were found near their bodies in all three cases,” Andrews said. “Was DNA pulled from their clothing?”

  “Yes,” Ken said. “The lab results were inconclusive.”

  Andrews raised a brow. “From all three cases?”

  “Yes,” Ken said.

  Andrews stared at the screen. “Continue, Agent Vargas.”

  “Brown had been dead approximately four days when discovered,” Julia said. “During that time, Gene Tanner was in Atlantic City with dozens of witnesses corroborating an alibi. Security cameras also had him on video.”

  “There were no large blocks of time during his trip that he was unaccounted for?” Bowman asked.

  “There was a five-hour stretch at four a.m. when he left the casino and went to his room,” Ken said. “There was no record of Tanner flying back to Virginia. And he’d have to have averaged one hundred and eleven miles per hour to make the round-trip during the gap. And that leaves no time to commit the murder.”

  “Private plane?” Shield asked.

  “No flight plans were filed at any of the small airports within one hundred miles of Richmond during this period,” Ken said.

  “So Tanner was out as a suspect,” Andrews said.

  “Correct.” She pressed the remote. The second victim appeared. “Because the temperature was unseasonably cold, Tamara Brown’s body was intact. This time, the victim had bruising on her cheek that suggested a struggle,” Julia said.

  “Jim and I spent hours at the scene searching for evidence. We found nothing. Whoever this killer was, he was meticulous.”

  “The detectives’ notes suggest they thought the murders were sexual in nature. As I said, the bindings are similar to bondage and discipline, sadism and masochism, known as BDSM,” Julia said.

  “Jim and I interviewed dozens of people in and around the club where Brown worked. Only a handful made the short list, but we couldn’t prove anything.”

  Julia clicked to the next slide. “Ten days later, victim number three, Vicky Wayne, an exotic dancer, was discovered in a warehouse a block from the first. Her body was suspended from the second-story support beams, and it likely took her hours to die.” The next slide featured the DMV photos of Rene, Tamara, and Vicky. “The primary connection to all three was that they worked within several blocks of Stella’s.”

  “What about the original witnesses?” Andrews asked. “How many are still available for interviews?”

  “I made a list of the ten primary suspects and witnesses. The only suspect I can’t locate is Stuart Lambert, who worked in a video porn shop located on Cary Street.”

  Andrews made a note on a small pad. “Have you made contact with any of the witnesses?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What do you want from Shield Security?” Shield asked. “The state lab could retest the DNA.”

  “There’s a long waiting list of active cases. Our cold case has twenty-five-year-old DNA and has the lowest priority. This could drag out for years without your assistance.”

  “Are there any similar cases like this one anywhere else in the country?” Bowman asked.

  “I did an extensive data search and found no other killings that had any similar hallmarks,” Andrews said. “The killer either went dark after the third murder or died.”

  “One theory was that Jim Vargas was the killer,” Shield offered.

  Ken’s gaze rose. “Hey, now. That bullshit theory was never proven. Came down to a bunch of reporters angling for headlines and bylines.”

  Shield drew in a slow breath. “You have DNA collected from the clothing of three victims. All samples tested inconclusive. That seems statistically unrealistic.”

  Ken might have had his doubts about Jim, but he wouldn’t allow speculations outside his inner circle. Julia sensed this and laid a hand on his shoulder. “There were multiple problems with the lab that fall. The Hangman wasn’t the only case that had trouble.”

  “So if we retest and find Jim Vargas’s DNA on the clothing of the victims, then what?”

  Julia nodded. “Mr. Shield, we follow up on any and all leads regardless of where they take us. If you find evidence proving my father was the killer, I’ll accept it.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Bowman’s demeanor had sharpened.

  “I’m sure, Mr. Bowman,” Julia said. “I want it solved.”

  “Jim Vargas didn’t leave a suicide note, is that correct?” Shield asked.

  “He did not,” Ken said.

  “This isn’t some attempt to clear his name, is it, Agent Vargas?” Shield challenged.

  Shield was playing devil’s advocate, but he no doubt echoed the thoughts everyone on the committee harbored. She admired their candor.

  “Nothing changes the fact that three women were slowly suffocated until dead and displayed for everyone to see,” Julia said. “These women deserve closure. With or without your help, I’ll work this case. However, I would rather work with Shield Security. You have tremendous resources.”

  “Do you really believe you can work with us?” Andrews asked. “The risks you took as an undercover agent nearly got you killed.”

  “I do take calculated risks, Mr. Andrews. It’s part of being a cop. Yes, I paid a price for it during my last undercover job, but a large-scale drug dealer is now on his way to prison and facing twenty years.”

  “It was my understanding that the operation was aiming higher than Santiago,” Shield pressed. “And the investigation was compromised. Whatever leads you had to the very top evaporated.”

