The Hangman (Forgotten Files Book 3)

by Mary Burton

  Lying on the floor were skeletal remains of a body appearing to be lying on its back, arm and leg bones outstretched. The mandible, or lower jaw, was slightly agape. The clothing was intact and amounted to what remained of a faded pair of jeans with yellow and white flowers embroidered on the pockets and a pale-blue blouse with a wide collar and cuffs. What had been the victim’s long red hair remained partially intact and still knotted into a braid that draped over her shoulder.

  “You said female,” he said.

  “Clothing is one clue, but the deciding factor is her brow ridge. It’s thin, indicating female.”

  “She’s only bones.”

  “In Virginia’s hot and humid climate, this kind of decomposition is expected. And she’s intact because she was in a sealed room. Animals would have scattered her bones if she had been outside.”

  Novak studied the position of the arms and legs. “She looks posed.”

  “Or she did it herself,” Natasha said. “I worked a suicide once that was like this. The woman took a couple handfuls of pills and then laid herself out on her bed.”

  “Presenting herself to the Almighty?” Novak asked.

  Natasha shrugged. “Her husband said they’d argued that morning and she’d promised to ‘show him.’ He said the suicide was an f-you message to him.”

  The summary struck a sharp nerve. His late wife had killed herself. But she’d not chosen pills. That was too passive for Stephanie. No, she’d driven her car into a lake. The kicker had been that she’d strapped Bella, their one-year-old, into her car seat. Fortunately, someone had seen Stephanie’s car plunge into the water. Bella had been pulled out as Stephanie screamed and fought to be left alone. The lake had quickly sucked under the car, and by the time Stephanie had been pulled from the water, she was dead.

  Two days later, a letter from Stephanie posted the day she died had arrived at their home. In it, she blamed him for her dark moods and miserable life. At the time, he’d been too damn angry to care about why. She’d tried to kill Bella, and that was unforgivable.

  His father had moved in with them, helping with child care while Novak worked. From then on, his priorities had been simple. Raise Bella and catch bad guys. She’d been an easy kid. Smart. Funny. Strong. His father had passed two years ago, and when Bella had left for the University of Virginia last year, he’d thought he’d finally get a chance to enjoy a bachelor’s life. Instead, the house remained too empty. Too quiet. Until a few weeks ago, he’d pacified the restless silence with extra work.

  Novak thought again about the woman he’d left in her warm bed. For the first time in a long while, he resented the job. “Any sign of a weapon or pills?”

  “None.” Natasha nodded toward the far corner behind Novak. “I did find a purse in the corner, but I haven’t opened it yet.”

  “How about a suicide letter?”

  “None that I’ve seen.”

  Novak studied the skull still attached to the neck vertebrae. A small heart-shaped gold pendant winked at the base of what had been her throat. He crouched by the remains and inspected the skull closely. “What’s this on the underside of her skull?”

  Natasha came around to the other side and turned the skull gently until a one-inch round fracture became visible. “I take back what I said about suicide.”

  “Looks like the size of a hammer’s head,” he said.

  “I’ll leave the cause of death to the medical examiner.”

  “Is the medical examiner’s office sending someone?” The medical examiner had jurisdiction over any crime-scene body. Sometimes they sent a technician, and sometimes they allowed the local jurisdiction to transport the remains to their morgue.

  “Dr. Tessa McGowan is on call. I spoke to her and told her what we have. She’ll be here in about a half hour.”

  Dr. McGowan was new. He’d crossed paths with her once and had been impressed. “You check the dead woman’s pockets?”

  “All empty.”

  “Mind if I have a look at the purse?”

  “No, go ahead. Let me photograph you as you go.”

  His long legs crossed the confined space in a couple of strides. He squatted in front of a small black purse trimmed with fringe. As Natasha photographed, he slowly opened the purse.

