by Mary Burton
“I did find out that the department authorized several payments for Rene Tanner, a CI who was assisting him on the Popov drug case.”
“The Popov case was a huge bust for my father and the department. He put Popov away along with some of his lieutenants.”
“I read about it.”
“So a serial killer targets Vicky, Rene, and Tamara after Jim left undercover and moved to homicide?” Julia asked.
“The odds are against such a coincidence.”
She handed him the photos. “Vicky’s mom gave me these as well. I don’t recognize anyone in the pictures but Vicky.”
Andrews studied an image. “I have facial-recognition software. The view out the window is interesting. My guess is that it was taken from the south side of the river.”
“I would agree,” she said.
“Let me examine the letters and pictures. When I have an update, I’ll let you know.” He moved to a desk cluttered with digital devices, including a printer. He removed a sheet of paper from the tray. “And Mr. Vic Carson has returned to Richmond. He’s at his memorabilia store now.”
“The Hangman website creator.”
“I’ve researched him more since we last spoke. About ten years ago, he started blogging about famous murder cases and the methods of murder they employ. He went into detail about hangings, including knots. He never named the Hangman in the entry but heavily alluded to the case. He went into detail about the position of the bodies and the victims. Some of what he discussed came from not only public records but also police files. Someone on the inside fed him information either out of carelessness, stupidity, or greed.”
“How old is he?”
“He’s forty-nine now. Twenty-four at the time of the murders.”
“What about DNA? Have you examined the clothing found at the original crime scenes?”
“I have. And I pulled several hair fibers from two of the victims’ clothes. Being tested as we speak. A day or two longer and I’ll likely have results. Call me.”
“And you’ll let me know about the letters?”
“I will.”
“Thanks, Andrews. I do appreciate your work on this case.”
“Shield Security takes its commitments very seriously.”
Andrews escorted her out of the building, and as she headed out of the lot, she felt no closer to catching the Hangman. The case was a tangled mess. Before she second-guessed her decision, she called Novak.
He picked up on the first ring. “Julia.”
The deep timbre of his voice had a soothing quality. “I’m leaving Shield now. Vic Carson is back in town. Thought I’d pay him a visit. Care to join me?”
“I would like that very much. Meet me at my office.”
Unmindful of the hour, Andrews called Dr. Kincaid at the medical examiner’s office. When he found out she’d left for the day, he dialed her private cell. When she answered, she was shouting and sounded rushed. In the background he heard the sounds of a rock concert.
“This is Dr. Kincaid,” she said.
“Garrett Andrews with Shield Security.”
“Wait a moment, let me get to a quieter spot.” Muffled sounds followed before he heard a door close. “Sorry about that; I’m at a club. How did you get this number?”
“It’s what I do.”
“Right. What can I do for you?”
He’d never met Dr. Kincaid in person but had seen pictures of her in the media and online. He tried to imagine the highly professional woman in a club with rock music pulsing around her. Was her hair down? Was she wearing glasses? The image he conjured was appealing.
“I’m working with Agent Vargas on the Hangman case,” Andrews said.
“Yes, I heard.”
“I would like to review the autopsy report for her father, Jim Vargas.”
“He was a suicide. Why would his death be relevant?” Her voice had lost the breathless quality and was back in control.
“It may not have any bearing on the case. But he was the lead investigator, and he was mentioned as a possible killer. I have reexamined all avenues of this case, but not his death. Can you secure the records?”
“It might take a day or two to retrieve them from archives. I can’t release them to you. But you can come by my office and look at them.”
“As soon as you have them, call me. I’ll drive down immediately and review them.”
“Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Andrews?”
The downbeat of the background music pulsed. “No, that will be it, Dr. Kincaid. I look forward to your call. Thank you.”
He hung up and turned toward the pictures Julia had retrieved from the Wayne home. He’d scanned them, and they were each now displayed on three large computer monitors.
Vicky stood in the foreground of all the photos. In all she was smiling and staring at the camera. She wore a halter top and hip-hugger jeans that showcased large breasts and a narrow waist. A belly button ring winked from her navel. Her gaze was aimed directly at the camera in two images, but in the other two she looked to her left as if someone had caught her attention.
However, his interest shifted from the young girl who had less than one month to live to the background—the Richmond city skyline. As Julia Vargas had theorized, it had been taken from across the river toward the old tobacco warehouse district. A construction site beside a partly built skyscraper gave him the timeline he needed. It had been taken approximately October of 1992. A newspaper and police report search revealed that there’d been three private parties in the Manchester district in that month. The events had been newsworthy because they’d attracted several hundred people. The cops had raided one of the parties and made dozens of drug arrests. No one had been able to pinpoint who had set up the party.
He enlarged the faces in the background and noted there were six men and sixteen women who’d been captured by the picture frame. Some faces were too blurred or turned in such a way that facial recognition would not be possible. But there were at least four men and nine women among the set of pictures that he had enough facial points to analyze. He isolated each face and fed them into the program.
