“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.