by Mary Burton
“He came to see me while he was working that Hangman case. Asked me if my cover had ever been compromised in the Popov case. I didn’t believe so. Jim was still worried Donnie had talked. Popov was the kind of guy who liked to serve his revenge ice cold. The Hangman killings would have been Popov’s style. By then I’d quit the fieldwork, cut my hair, and was riding a desk, which is where I stayed until I got my pension.”
“Do you remember which victims he asked you about?” Novak reached into his breast pocket for his phone as Unger watched him closely. He found the picture of Rene Tanner and handed the phone to Unger.
The old man squinted, then pulled glasses from his back pocket. “Yeah, I remember her. Rene Tanner. She worked as a bartender in the Bottom. Jim mentioned her and Tamara Brown during that last visit.”
“They informed for Vargas?”
Unger handed back the phone. “He busted Rene on a cocaine possession charge. It was a large enough bust to ensure she spent ten to fifteen years in jail. Classic case of not wanting to go to jail and cutting a deal to get out of serving. Same with Brown. Busted and flipped.”
“Rumor has Vargas and Rene sleeping together.”
Unger let out a sigh. “Look, the work we did wasn’t black-and-white, and living a lie all the time tossed a lot of gray in our lives.”
“That a yes or no?”
“It’s a yes. But it was an on-and-off relationship with them. It meant nothing to Jim, but Rene feared her husband would find out. The guy left bruises on her for a lot less.”
“When Jim told you Rene and Tamara had been murdered, did you think it was odd they’d been targeted by a serial killer?”
“Sure. I worried about it. So did Jim. Who wouldn’t as long as Popov was alive? But both women had been hookers, and they hung out in a rough section of town. Perfect hunting ground for a serial killer.”
“How about Vicky Wayne? What did you think when she was found strung up?”
“Honestly, relieved. I didn’t recognize her name, and I figured if she was connected to our old work, Jim would have told me.”
Novak scrolled to her face and handed the phone to Unger.
Unger shook his head. “I don’t remember her.”
Novak located Rita Gallagher’s photo. “How about this one?”
Unger studied the picture a little longer. “Yeah, I do remember her.”
“Really, from where?”
He rubbed the back of his neck with a bent, lined hand. “There were so many women back in the day, but she was hard to forget. Built like a brick house. She could have any man.”
“She worked in Amy Vargas’s bar as a waitress. That’s an odd coincidence,” Riggs said.
“Jim set the job up. He told me she came to him. She wanted to go straight. She was tired of the life.”
“He do that often?” Novak asked.
“Believe it or not, Jim cared about people. Said many were lost souls and he’d give a hand up when he could. If they didn’t take it, so be it.”
Novak closed his phone. “So she comes to him and tells him she wants to go straight, and he buys it?”
Unger shook his head. “I told him to steer clear of that one.”
“Why?”
“Because Popov fucked her.”
“Rita slept with Popov?” Novak asked.
“Yeah. Not for long, but yeah. He grew tired of his women easily.” He split another log. “Why are you asking about Rita?”
“Rita’s brother remembered her saying she had a big job that would make her serious money,” Novak said. “Know anything about that?”
“I don’t,” Unger said. “Where’s she now?”
“We found her body a couple of days ago. Looks like she was murdered about twenty-five years ago.”
“When the Hangman was active?”
“We think she died within a day or two of Jim. We were able to connect her to Jim when we found a picture in her purse of Jim and his daughter, Julia. It was taken shortly before he died.”
“She had a picture of Jim and his kid?” Unger asked.
“Know why?”
Absently he traced circles on the top of the wooden ax handle. “Last I saw Jim was October of ’92. He admitted he and his wife had split over his affair with Rita, but were now trying to reconcile. He was torn up with guilt and shame.” He curled his hands around the handle. “I told him she was trouble and to cut her loose. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Said there were other factors.”
“What other factors?”
“Didn’t say.”
“There’s evidence to suggest that Rita was four or five months pregnant,” Novak said.
“Shit, I had no idea about that.”
“You think Popov knew Jim was sleeping with Rita?”
Unger set up another log on the block and sliced it in half with one chop. “Popov knew.”
“How can you be so sure?” Riggs asked.
“After the arrest, Popov made a point to find out who had ratted him out. I always thought he never found out it was Jim and me.” Unger drew in a breath. “But as I get older, I’ve gotten a little paranoid. I stay out here away from people because I still worry that Popov might have known more than I realized. The old man might be dead, but there are those willing to carry out one of his old vendettas to win the favor of the remaining family.”
“What’s that mean?” Novak asked.
“Keep a close eye on Julia Vargas. She is Jim’s daughter, which makes her a target for the Popov family.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Friday, November 3, 3:30 p.m.
Using information from Andrews, Julia found Vicky Wayne’s mother, who lived in the south side of Richmond just over the James River. Parking in front of a brick rancher, she tugged off her sunglasses and walked across the small yard carpeted in weeks’ worth of leaves. There was an old green van in the driveway and several kids’ toys.
