by Mary Burton
“Did the second blow immediately kill her?” Novak asked.
“If it didn’t, I think she would have died of her injuries within hours. I doubt a team of surgeons could have saved her.”
“So she might have been alive when she was left in the root cellar room,” Julia said.
“It’s possible,” said Dr. Kincaid.
“The killer would have taken a big risk walking Gallagher into the house, surrounded by close neighbors, down into the basement and then bludgeoning her in such a small, cramped dark room,” Novak replied.
“Other injuries?” Julia asked.
“Her hyoid bone is intact, which suggests she wasn’t strangled.” The delicate horseshoe-shaped bone centered in the throat was often snapped under extreme pressure.
The doctor closely examined the victim’s arm bones. “If you look closely, her right humerus and scapula are slightly larger than the left. That suggests she was right-handed. The muscles decompose, but their influence on the bone doesn’t vanish.”
The doctor tipped back the victim’s skull, revealing yellowed teeth. “She was a tooth grinder as evidenced by the wear patterns on her molars, and she had several cavities.” She gently plucked a red strand from a back tooth. “A fragment of cloth.”
“In her mouth?” Novak asked.
“It was shoved in her mouth,” Julia said.
“Why do you say that?” Novak asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ve read too many files about the Hangman, but I can’t help but note Rita died about the same time and within a half mile of the other victims. And the killer stuffed the mouths of his victims before he hung them.”
“Like Rita.”
“Yes.” Julia swallowed, remembering how Benny had shoved a dirty cloth in her mouth to silence her screams. She’d coughed, gagged, and struggled to breathe. The memory made her heart pound against her chest like a jackhammer.
Breathe. Her therapist had said memories would come back when she least expected it and time would soften their power. Eventually they’d feel more like a dull ache than a sharp pain. Julia had hoped that day would have come by now; she was losing patience.
She pressed her thumbnail into her palm, letting the discomfort override the fear. She glanced up to find Novak studying her.
Julia cocked her head, held his gaze. He didn’t look away, forcing her to break eye contact. Fuck him for sensing anything. “Could she have suffocated?” she asked.
“Possibly. But if she’d already been struck, a gag in her mouth would have made her labored breathing nearly impossible. Either way, she’d have died soon from the head trauma.” Dr. Kincaid paused, apparently struck with a thought. “Or she could already have been dead when the rag was put in her mouth.”
Julia resisted the urge to raise her hand to her throat. “Why shove the rag farther into her throat after she was dead?”
“Doesn’t seem logical,” Novak said, shifting attention to Dr. Kincaid. “But many killers aren’t logical. I no longer bother to guess why people do the things they do.”
“Rita bought nice clothes on November 1,” Julia said. “She’d been hopeful and excited about something.”
The doctor moved along the body. “There were no bullet or stab markers on the bones. We’ve extracted some marrow and will send it off for testing along with strands of her hair. We might find hints of drug use, but no telling after all these years.”
Dr. Kincaid inspected the carpal bones. “Looks like her right thumb was broken.” The doctor continued to study the remains, then moved to a small side table and pushed it toward the necropsy table. She uncovered it and revealed a small collection of bones. “This was found in her abdominal region under what remained of her pants. She was at least twenty weeks pregnant.”
Julia didn’t respond. Didn’t even blink.
Novak’s expression didn’t change, but the fingers of his right hand curled into a fist. “Can you run DNA tests on the fetal bones to determine who the father was?”
“I’ll see what I can get,” Dr. Kincaid said. “But don’t hold out hope.”
Dr. Kincaid continued her analysis of the body. The bones in Rita Gallagher’s sacrum had not fused, which, the doctor explained, occurred around the age of twenty-three. The young woman had also suffered some malnutrition. A healed spiral fracture on her right wrist suggested possible abuse. In the end, the bones had painted a picture of a troubled young woman.
“Thank you,” Novak said. “Can you keep me posted on the results of the tox screen?”
“Will do, Detective.”
“Thanks,” Julia softly said, turning from the bones as Dr. Kincaid pulled the sheet back over the remains. She stripped off her gown and tossed it in the trash. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she quickly moved into the hallway, up the staircase, and out to the sidewalk. The sky was ripe with thick gray clouds, and the air held the hint of colder weather coming soon.
“What’s chasing you?” Novak asked.
Julia started at the sound of his voice. She didn’t face him. “Never comfortable in that place. I guess it’s the smell.”
He stood beside her. “I’m used to it. Not sure what that says about me.”
“You can’t be in this job without it changing you.”
“That’s what I keep telling my daughter.”
“How old is she?”
“Nineteen. She’s a sophomore at the University of Virginia.”
“Must be a smart kid.”
“Beautiful, too.”
No missing the pride in his voice. She wondered if her father’s tone of voice had changed when he’d spoken about her. “You and her mom must be proud.”