He rose from the workstation and moved to the break room to pour a fresh cup of coffee. He already knew it would be a long night. But he didn’t care. Chasing killers who thought they’d gotten away with murder filled him with purpose, and for a few hours the ghosts he’d left behind in Iraq didn’t taunt him.
The Hangman dug a ring of keys from his pocket and opened the basement door to his work space. He pushed open the door, clicked on a light, and then immediately closed the door behind him. The room was as he’d left it. Workbench filled with a collection of power tools, hooks, and strands of a half-dozen strips of rope.
He adjusted a light at his workstation and sat on a stool. Reading glasses on, he clicked on his computer and searched for mention of the Hangman in the news. There’d been brief accounts of an unidentified female found dead in a city warehouse. The article ended with: Police still investigating possible motives.
He sat back and pulled off his glasses. The media had mostly ignored the first murder two and a half decades ago. A lone woman of questionable virtue had died in the city. And no one cared. By the second death there was some interest, and by the third he’d had everyone’s attention.
General apathy this go-around confirmed to him that people really didn’t change that much. They didn’t see danger or crisis until it was in their face. Too late.
Maybe if Julia hadn’t rattled cages with her undercover investigation, or if she’d left the Hangman alone, it would be different. But she’d done both, and he could no longer ignore her. To prove to everyone, especially Julia Vargas, that the Hangman had never gone away and the Popovs never forgot, he would have to kill again.
“This one might be the charm,” he muttered with a smile.
He glanced up at a bulletin board in front of his workbench filled with dozens of faces of women who could die tomorrow and no one would n
otice. There were so many lost souls ripe for the picking.
But the images faded from focus as he zeroed in on the center image. This was an older picture, taken over twenty-five years ago. He pulled the thumbtack out and studied the face of the young girl and her father. Jim Vargas and his daughter, Julia.
He remembered that bright fall day. He had followed Jim and his daughter to the soccer park, curious about the man who had been so sure and cocky when the media had interviewed him on the newly dubbed Hangman case, which brought the total to three deaths.
“We’re still sifting through evidence,” Vargas had said. “We have several solid leads and expect an arrest soon.”
He took the statement as a direct challenge, and that had prompted him to track Vargas and his kid. He’d watched Jim taking pictures of his girl. The kid was cute. Kept tugging on her soccer uniform.
“Want a picture of the two of you?” he had asked, smiling, watching for a reaction.
Jim had grinned, surprised and happy to see him. “What brings you out here?”
“Fresh air.”
And so he’d snapped three pictures of Jim, the great cop who thought he couldn’t be stopped, and his little pride and joy. The Hangman had left the park that day convinced Jim didn’t know shit about the Hangman’s identity. He was in the clear. He now had the advantage.
He’d never expected to slip into the Hangman’s skin again to kill. But if the last twenty-five years had taught him anything, it was that life had a way of circling back around and flexibility was key to survival.
To re-create his past pattern, two more women would have to die. The knots and displays would have to be more graphic and more intricate. He wasn’t sure if he’d re-create the original displays, but the endgame was a given: Julia Vargas would die just like her father.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Friday, November 3, 6:30 p.m.
Novak found Julia waiting for him in the lobby of police headquarters. She was leaning against a wall, eyes closed, her arms folded over her chest. Her hair looked a little messy, as if she’d run her fingers through it too many times, and she held a fresh large coffee in her hand. She also looked tired. He guessed she’d not eaten, something she’d pretended to do earlier but had avoided. Hadn’t she said caffeine and nicotine were her two major food groups?
He moved toward her, and when she didn’t open her eyes, he touched her gently on the arm. Her lids snapped open. For a flash, she stared at him, her eyes vacant and afraid. And then, just as quickly, the look was gone and she was in control.
“You okay?” he asked.
A slight shrug and a half smile followed. “Never better.”
“Ready to talk to Vic Carson?”
“Let’s go.”
When they arrived at Carson’s shop, the parking lot was at least half-full. Inside, there were a dozen people milling around either playing vintage games or rifling through bins to find games to buy.
Novak showed his badge to the kid behind the register. “Looking for Vic Carson.”
“He’s in the back, fixing a game. Want me to call him up?”
“We’ll go back there.”
“Yeah, sure.”
As the pair moved toward the back, Novak commented, “None of these customers were alive in the nineties.”
“Ancient history comes alive,” she joked.
“If the nineties are ancient, what does that make me?”
“Novak, you’re timeless. An old soul.”
He winced. “That hurt, Julia.”
She shrugged. “I bet you read the classics, smoke a pipe, and yell at the kids to get off your front lawn.”
He laughed. “Only two of the three.”
“Which one did I get wrong?”
Shrugging, he pushed through the swinging door. “Hang around and find out.” He paused. “What do you do on your off-hours?”
“Work at animal rescue shelters, bake cookies, and channel thoughts about world peace.”
“Seriously.” He wanted to know more about her.
“Run, weapon train, help Cindy at the bar. Nothing really noteworthy.”