She walked up the concrete steps and knocked. Inside the house, she heard the hum of a kid’s TV show and then the steady thump of footsteps moving toward the door. Seconds later, the door opened to an older woman with gray hair tucked back in a ponytail, tired blue eyes, and a drawn face. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt.
“Can I help you?”
“Are you Frannie Wayne?”
“Yes.”
Julia introduced herself and showed her badge. “I’m reopening your daughter’s murder case. I was hoping you had time to talk.”
The old woman’s face wrinkled into a frown. “My Vicky has been gone twenty-five years. Why would anyone care about that now?”
“I care,” Julia said.
“Why? You were barely a child when it happened.”
“My father worked the original case. I know it troubled him that the case was never solved.”
“Might have been if he’d not killed himself.”
“I understand.”
The woman stared at Julia a long moment, as if sensing they both had a lot of hurt vested in this case.
“Could I come inside so we can talk?” Julia prompted.
“Let me see your badge again.”
Julia held it up, allowing the woman to study it closely.
She sighed. “Okay, sure. I’m not certain I’ll be of any help, but come on inside.”
Julia entered the dimly lit house. The thermostat was turned up, and the air smelled stale. On one wall hung a collection of crucifixes. Some were simply made of wood, while a few were inlaid with silver or engraved with chapters and verses that Julia suddenly felt guilty not knowing.
She followed the woman past two glass cabinets filled with angel and small dove figurines.
“This is a lovely collection,” Julia said, pausing to study the cases.
“After Vicky died, I was interviewed by some reporter. I said that Vicky liked angels and doves. People started sending them to me. At first I set them anywhere, but after a while so many came I bought those cabinets secondhand.”
“How many do you
have?”
“Hundreds, I reckon.” She sat in the center of a worn sofa covered in a faded floral print.
Julia sat in a wingback chair covered in a plaid.
“I keep thinking, I’m going to reupholster these chairs,” she said. “I used to do a lot of crafty things until my arthritis flared up. But lately, it doesn’t make much sense. The furniture is comfortable, and I don’t have the energy I used to.”
Julia leaned forward with hands clasped together. “What can you tell me about Vicky?”
A faint smile tipped the edges of the woman’s lips. “She was a firecracker. Wanted to set the world on fire. This house, my world, was never big enough for her. She used to love to dance. I paid for dance lessons when I could afford it, and she was good. Always practicing her steps. She wanted to be onstage.”
“She danced in a club in Shockoe Bottom.”
“She thought it was her chance to make it big. Vicky was so excited when she was hired. I wanted to come and see her dance, but she always made excuses. Time wasn’t right. Or if we made a date for me to come see her, she’d cancel at the last minute because she was schmoozing fancy clients. Said it was all part of the business.” Mrs. Wayne pulled a loose thread on her sweatshirt, twisted, and snapped it free. “I didn’t know until a reporter called and said she was a stripper. I should have known better.”
“Did Vicky ever say if anyone in the club was bothering her?”
“If there was someone, she didn’t say. Always fine when I asked.”
“Was she dating anyone?”
“She said there was a man paying attention to her. Said he was nice. Treated her well. I asked to meet him a couple of times, but again she always found an excuse.”
“Do you remember a name?”
The old woman shook her head. “She never gave his name.”
“What was he like?”
“She said he was tall, good-looking. Never said what he did for a living. I do remember he wanted her to quit the club and find another job. She said leaving the job was not an option. She owed her boss money, and dancing was helping her pay off her debts.”
“What did she owe him for?”
“Costumes, room and board, things like that, she said.”
“Do you remember the name of her boss?”
“No. But her club was on the street where those other girls were killed. The police asked me a lot about Gene Tanner. Wanted to know if he knew Vicky.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know, but the cops said he had an alibi,” she said. “The police said he was in . . .” She paused, then seemed to remember. “In Atlantic City when that other girl died. They said there was no way he could have killed her.” She sat back, her gaze tired and dull. “Why are you talking to me about this after all this time?”
“I’m talking to everyone associated with the case. Sometimes a new perspective helps. Folks are more likely to talk after time passes. What scared them at the time of the murder no longer intimidates them.”
The woman frowned.
“Did Vicky keep any kind of diary? Write any letters? Was there anything that the cops might have overlooked?”
“I still have the letters that her married boyfriend wrote her. I was ashamed when I found out she was taking her clothes off for strangers, but then to know she was chasing after a man who belonged to another woman, well, I was mortified. I should have destroyed them, but I couldn’t bear to lose any more of Vicky.”
“You didn’t tell the police about the letters?”
“No, I didn’t,” Frannie said. “And I wouldn’t be telling you this now if my mama were still alive.” She pushed herself up. “It would have broken her heart to see how her granddaughter turned out.”
“Can I see them?”
For a long moment she didn’t speak. “You’re right about time. It has a way of breaking some of the chains. I might as well give the letters to you.”
Julia rose, electrified by the idea of new evidence. The letters might be of no significance, but they might also be very important.
