by Mary Burton
“Were they first on the scene?”
“Detective Vargas’s wife found the body and immediately called Ken Thompson, who came straight to the house. He reported that he called the paramedics immediately.”
“Was there an estimated time of death?”
“Liver temperature put death around five p.m.”
“And when did paramedics arrive?”
“About seven.”
Two hours between the time the shot was fired and paramedics arrived. Plenty of time to collect a note or clean up evidence that might have been incriminating. It was natural to protect a partner, especially one who could no longer defend himself.
“If you had to make the call on his death certificate, would you have called it a suicide?” Andrews asked.
She flipped through more pages. “The medical examiner spoke to Amy Vargas and asked if there had been any mental health issues or talk of suicide. She’d said no. Though the couple was separated, she said they’d been talking about reconciling. She said he knew she was coming by the house with their daughter the day he died. No one reported him making farewell declarations, nor did his everyday routine or spending habits change.” She shook her head. “The gun was found one foot from the body, which investigators believe was the result of the weapon recoiling after the bullet discharged. There was some sign of alcohol in his system, but not enough to impair. Jim Vargas’s death has the hallmarks of suicide, and I can certainly understand why the determination was made.”
“But what’s your opinion?”
Absently she tapped the file with her finger. “My next comment needs to be treated with the utmost discretion.”
“Understood.”
“I would have given Vargas the benefit of the doubt. I would have marked it as undetermined.”
“Why?”
“Given what I’ve learned about this man, who was one tough cop, I don’t see him racking a hollow point into his weapon and pulling the trigger knowing his wife and kid are coming by the house and will find him. He would have known the bullet would blow out his back and project blood everywhere.” She pressed her index finger to her abdomen. “The trajectory of the bullet bothers me. Why fire down toward the heart? Most suicides fire up into the heart to avoid bone.”
“There was gunpowder residue on his hands?”
“Yes. But it was noted that Detective Vargas had gone to the shooting range that morning. The residue on his hands could have also come from that. But as you may know, residue degrades quickly after an hour and is all but gone after six hours.”
“Thank you, Dr. Kincaid. You’ve been helpful.”
“Mr. Andrews, it’s just an opinion. Take it for what it’s worth.”
“Understood. I value your opinion.”
“Why are you questioning this autopsy’s findings?”
“I’ve read Jim Vargas’s case notes and watched several of his crime-scene videos. He was chasing a serial killer. It makes no sense why a man like that would leave the game via suicide. He put himself through hell to make the Popov arrest. And then he kills himself and gives Popov the only thing the mobster wanted more than freedom? I don’t buy it.”
“Popov was incarcerated at the time of Jim Vargas’s death,” she said. “And you have no proof Popov knew Jim had been the mole.”
“A man like that gets to where he is by knowing whom he can trust. And he would have had a reach that extended far beyond prison walls.”
Absently she touched the ring encircled by a chain around her neck. “Have you discussed this with Julia?”
“No. And I won’t until I have all the DNA retesting results from the Hangman case. That will be tomorrow. And I could be off base. Jim Vargas was a chameleon, and if anyone could have hidden a darker, homicidal side, it would have been him.”
“Jekyll and Hyde.”
“Maybe.”
“Call me if I can help any further.”
“Thanks.” He rose, shook her hand, and left.
In his SUV, Andrews checked his phone and searched for Ken Thompson’s address. The man was suffering from the early onset of Alzheimer’s, but it was possible he might shake loose a memory or two. He drove the twenty-five minutes crosstown and parked in front of the neat rancher house. It was almost noon, so not too early to make an unannounced call.
He approached the front door and rang the bell. Seconds later he heard the movement of footsteps. The door snapped open to a slender woman in her midfifties. Silver hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. A light flannel shirt and jeans hung loosely on her body.
“I’m Garrett Andrews,” he said. “I’m working with Julia Vargas on the Hangman case.”
The woman’s gray-green eyes narrowed. “She didn’t mention your name.”
“I’m assuming you’re Wendy Thompson.”
Again, prudent hesitation consistent with someone who’d worked for the police. “That’s correct.”
“I’d like to speak to your husband, if I may.”
“About what?”
“His partner, Jim Vargas.”
Her grip tightened on the door. “I don’t see how this will help with the Hangman case.”
“It may not,” he conceded. “But the death of Jim Vargas has always been shrouded in question, and your husband was the first man on the scene.”
“You understand he’s not well.”
“And I promise to be careful with him, Mrs. Thompson. My intent is not to upset him.”
“I’m not comfortable with this, Mr. Andrews.”
Footsteps sounded behind Wendy, and her husband appeared.
“Mr. Thompson,” Andrews said. “Garrett Andrews. We met the other day.”
Thompson stared at him a long moment before he said, “Mr. Andrews. At Shield.”
“That’s right.”
Wendy glanced up at her husband. “Ken, he wants to talk to you about Jim.”
Thompson patted his wife on the arm. “Sure, I’ll help Mr. Andrews in any way I can.”
Wendy laid her hand over his. “Are you sure it’s wise?”
Ken squeezed her hand. “I forget details, but I’m not an invalid yet. Let me help this young man while I still can.”