“You might want to expand your interests.”
She paused, studying him closely. “Like what?”
He wanted to give whatever it was between them more time and nurturing. “How about we try a date?”
A brow arched as if she were waiting for a punch line. “Are you serious?”
He didn’t hesitate. “I am.”
She relaxed into a smile. “Maybe.”
As they moved along the hallway, he noticed she ran her finger along her belt until her right hand bumped her service weapon. Novak did the same. As routine as this visit felt, both understood routine could turn deadly on a dime.
At the end of the hallway, he found an open door and a workshop filled with dozens of old gaming systems. Many were dismantled and picked clean for parts.
In the center of it all was a large man with shoulder-length graying hair cinched back in a ponytail. He wore a black Pac-Man T-shirt and faded jeans.
“Mr. Vic Carson?” Novak asked.
The man looked up. Thick, dark-rimmed glasses made his gray eyes look large. “What is it?”
Novak introduced himself, holding off on Julia’s introduction. He didn’t want the Vargas name to be a distraction. “I hear you’re the creator of the Hangman website.”
Carson set down a small screwdriver and pulled off his glasses. “Why would you say that?”
“I have it on good authority you created it,” Novak said.
Carson sniffed. “There a law against setting up a website now?”
“No law against it. But it draws attention when anyone shows an immense interest in serial murders.”
“The twenty-fifth anniversary is this year. And as you can see from the crowds outside, there’s a yearning for the nineties and their murder and mayhem.”
“Your website is detailed.”
“Again, no law against it.” Carson looked at Julia. “Detective Novak, are you going to introduce me to Agent Vargas?”
“You know me?” Julia asked.
“Sure. How could I not?” He moved around the counter, and after wiping his hand on a rag, extended it to her.
She didn’t accept it. “How long have you been stalking me?”
“Stalking is a harsh word,” he said.
“Then what is it?” she asked.
“I’m simply a curious admirer. Your father was the lead investigator. I researched him extensively.”
“Did you know the original victims? You lived in the city at the time.”
“No, I did not. But I frequented Shockoe Bottom a lot and spent time in the bars near the crime scenes. I read all the newspaper accounts.”
“You have an alibi for the nights they died?” Julia asked.
Carson smiled. “As a matter of fact, I do. I was working in Roanoke that fall doing temporary work.”
“That’s three hours west of here,” Novak said. “Easy to drive down and back in a day.”
“But none of the victims died quickly,” Carson said. “And all the shrinks I talked to about the Hangman said he liked to watch his victims die. Doesn’t make sense to string up a victim and then leave before the main event.”
“The main event,” Julia said.
“Do you know a woman named Lana Ortega?” Novak asked.
“No, should I?” Carson asked.
“Where were you on Tuesday night?”
“I was in California at a convention. I travel to promote the site, which brings in new customers both here and especially online. Keeping both my passions afloat takes work. Again, why are you here?”
“I think your site might have inspired someone to resurrect the Hangman,” Julia remarked.
Carson held up his hands. “I don’t like the direction this is headed.”
“What direction is that, Vic?” Novak asked.
His eyes narrowed. “I read the news and listen to the scan
ners. A woman was found in the warehouse district. Was she strung up?” His eyes glistened with interest.
“Does the idea of that excite you?” Novak asked.
“It’s strictly business for me, Detective,” Carson said. “If a new Hangman case emerges, it will be a boon to my business. And before you ask, none of my subscribers mentioned the killing to me. Besides, the bulk of my patrons simply have a fascination with death. They’re harmless.”
“Do you have a list of these followers?” Julia asked.
“You have a warrant?” Carson replied.
“You sell rope out front?” Julia fired back.
“Sure. It’s a novelty item. All of it can be bought in any hardware store.” He studied Julia. “I’ve watched news footage of your old man. Intense like you. Reminded me of a wound spring. I guess not a huge surprise when he shot himself. Is this discussion now your effort to clear his name? There are still plenty of people who thought he was the Hangman.”
“You have theories about the Hangman that you wrote about on your blog?” Novak asked.
“Sure. Who doesn’t?”
“Enlighten me,” Novak said.
Carson shrugged. “Any profiler will tell you the Hangman killings were more than murder. The killings were a statement, a form of art. He likes to be noticed. My guess is if this body you found is displayed like the others, he’s feeling irrelevant. Forgotten.”
“Irrelevant?” Julia asked.
“For whatever reason, he stopped killing, but with the silver anniversary approaching and people like me ginning up interest, he discovers he wants to be noticed again. Tuesday night would have been Halloween, and Jim Vargas died on November 1.”
“You sound like you know him pretty well,” Julia said.
“Hard not to seeing as I’ve crawled in his head enough times.”
Julia’s expression didn’t change. “How did you get hold of the video footage shot at the original crime scenes?”
Novak watched Carson closely, and the subtle tightening of the man’s left hand and the micro shift in his gaze told Novak that Julia had struck gold.