Mrs. Wayne opened a drawer at the bottom of one of her display cases and pulled out a small box wrapped in a faded red ribbon. She rubbed her hand over the top, releasing dust and whatever spell it had on her daughter’s secrets. “If this helps you catch the man who killed her, then share it with anyone who wants to read ’em. It would be nice going to my Maker knowing my Vicky can finally rest in peace. There are also pictures in there. I never knew who anyone was, but like the letters, couldn’t throw them out.”
“I’ll guard this carefully. I’ll get these back to you.”
“No, keep ’em. I’ve been hanging on to Vicky’s belongings for a long time, and now it makes no sense to keep any of it.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wayne.”
“I should thank you, dear.”
“I’ll call you if we have a break in the case.”
“Please do. That would be nice.”
Julia left Mrs. Wayne’s house with the letters and drove back to her aunt’s bar. The afternoon crowd had filtered in, and there was a low buzz of conversation. She found Aunt Cindy slicing lemons and limes for the drinks that night.
Julia visited with her briefly, then headed upstairs to her apartment. She set her purse down long enough to tug off her boots and shrug off her jacket. She always kept basic forensic supplies on hand to restock her pockets before heading to a crime scene. She spread out a thin sheet of plastic on her kitchen table and tugged on latex gloves before setting the box in front of her. Carefully she untied the ribbon and laid it aside in a neat line on the plastic. She removed the top.
Inside the box were four envelopes. The first three held letters. Each was written on white stationery from a local hotel. None of the letters were postmarked, but each was dated in blue ink. The first was January 18. The second was August 2, and the last October 15. In the last envelope were five faded snapshots. Each of the photos featured Vicky. Bright eyes, wide smile, and hair that curled away from the edges of her face. She was at a party filled with people.
The letters were addressed to Vicky Wayne in a thick handwriting that reminded her of her own style. There was no return address on the front or back.
She removed a letter and opened it. It read:
Dear V. Always thinking of you, babe. Always. J.
She sat back and stared at the boldly scripted letter J. “Please tell me this isn’t Jim Vargas.” She read the next letter.
V. You’re in my heart. We will be together forever. I will take care of you. J.
And the third letter.
V. Can’t stop thinking of you. You’re the only woman I trust. Meet me at our place. J.
Our place. Julia remembered the medical examiner’s autopsy notes. Vicky Wayne’s body had been found in the Shockoe Bottom warehouse on October 25, 1992, and the pathologist had estimated at autopsy that she’d died near October 21, 1992. Had J lured Vicky to her death?
She sat back, staring at the letters. The author of the letters could have expressed sincere loving feelings, but he could also have been feeding the insecure young woman exactly what she needed to hear. Vicky was loved. J would care for her. Trust. Julia paused. She’d done the same with Lana. She’d told the woman what she needed to hear to win her trust. It’s what an undercover officer did.
What troubled her were the dates on the letters. Her father had joined homicide in the summer of 1990, so if J was Jim Vargas, could he still have been using her as a confidential informant? Or was J for Jack? Or maybe even the Hangman, who was trapping another victim?
She sat back, staring at the bold script that could have been written by her father. It would take an expert to tell for sure. Her gaze shifted to the photographs, and she searched for any sign of her father’s face. Several men and women had their faces turned from the camera. In the background, there was a large window with a view of the city skyline. That view would have been taken from the Manchester district on the other side of th
e James River, looking toward Shockoe Bottom. Lots of puzzle pieces, but no clear picture.
She dug her cell from her pocket and dialed Andrews.
He picked up on the second ring. “Vargas.”
“I’ve come across letters that belonged to the third Hangman victim. Her mother never showed them to the cops. The content of the letters is not revealing, but I’d like them dusted for fingerprints and tested for DNA, and a handwriting analysis.”
“I can do all that. Why the handwriting analysis?”
She could well be throwing her father’s memory under the bus. “The letters are signed by J, but I can’t be sure my father wrote them.”
“Why would your father be writing letters to her?”
“They read like love letters.”
“Can you bring them to me today? I also have items I’d like to discuss with you in person.”
She checked her watch. “I’ll leave now and be there as soon as I can.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
She repacked the letters and pictures in the box, secured the lid, and tied the ribbon.
Northbound traffic ended up being lighter than she’d expected, and he was waiting for her in the lobby when she arrived. They shook hands and rode the elevator to the fifth floor. Dozens of computer monitors in his office displayed everything from stock reports to current local and international news.
He moved to a light table and handed her latex gloves before he tugged on his own set. Gloved up, she set the letters and photos on the table.
Nerves tightened her gut. “Do you have samples of my father’s handwriting?”
“Yes. Your father’s police files will supply ample samples. Any idea why he was writing this woman?”
“I don’t know for sure if it was Jim. The letters suggest an affair or maybe manipulation, but beyond that I don’t have a theory,” she said. “He’s not in any of the photos.”
“There’s no mention in your father’s notes about him knowing Vicky Wayne before her death,” Andrews said.
“That doesn’t mean much. I’m learning he kept a lot of information off the books because he worried about information leaks.” She didn’t like the path the facts were creating, but she would keep her word and play them all out until the end. “Tamara Brown’s sister recognized Jim’s name. She said Tamara was working with him. Rene Tanner was one of his informants. And now maybe Vicky had a connection.”