  Inside was a smooth leather wallet. The folds creaked and protested as he opened it. Natasha took more pictures. There were fifteen one-dollar bills in the side pouch, and in the change pocket were a few nickels, a dime, and a penny. The coins dated back to the sixties and seventies. One penny was minted in 1991. He shifted to a small compartment, which contained a Virginia driver’s license for a Rita Marie Gallagher born in 1969. Her address was a suburban Far West End apartment complex located near the hospital. He snapped pictures of the license with his phone.

  Rita Gallagher’s identification picture featured a smiling young woman with long bright-red hair and a round face. She was wearing the same gold necklace as the corpse. The license stated her height at five foot three inches. “The body matches the description on the license. Unless the medical examiner finds evidence to suggest otherwise, I’d say this is Rita Gallagher,” he said.

  In the wallet were a handful of receipts. One from a fast-food chain that was so faded he couldn’t read the date. Another was from a clothing store. It was handwritten in blue ballpoint pen and detailed the purchase of a new pair of jeans and blouse on November 1, 1992, at a Regency Square Mall. The description on the clothing receipt matched what she was wearing. “The receipt places her at the mall over twenty years ago.” Rita Gallagher would have been twenty-three in 1992 when she had purchased the last outfit she’d ever wear.

  In the wallet’s back compartment was a photograph of a dark-haired man in his thirties with a young girl who appeared to be about six or seven. The man’s smile looked weary. The girl had a round face, braids, and a bright smile. The child’s olive-toned coloring told Novak she couldn’t have been Rita in her younger days. However, he recognized the location. It had been taken at a popular soccer complex. Bella had played soccer, and he’d spent many an afternoon there on the sidelines with his dad.

  Oddly, the man looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place the face. His body was lean and fit, and his bearing suggested former military or cop.

  “Could you hold that up for me?” Natasha asked.

  He held up the wallet with the picture.

  Natasha snapped a dozen images. “The picture looks like it was taken at least twenty years ago. The dude looks a little retro.”

  “When did the early nineties become retro?” he asked.

  “If you have to ask . . .”

  Novak let the comment pass. “Can I pull the picture from the wallet?”

  “Hold it by the edges and move slowly. If it sticks at all, stop,” Natasha said.

  Novak pinched the edge and pulled gently. The plastic casing cracked and bent enough to allow the picture to pull clear.

  He studied the man in the picture closer. A name danced out of reach.

  He turned the image over and found writing on the back.

  Jim and Julia Vargas. Soccer practice, September 1992.

  “Jim Vargas,” he said, more to himself. Damn. The man’s daughter, Julia Vargas, was a cop. “He was honored at the Chamber of Commerce’s award ceremony a few weeks ago.”

  “Yep. He was a homicide detective in Richmond.”

  Novak had been at the event, and he’d read Jim Vargas’s bio in the program. The man had been a legend in the narcotics and homicide departments. This guy’s world-weary features barely resembled the police academy picture used in the program.

  “There was controversy at my banquet table over his receiving an award twenty-five years after he died,” Natasha said. “Some weren’t happy about listing him.”

  When Jim Vargas’s name had been called out, Julia, a tall, slim woman from the table beside his, had risen, walked to the podium, and accepted the award. She said thank you and promptly left the banquet hall.<
br />
  “Vargas investigated the Hangman cases,” Natasha said. “He shot himself. There was no note, but some thought he’d known more about the Hangman case than he’d let on.”

  “Strung up his victims by their necks. They all asphyxiated.”

  Novak studied the face of the smiling young girl standing so proudly by her father. She barely resembled the lean woman who’d carefully guarded her emotions. Julia.

  “The daughter, Julia, became a cop,” Natasha said. “She works for the Virginia State Police. She was in the news with her partner about a month ago.”

  Novak knew the case. He had first heard of Julia Vargas when Bella showed him the article about a killer dubbed the Dollmaker. Bella wanted to be a cop and had homed in on the female agent’s success. He’d been smart enough not to comment, still betting college would change her course toward medicine or business. Shit, he’d even settle for basket weaving, just as long as it didn’t involve guns and dark alleys.