Her jaw tightened, but she yielded, pushing open the screened door. “Come in, Mr. Andrews.”
The house was a modest one-story. The walls were an antique white and covered with dozens of pictures that chronicled both their lives and careers. They’d traveled extensively, but did not have children. He thought about the blank walls of his own home. It wasn’t that he didn’t have memories; he simply did not want to remember.
He followed Wendy to a sunporch that overlooked a modest backyard. Ken indicated to Andrews to take a seat on a floral sofa while he moved toward a recliner. “Wendy, would you excuse us?”
“Ken, I really think I should stay.”
“It will be fine, honey. Mr. Andrews is here to help Julia, and I told her I’d do whatever she needed.”
Her gaze flickered to Andrews in a silent warning before she left.
Ken sat. “Excuse my wife. She’s worried about me. The diagnosis has really upset her.”
Andrews sat. “Understandable.”
“I have to remind her daily I’m still here for the most part and am not crippled.”
“Good to hear. I’m counting on your memory.”
“What do you want to know?” Ken asked.
“Tell me about the day Jim Vargas shot himself.”
Ken took in a deep breath and sat back. “How does this relate to the Hangman? Jim wasn’t the Hangman.”
Spoken like a loyal partner. “Understood. But I think his death is linked. Tell me about the day.”
Ken’s hands formed a steeple, and for a moment he didn’t speak. “It was a Saturday,” he said. “Rainy. Dreary. It had been warm the few days before, but the weather had shifted suddenly and turned cold. I had gone for an afternoon run and was stepping out of the shower when my phone rang. It was Amy, and she was hyste
rical. I could hear Julia crying in the background. She said Jim was dead. I thought she’d made a mistake. I’d seen him that morning at the shooting range. We’d closed a homicide in the early hours of the morning and went by the range to blow off steam.” He closed his eyes. “Amy screamed to come. I lived minutes away and it took no time to get there. I found her in the living room, holding Julia close. Amy was trying not to cry, but Jesus, who wouldn’t be a wreck. I went into the kitchen, and Jim was slumped over the kitchen table. He had an exit wound the size of my fist in his back. Blood was everywhere.”
“How long had he been dead?”
“He was still warm. I’d say less than an hour.”
“And the weapon?”
“Nine millimeter. One foot from his body on the floor.”
“Did he leave a note?”
Ken dropped his gaze and didn’t speak.
“It’s been twenty-five years,” Andrews said. “There’s no one left to protect.”
“There’s Julia. I always swore I’d protect her.”
“She deserves to know the truth, and from what I’ve seen, she can handle anything.”
“She was a kid,” he choked out.
Andrews waited. “What did you do?”
Thompson didn’t speak as he raised his gaze.
The hair on the back of Andrews’s neck rose as it did when something wasn’t right. Thompson had information. A secret he’d carried inside him for over two decades. Maybe if not for his illness, he’d have taken that secret to his grave, but Andrews could see the weight of it on his shoulders now.
“Tell me,” Andrews coaxed softly. He wasn’t a patient man but understood the value of pausing. He would press eventually, if necessary.
Thompson leaned forward and clasped his hands. “He did leave a note.”
“You took it?”
“I did. It was bad enough that Jim had killed himself, but he didn’t need the world knowing all the grim details. The press and brass would have swarmed all over it, and it would have ruined his legacy and humiliated his family.”
“What did it say?”
“He confessed to being the Hangman.”
Andrews sat still; his breathing slowed. He didn’t blink. “He said that in the note?”
“Yes. But the note made no sense to me. The handwriting was shaky.”
“Did you save it?”
“No. I shoved it in my pocket as the paramedics arrived. As soon as I got home, I burned it. I know that was a mistake. I should have saved it. But I couldn’t let the world think that my partner killed all those women.”
Andrews subdued frustration. “Do you recall exactly what it said?”
“I do. It said: I’m the Hangman.”
“That’s precise. Are you sure that’s what it said?”
“It’s burned in my memory. And not a day goes by that I wish I could forget it. Of all the memories that are slipping away, that one has its hooks in me.”
“You never told Julia.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Shit. I never told anyone until this moment.”
“Why now?”
“I can’t tell Julia. I can’t put this burden on her.”
“I’m going to have to tell her,” Andrews said.
“She won’t believe you. She’ll need hard forensic data to ever be convinced that Jim was the Hangman.”
Andrews mentally shifted. “What did the note look like?”
“What do you mean?”
“Tell me about the note. You said shaky handwriting. What type of paper did he use? What was the color of the ink that he used? Were there stains on the page?”
“It was written on the back of a Chinese take-out menu. Dark ink. Uneven handwriting scribbled across the menu. There was a dark stain in the upper-right corner. Looked like food or coffee.”
“Had he ordered Chinese that day?”
“I saw later in the refrigerator that there was beef and mixed vegetables in there.”
“Where was the note?”
“On the kitchen table, stuck in the bowl of apples.”
“Was there a back door to the kitchen?”
“Yes. And it was open when I arrived. I asked Amy about it, but she said she freaked out and might have opened it when she ran outside.”
“Did you look out the back door?”