“My wife died when Bella was a baby.”
“I’m sorry.”
He grimaced. “Bella wants to be a cop.”
“I already had my sights set on the police academy at her age. I wasn’t a fan of college, but my aunt insisted. I signed up for the academy the day before college graduation.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She fished in her purse for her keys. “She might grow out of it.”
“Maybe.” A frown knotted his brow. “What happened back there?”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw the way you paled when we discussed the gag.”
“I’ve a weak stomach.”
He shook his head. “You’re a bad liar.”
“I’m a great liar with a weak stomach.”
“You can talk to me, if you need to. It wouldn’t go any further.”
She saw the steadiness in his gaze. She believed him. He was one of the good guys. But everyone wanted to help the victim. At first. Then when they really knew the terrible truth and were confronted by its emotional aftermath, they flaked. “There’s nothing to tell, Novak.”
“I don’t buy that.”
“That’s your issue, not mine.”
In her car, Julia pulled the list of the businesses in the Shockoe Bottom district that had been around during the time of the Hangman killings. Three were still there. She’d talked to one restaurant manager, but he was barely old enough to remember the early nineties. The same was true for the bookshop owner. However, Angie’s Pizza, located a block from Stella’s bar and two blocks from one of the murder scenes, was still owned and operated by the same man. Mark Dutton had opened the place in 1990 and remained the sole proprietor.
His pizza had been voted Richmond’s best several years in a row, and in the last couple of years it was catching a new buzz with a migration of thirtysomethings moving into expensive condos that had been carved out of the old warehouses.
She parked on the cobblestone streets and walked quickly to the pizza shop. She pushed through the front door, savoring the fresh scents of oregano, tomato, and basil. A portly man standing behind the counter wore a white T-shirt, jeans, and an apron. Thinning white hair was brushed off his round face. He pressed a sticking key on an old brass register.
“Be right
with you,” he said, frowning at the key.
“No rush,” Julia said.
The shop was long and narrow, and the brick walls were covered with several dozen photographs taken in the shop over the years. One of the first pictures featured a thin and wiry Dutton in front of his pizzeria. His hair then was thick and dark, and his eyes bright and full of excitement as he grinned broadly. Beside him was a woman wearing a ruffled shirt, jeans, and permed hair. Written in the corner was “1990.” The pictures progressed through the years, Dutton’s hair becoming thinner and whiter as his waistline thickened. A lifetime captured on the walls. As she scanned back toward 1992, she spotted a picture of Ken and her father standing with Dutton. All three were grinning.
She stared at her father’s smiling face. The particular day wasn’t recorded, but she’d guess early fall because the three still had their summer tans, but a patron behind them was wearing a sweater.
He didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d kill himself by the end of the year. He looked comfortable, in his element. He’d never been like that at home. She understood smiles could mask all kinds of sadness. And she knew everyone had a breaking point. She’d been near that edge, but she’d never been tempted to jump over it.
“What can I do for you?” His accent quietly gave away his Brooklyn roots.
She turned toward the man, recognizing him as Dutton, as she reached for the badge clipped to her waistband. “I’m Julia Vargas with the Virginia State Police. I have a couple of questions; it’ll only take a moment.”
“I got a few minutes. Expecting a delivery truck, so I might have to multitask.”
“I’m looking into the Hangman case.”
He shook his head, resting thick fists on his hips. “I hoped I could live the rest of my life without hearing that god-awful name again. The son of a bitch nearly killed my business.”
“What do you remember about it?”
“I’d opened the shop a year or two before. I was getting traction. All the drunks coming out of the bars with huge appetites, and they kept me in business.”
“Why did you choose this area?”
“Rent was cheap. I always thought I’d make enough to springboard to a better location.”
“But you stayed?”
He shrugged as he reached for a rag and began to wipe the counter. “After my wife, Gina, died, I didn’t see the point. She was the one with the big dreams and the one who wanted the chain of stores. When she was gone, this place was enough.”
“When did she pass?”
“Ten years now. She had cancer. Hell of a woman. I stay here to be close to her.”
“Did she worry about the Hangman?”
“Sure. But she was never alone in the restaurant after dark. I saw to it. And we both figured this killer went after a certain type of woman.”
“What type?”
“Hookers. The working girls back then were real scared. They didn’t go out alone during that time but stayed in pairs after the second body was found. They’d stand near this store because they knew I was open until one a.m., and I kept my .45 behind the counter. I was more worried about a robbery, but if I’d come across that son of a bitch, I’d have gladly shot him, too.”
“Did you know the victims?”
“I remembered Rene. She was nice. And Tamara. She hung out on the street corner by the shop sometimes.”
“The johns would pick her up out there?”
“Yeah. Like I said, it got a little rougher around here after midnight. Hell, we still get some of that crap happening here today. And frankly, they aren’t any subtler than they used to be.”