  Two days after the article had come out, he’d collected his citation at the banquet and quietly slipped out. He’d found Julia in the stairwell leaning against a cement wall, fingering an unopened packet of cigarettes and clutching her old man’s award in her hand. Slim pants accentuated her long limbs, and a white silk blouse and black blazer drew his attention to her full breasts. When his gaze lifted to her thick ebony hair, deep-set brown eyes, and high cheekbones, he was hooked.

  They’d stumbled through small talk. He’d suggested a drink. She’d agreed. And they’d been in a hotel bed two hours later. The sex had been hot, but she’d been cool and distant when she dressed in the morning. He’d thought that was that. But forgetting her had been impossible. He lasted only two days before he called to ask to see her again. Since then, they’d been in bed a half-dozen times in the last three weeks, but he knew little else about her beyond the headlines. It was her bed he’d left an hour ago.

  He pulled off his glasses. Julia was tense by nature, and she never talked about her childhood or her father. The couple of times he’d tried to turn a conversation toward her past, she found a way to make him so horny he couldn’t think.

  He took a picture of the father-daughter image and carefully put it back in the wallet.

  He rose, left the purse with Natasha, and moved back toward the uniformed officer. “Where’s the new homeowner?”

  “His name is Mike Rice, owner of Rice Renovation. He’s out front in a squad car. He closed on the property last week and was supposed to begin demo in a month. If not for the fire, we’d have found her soon enough.”

  “He never did a walk-through before he bought the place?”

  “Bought it sight unseen.”

  Novak looked at the door leading to the room. He saw a freshly cut padlock dangling from a hinge. “Who cut the lock?” he asked Natasha.

  “When the fire crew inspected the basement, they saw the lock and used bolt cutters. As soon as they shone a light in here, they saw the victim.”

  “Good. Thanks, Natasha. Is there anything else I need to see?”

  “No, but check with me tomorrow. I may have more.”

  “Thanks.”

  Novak searched the corners of the basement. The space was filled with old chairs, a broken stove, a claw-foot bathtub, and a marble mantel.

  “Are you going to call Julia Vargas about the picture?” Natasha asked.

  Novak wanted Julia to hear it from him. “Yes.”

  He climbed the stairs and moved outside. He found the homeowner now leaning against a squad car, a cup of hot coffee cradled in his hand. One booted foot tapped impatiently.

  Novak introduced himself. “And you are?”

  “Mike Rice. They said a detective was coming and I had to wait until I talked to you before I could leave.”

  Novak dug a notebook and small pen from his breast pocket. He flipped the notebook open. “Thank you for sticking around.”

  “That’s all right.” He shoved out a breath.

  “Have any idea how the fire started?”

  “The captain asked me that several times. I have no idea. It could be anything with a run-down old house like this.”

  “This has to be a first for you,” Novak said.

  A calloused finger scraped at the side of the coffee cup. “The first walk-through on places like this always has a surprise or two. Usually it’s mold, rotting wood, or vagrants. This is my first dead body.”

  “What do you mean by places like this?”

  “The property has been vacant at least ten years, maybe more. Lots of damage happens to a house when it’s abandoned.”

  Novak clicked the top of his pen a couple of times. “Whom did you buy the house from?”

  “From the city. They took it over about two years ago when back taxes weren’t paid. I can’t tell you who they seized the property from, but the title search turned up clean.”

  “I’m going to send a cadaver dog through the house. Just in case.”

  Rice glanced toward the house, his frown deepening. “Holy shit, you think there are more?”

  “Let’s hope not, but I’d like to check.”

  “Sure. I’ll be ripping out walls as soon as you let me back inside. Be nice to know there are no more unwelcome surprises.”

  “Right.”

  “How soon can I get into the house?”

  “It will be at least a week. But right now, until we complete a full search of the property, I can’t make any promises.”

  The guy ran thick fingers through thinning hair. “That’s not so bad.”

  “That’s assuming we don’t find other bodies or evidence.”