  “Undercover operations like that are fluid,” she said. “Everyone can plan all they want, but things can go sideways in a heartbeat.”

  “So you’re saying you’d take a risk if the situation called for it in this investigation?” Shield asked.

  “Absolutely, I sure as hell would. I don’t see how—” Hearing her temper bubbling around the words, she paused. “I’m a professional. My objective is to solve this case.”

  Shield’s expression was impossible to read as he studied her.

  Bowman tapped his finger on the table. “Agent Vargas, I think we’ve heard all we need to. We’ll contact you by close of business today with our decision.”

  The abruptness of his dismissal caught her a little shor
t. She’d expected more questions. This likely didn’t bode well. She’d shown her temper and now sensed a hell no by close of business. Not the best first impression when trying to woo an ally. Shit.

  “Thank you for having us.” She reached for her purse. “Ken?”

  Ken rose, frowning at the group. “She’s one hell of a cop. You’d be a fool not to work with her.”

  Color burned her cheeks. She didn’t need anyone defending her. If she’d fumbled this interview, so be it. She wasn’t going to apologize.

  Shield rose and came around the table, extending his hand first to Ken. “Thank you for coming.” Cool, steely eyes shifted to her. “It’s good to have passion, Agent Vargas.”

  Bowman came around the table and shook Ken’s hand and then hers. Again, another unreadable expression. “Thank you for coming.”

  This was the politest brush-off she’d ever received. “Thank you all for hearing the presentation.”

  “Mr. Andrews will escort you out,” Bowman said.

  A fitting end. “Great.”

  She and Ken moved toward the elevator, but she didn’t bother to glance back at Bowman and Shield. She pressed the button to head down.

  The doors opened. Ken and Andrews stepped in after her. She pushed the first-floor button. A dull headache throbbed, and she set her sights on a cigarette and a shot of tequila.

  Andrews escorted them to the front door and thanked them again, and they left the building and crossed to her car.

  Inside the SUV, Ken clicked his seat belt as she slid behind the wheel. “That didn’t go well, did it?”

  “Not as well as I’d hoped.” Stay positive. Stay positive. “They were trying to amp us up to see if we really cared about the case.”

  He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have defended you. Made you look weak.”

  “You had my back. Thank you.”

  He twisted one of the buttons on his jacket cuff. “I wish I could have done more.”

  “You were great. I dug my own grave, Ken. I’m too much of a cowboy.”

  “Like your old man.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, they didn’t say no.”

  “They will by close of business.” She slowly backed out of the spot, hoping it wouldn’t be her last time at Shield Security.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Monday, October 30, 4:45 p.m.

  Julia’s phone dinged with a text as she arrived at Billy’s. Her aunt had owned the bar on Main Street for forty years. It had belonged to Julia’s grandfather, who’d left it to her aunt and her mother. After Julia’s father died, she and her mother had moved to the upstairs apartment, and her mother returned to tending bar, as she had been doing when she first met Jim Vargas.

  She parked and checked her phone, expecting a message from Shield. It was from Novak.

  Rita Gallagher’s autopsy is scheduled for 8:30 tomorrow morning.

  She texted back: I’ll be there.

  Inside, she went upstairs and changed into jeans and a Billy’s T-shirt. Since the academy, she’d worked here on her days off, enjoying the camaraderie of the regular customers and knowing all she had to do was mix drinks and listen.

  Down the back staircase, she moved behind the bar and reached for an apron. Her training here had allowed her to effortlessly slip behind Benny’s bar. Though this place attracted the young professionals and Benny’s lured bikers and drug dealers, she found after a drink or two everyone wanted to talk to the bartender. She’d heard a lifetime’s worth of dreams and sad stories.

  “Julia.” The greeting came from Cindy Stafford, her mother’s older sister.

  Julia smiled. “Aunt Cindy.”

  “Good, you remembered to cover my shift tonight.”

  “I wouldn’t forget your rare night off.”

  Julia hadn’t told her aunt about digging into the Hangman case. Anything associated with Jim Vargas had always been a sore subject with Cindy. Seeing as Rita was now connected to Jim, she opted to hold off asking about their connection until she heard from Shield. She didn’t need to be knee-deep in an argument when they called.

  She pulled her phone from her back pocket and checked to make sure the volume was turned up. Close of business for Shield Security was exactly fifteen minutes from now. “I don’t suppose I can bum a smoke off you?”

  “I thought you quit.”

  “I did.”

  “But . . .”

  “I’m a work in progress.”

  Cindy laughed. “In the back office. You know where I hide my purse.”

  “Thanks.”

  Julia ducked under the bar and moved toward the back to the office. A simple desk butted against a wall under a bulletin board covered with invoices, to-do lists, and pictures of the staff. Front and center was a picture of thirteen-year-old Julia standing with her aunt and mother.