“Any of Tamara’s johns stand out?”
“No. I made a point to keep my nose in my own business.”
“Did the cops ever speak to you?”
“Sure. I spoke to them a bunch of times. First the uniforms and then the detectives. Mutt and Jeff I called them.”
“Mutt and Jeff?”
“Don’t get me wrong, they were sharp and tough guys. But they stuck together like glue. They could finish each other’s sentences. I gave them slices of pie, and they made a point to stop by to check in while they were working the case. Got to know them pretty well. Solid guys. Sorry to hear the one died.”
She pointed to her father’s picture on the wall. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
Mark came around the counter. “Yeah, that’s him. Jim and Ken. Mutt and Jeff.”
“Jim also worked the area as an undercover officer.”
“I remember him saying that. He said once he came into the shop undercover for a slice. I told him later I didn’t recognize him, and he laughed. He said good. His job was to slip into another identity as easily as a suit. I asked him if he had trouble keeping it all straight.”
“Did he?”
“Never quite gave me a clear answer. The guy had a million-dollar smile, but he also had an edge.”
“What do you mean by edge?”
“Short fuse. He never lost his temper around me, but he didn’t appreciate it when someone got in his face.”
“Who got in his face?”
“That guy, Tanner, whose wife was murdered. He was in here buying a pizza when Mutt and Jeff came into the pizzeria. Tanner accused them of harassing him. Said to do their job and find the real killer. Mutt didn’t like that.”
“Mutt being Jim.”
“Right.”
“What about his partner, Ken? How was he?”
“Smooth, jovial. I always figured he was the good cop, the one that softened you up for the bad cop. Ken came by regularly until about a year ago. Where’s he?”
“Retired. You ever suspect anyone who might have killed those women?”
“A lot of crazy people come in here, and I keep my .45 close. Everyone talked about the crime, but no one had the faintest clue who it was. No one was holding back.”
“I read their reports of their interview with you and your wife. They noted how much they liked the pizza.”
“Really?” Dutton beamed.
“Yeah. One report had a tomato sauce stain on it.”
He glanced up at the picture on the wall. “Your name’s Vargas?”
“Yeah.”
“Father?”
“Yeah.”
“You look like him.”
“I get that a lot,” she said.
“I wish I could help you.”
She pulled a card from her jacket pocket and put on her best smile. “If you think of anything, give me a call. Just sleep on it.”
He flicked the edge of the card with his index finger. “Sure. And if you see Ken again, tell him Mark has got a complimentary pie waiting for him.”
“Will do.”
“Sorry about your dad. I sincerely liked him.”
“Thanks.”
She spent the next hour walking up and down the brick sidewalks trying to imagine herself back in 1992. What was it about the victims that had drawn the Hangman? Was it because they were easy prey, or was there more?
She found herself standing in front of the first murder scene. The tobacco warehouse had long been converted to condos, and what had looked rough and run-down in crime-scene photos now looked trendy and chic. Time had marched on and had forgotten those women.
“I haven’t forgotten,” she whispered.
Andrews found Bowman in his office. On the credenza behind his desk was a picture of Bowman and his girlfriend, Riley Tatum. A part of Andrews envied Bowman’s happiness, but a bigger part of him feared it. With gain there was the potential for loss, and he’d lost enough. “Have you seen the website called the Hangman?”
Bowman arched a brow. “I don’t prowl the Net often.”
“The site appeared about a month ago,” Andrews said. “It profiles the original Hangman victims as well as the detectives working the case.”
Bowman sat back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest as he waited for Andrews to continue.
“Judging by the level of deta
il, the creator did his homework.”
“Who put the site up?”
“A man by the name of Vic Carson,” he said. “He was in town during the 1992 killings and, by his own admission, became obsessed with the killings. He only just got around to putting up the website. Guess he figured he’d cash in on the anniversary. He’s already making decent money with his advertising sales.”
“Where’s he now?”
“According to his digital trail, he’s in California at a conference.”
“Let Vargas know. She’ll want to put him on her list of people to interview.”
“I’ve added him to the witness-suspect list I sent her.”
“How many of the original witnesses and suspects did you find?”
Andrews arched a brow. “All of them.”
“I shouldn’t have expected less.”
“No, you shouldn’t.” He was one of the best trackers alive, and in the two years he’d been with Shield he’d proved his skills over and over. He could find anyone who left a digital footprint.
“What’s their status?”
“Of the fifteen names she gave me, several of the witnesses are in prison for nonviolent infractions, and the remaining nine are living and working in the area.”
“I know you did a background check on all of them. Anything they’ve done in the last twenty-five years that catches your eye?”
“No. The Hangman fell off the face of the earth. When he killed his last victim, he either stopped or died.”