  The man pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damn it.”

  “Right.”

  Novak gave him his card, then reached for his cell. He dialed Julia’s number, knowing he was waking her up with unwelcome news. As he stared at the houses lining the street, he also knew tomorrow would have him knocking on each door. Someone always sees something.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sunday, October 29, 11:30 p.m.

  The dream always begins with bloodred apples.

  A collection of six bright Red Delicious arranged in a white bowl centered on her mother’s kitchen table. Ripe. Delicious. Ready to burst. Julia runs into the kitchen to greet her father but the ground under her feet turns slick, and the beige tiles melt into crimson puddles. She skids. Slips. Her gaze settles onto her father’s body slumped over the kitchen table. One of his hands stretches toward the apples, and the other dangles toward the floor where his service weapon rests in a puddle of blood. His glassy eyes are wide open, mirroring joyless surprise, and his slack jaw presses into the table. Her mouth opens to scream, but it’s her mother’s anguished cry she hears behind her.

  The shrill of a phone pulled Agent Julia Vargas toward consciousness. Heart racing, she sat up. She groped the nightstand beside her, fingers skimming over an opened pack of cigarettes before she found her phone.

  Making no effort to clear the sleep from her voice, she glanced at the clock’s red digital numbers. It was well after eleven. “Yeah.”

  “Julia?”

  She blinked and cleared her throat. “Yes, who’s this?”

  “Tobias.” His rough, gravelly tone chased away the fog of sleep.

  “Novak?” Phone pressed to her ear, she looked toward the pillow to her right. A faint impression still remained, evidence he’d been there. “I didn’t hear you leave.”

  “You were sleeping soundly. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  She had been sleeping unusually well until the dream. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at a homicide in Church Hill. You’ll want to come and see it.”

  She pressed the bridge of her nose. “Novak, if this is your idea of pillow talk, it’s not working for me.”

  “Julia.” Warning hummed under the word.

  “Can you give me more details at least?”

  “I’ll text you the address.”

  She cleared her throat aga
in and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Earlier today, she’d worked a homicide with Agent Dakota Sharp. After nineteen hours nonstop, they’d traced the killer via a series of violent texts made to the victim, his ex-girlfriend. The accused was in cuffs by 7:00 p.m., and by 9:00 p.m. she was in bed, swearing she’d not move before dawn. But she’d been too wired to sleep. So she’d texted Novak.

  “Why me?” she asked. “I’m technically off duty. And I’m surprised you’d be reaching out to Virginia State Police.” Though she worked for Division One, which covered the Richmond metro area, the city had sufficient resources and usually didn’t call in the state police.

  “Trust me on this one.”

  She picked up the pack of cigarettes and tapped it against her thigh. Novak was no nonsense. No drama. A call from him meant the case could be big. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Detective.”

  “Victim is female. Young. Blunt force trauma to the back of her skull.”

  Rising, she paced, hoping to clear her head. “Seriously, why me?”

  “It appears the victim knew you.”

  She flipped back a lock of dark hair. “Stop dropping bread crumbs for me to follow, Novak. I’ve crossed paths with a lot of people.”

  “Look,” he said, lowering his voice. “This is a topic I’d rather not get into with you on the phone. But I strongly suggest you look at the crime scene.”

  She looked back at her still-warm bed. “You can’t give me a clue?”

  “No.”

  When he didn’t offer anything else, she checked the clock on her nightstand. It read 11:40 p.m. Damn it. She had court at ten and a meeting near Quantico in the early afternoon.

  Resigned, she crossed to the long window and peeked through the blinds. The streets were quiet. She lived in Richmond near the Shockoe Bottom district in an apartment over a bar called Billy’s. The bar was outside the financial district, but not quite in the historic section. A not-so-charming no-man’s-land.

  If it all went perfectly, she could dress quickly, check out Novak’s scene, and be home to catch at least another few hours of sleep. Perfect. She’d yet to have a murder scene unfold neatly in front of her.