“Sure.”
Andrews sensed someone behind him and turned to see Wendy standing in the door. She was staring at her husband as if seeing him for the first time.
“Ken,” she said. “Is this true?”
He nodded. “It’s all true.”
“Jim left a note?”
“Yes.”
“What about the back door?” Andrews pressed. Staying focused on the facts was more important than Wendy’s reaction.
“I shoved the note in my pocket. Their backyard was bordered by woods, and I briefly searched, hoping to see someone, something, or anything to help explain what had happened. I didn’t want to leave the girls alone too long. When the paramedics arrived, it all rolled on from there.”
Wendy went to Ken, knelt by his chair, and wrapped her arm around him. “Honey, why didn’t you say something?”
“I wanted to protect Jim and Julia,” he said. “I couldn’t believe he’d killed those women.”
“When you were partnered with Jim, did you ever wonder if he was connected to the Hangman murders?” Andrews asked.
“Jim knew all the women from his undercover work, and he knew the murders weren’t random. But he never once made me think he’d killed them.”
“He never made a note of his relationship with them in his files.”
“Like I told Julia, he hated writing down his thoughts. He didn’t trust that the information wouldn’t be compromised.” Ken clenched his fists as his gaze sharpened. “But I never once had any gut feeling about him wanting to hurt those women. They had helped him, trusted him, and he wanted to repay that trust by helping them straighten out their lives.”
“Stay here,” Andrews said. He moved into the living room and dialed Tobias Novak’s number. Though Julia was his contact on the case, this suicide fell within the jurisdiction of the city police, and that meant Novak.
On the second ring, he heard a crisp “Detective Novak.”
“Garrett Andrews with Shield Security.”
A pause. “What can I do for you?”
He recapped what he’d learned.
More silence. “Are you certain he’s not confused?”
“He appears lucid. Actually, he appears quite in control.”
“Does he know about the Ortega murder?” Novak asked.
“It didn’t come up. And Ortega’s death doesn’t mean Jim didn’t commit the original three.”
“I’ll get Julia, and we’ll be right over. Can you stand firm?”
Julia. Not Agent Vargas. Interesting. “Of course.”
“I don’t want to believe Jim was the Hangman,” Julia said.
Novak studied her solemn expression. “We haven’t ruled out a copycat.”
She shrugged her shoulders, chasing away the tension that’d been building since he’d told her about his conversation with Andrews. “I don’t buy it. Ken is confused.”
“Let’s take it one step at a time.”
“I said I’d follow the case until the end, and I meant it.”
Julia and Novak arrived at the Thompson house twenty minutes after Andrews called. Inside, they found Ken, Wendy, and Andrews. Wendy sat next to Ken on the arm of his easy chair. Andrews stood a few steps back, making some notes on a small pad.
When Julia entered the room, Ken looked up at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and fear. “Honey, I’m so sorry,” he said.
She knelt beside him and took his hand in hers. She had only one shot at this and couldn’t badger him into recanting his story. “Ken, don’t worry. Don’t get upset. Tell me what you told Andrews.”
“Your father left a note.” He dropped his voice
to a whisper. “He confessed to killing those women.”
“Why did he kill them?”
“I don’t know. The guy worked side by side with me every day trying to solve the case. None of it made sense.”
“So you think my father really wrote that note and then killed himself?”
“The scene looked like a classic suicide. There was no sign of struggle or that anyone else had been there.”
“Maybe it was someone he knew,” she said. “Maybe it was someone who could get close to him. My mother and he had been separated for a couple of months. Maybe there was someone else.”
“He never told me about seeing anyone.”
“You destroyed the note,” she confirmed.
“I didn’t want anyone finding it. I was afraid for you and your mother. She’d have lost her widow’s benefits if it could be proved he was the Hangman.” His wrinkled brow knotted into a frown. “I wanted to protect him, you, and your mother. I wanted to do right by everyone.”
“Why let me go to Shield if you found the note?” Julia asked.
“Because I need the truth before I die.” He slowly shook his head. “The suicide never made sense to me.”
“Was he depressed or sad in the days leading up?” Novak asked.
“No. Not at all. That’s why I hid the note.”
“You didn’t think to send it in for analysis?” Novak followed up.
“The media and the brass were still hungry for a close.” He met Julia’s gaze. “It would have made it all so easy to pin it on him. And you and your mother’s life would have been devastated. You have to believe me. I did what I thought was best for you.”
“What if he was murdered?” Julia asked. “What if that note had been a clue to the killer?”
Ken shook his head, his watery gaze lost. “I thought about that later. I wished I’d saved the note. But I didn’t.”
Wendy stepped forward, her arms crossed over her chest. “This is enough for today. It’s time for his medicines, and he’s tired. It gets worse when he’s tired.”
Julia rose, keeping her frustrations in check. “I want to talk to you again, Ken.”
“Sure, honey. Sure,” he said.
She kissed him on the cheek and stepped outside. The morning sun warmed her face, but she didn’t feel it. She was numb.
Novak came up behind her. She resisted the urge to lean into him, ask him to wrap his arms around her, and hold her tight. Andrews walked up.