  She found Cindy’s purse and fished out a pack of cigarettes and matches. She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to five.

  Curling her fingers around the cigarette, she moved to the back alley. Outside, a cool wind teased the edges of her ponytail. She leaned against the brick wall while staring toward the orange sun as it dipped into the horizon.

  She rolled the cigarette between her fingers. Waited until five o’clock. When her phone didn’t ring at five, she cursed.

  Propped against the building, she was already dissecting how she’d tackle the Hangman case by herself. She’d read the case files several times and figured if she pulled some strings, tossed in lots of doughnuts sprinkled with pretty pleases, she’d get her DNA samples bumped up a few places in the line.

  The back door opened, and Cindy popped her head out. “There’s someone up front for you.”

  “Who?”

  “Didn’t say. A suit.”

  A cop? Or someone who worked with Benny? Suits hid a multitude of sins.

  “Be right there.”

  “He’s cute.”

  Cute didn’t mean squat. Some of Benny’s associates were attractive, and they’d cut her throat if ordered to do so. “You didn’t get a name?”

  “Honey, I’m trying to get out of here so I can get home to my bookkeeping. Come up front.”

  Her phone now read 5:02 p.m. No call. “Right, I’m coming.”

  Julia knelt and removed the off-duty service weapon from her ankle holster. Knowing she could need her gun fast, she pulled the bar rag tucked in her apron and wrapped it around the weapon. She headed inside, the chatter of the night’s first customers doing little to calm her nerves.

  Tonight’s waitress, Tammy, was seating the first to arrive. Julia’s gaze roamed the place, searching for any man who might, well, look out of place, like he’d been sent to shoot her.

  Everyone fit. No strange man. And then Tobias Novak turned from a group of men who looked like detectives. Not a trained assassin, but still trouble.

  He caught her gaze and moved away from the others, tracking her as she moved behind the bar.

  As he sat on one of the stools, she knelt and tucked the gun back in its holster.

  “Expecting trouble?” he asked.

  She tossed a bar towel over her shoulder. “Just careful.”

  He nodded, keeping whatever questions he had about the gun to himself. “Shield going to help?”

  “They said close of business. And we’re past that. So not looking good.”

  “Do you need them?”

  “It would have been nice. They’re a huge asset.”

  He scooped up a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar. “I’ll lend a hand.”

  “Don’t you have a full caseload?”

  “I need community-service credits for my merit badge.”

  It was a touching gesture. “There are more entertaining hobbies.”

  “Agreed, but this one will include you.”

  That startled a half laugh out of her. “Right.”

  He shifted topics. “This is a nice place. It’s been a while since I came in through the front door, though.”
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  He’d been to her apartment several times, but they’d always used the back staircase leading off the alley.

  When she didn’t respond, he asked, “You moonlight?”

  “Helping my aunt out for an evening. She’s got to do bookkeeping and payroll tonight.”

  “You ask her about Rita Gallagher?”

  “No.” She leaned forward. “Cindy won’t be happy about me reopening the Hangman case. Anything or anyone linked to my father puts her in a foul mood. But I need to ask now. She’s changing. She’ll be down soon.”

  “Great. I’ll wait.”

  Of course he would. And now was as good a time as any to tell her about the Hangman case. “Drink?”

  “Sure. A draft beer.”

  Grabbing a mug, she expertly filled it with just the right amount of head and set it on a napkin in front of him. “Any leads on Rita Gallagher?”

  He sipped. “Some. Spoke to the former owner of the house where her body was found. He had a renter who went missing in 1992. Scott Turner. Working on tracking him now. So far, nothing. Also spoke to Rita’s former landlord.”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “Rita and her roommate lost a security deposit because there was a large rust-colored stain in Rita’s bedroom.”

  “Blood?”

  “No way of knowing.”

  “She have an arrest record?”

  “She did. Files should be on my desk tomorrow.”

  Cindy appeared wearing her purse on her shoulder and a fresh coat of red lipstick. “I’m off.”

  “Cindy, before you go, I want you to meet Detective Novak. He’s working a homicide and has a question for you.”

  Cindy grinned, sticking out her hand. “Detective Novak.”

  Novak rose and accepted it. “Ma’am, nice to meet you.”

  “What can I do for you?” Cindy asked.

  Novak pulled his cell from his clip. “We found a woman’s body. Driver’s license says she was Rita Gallagher. I pulled her employment records from a rental application made in 1992, and she listed Billy’s as her place of work.” He showed her the driver’s license picture on his phone.

  “Rita Gallagher?” Cindy asked. “Yeah, yeah, I remember Rita. It’s been ages since I’ve seen her.”