“Thanks.”
She spent the next hour walking up and down the brick sidewalks trying to imagine herself back in 1992. What was it about the victims that had drawn the Hangman? Was it because they were easy prey, or was there more?
She found herself standing in front of the first murder scene. The tobacco warehouse had long been converted to condos, and what had looked rough and run-down in crime-scene photos now looked trendy and chic. Time had marched on and had forgotten those women.
“I haven’t forgotten,” she whispered.
Andrews found Bowman in his office. On the credenza behind his desk was a picture of Bowman and his girlfriend, Riley Tatum. A part of Andrews envied Bowman’s happiness, but a bigger part of him feared it. With gain there was the potential for loss, and he’d lost enough. “Have you seen the website called the Hangman?”
Bowman arched a brow. “I don’t prowl the Net often.”
“The site appeared about a month ago,” Andrews said. “It profiles the original Hangman victims as well as the detectives working the case.”
Bowman sat back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest as he waited for Andrews to continue.
“Judging by the level of detail, the creator did his homework.”
“Who put the site up?”
“A man by the name of Vic Carson,” he said. “He was in town during the 1992 killings and, by his own admission, became obsessed with the killings. He only just got around to putting up the website. Guess he figured he’d cash in on the anniversary. He’s already making decent money with his advertising sales.”
“Where’s he now?”
“According to his digital trail, he’s in California at a conference.”
“Let Vargas know. She’ll want to put him on her list of people to interview.”
“I’ve added him to the witness-suspect list I sent her.”
“How many of the original witnesses and suspects did you find?”
Andrews arched a brow. “All of them.”
“I shouldn’t have expected less.”
“No, you shouldn’t.” He was one of the best trackers alive, and in the two years he’d been with Shield he’d proved his skills over and over. He could find anyone who left a digital footprint.
“What’s their status?”
“Of the fifteen names she gave me, several of the witnesses are in prison for nonviolent infractions, and the remaining nine are living and working in the area.”
“I know you did a background check on all of them. Anything they’ve done in the last twenty-five years that catches your eye?”
“No. The Hangman fell off the face of the earth. When he killed his last victim, he either stopped or died.”
“Which adds to the argument that the killer might have been Jim Vargas.”
“McLean delivered the DNA samples, and testing has begun. I’ll test them all, but Jim Vargas is still topping my suspect list.”
Rita Gallagher’s arrest file hit Novak’s desk that afternoon. He opened the yellowed file, and immediately his gaze dropped to the mug shot of the young woman who stared wide-eyed at the camera. Her head was slightly tilted and holding the placard with her arrest date and booking number. Red hair was teased high, and her tube top barely covered her ample breasts. The gold heart necklace that had been found with her hung innocently around her neck.
According to one interview, Rita had moved to Richmond when she was seventeen and gone to work on the streets for a pimp. Rita had bounced around the city for a couple of years, managing to get noticed and sometimes arrested by just about every cop in the district. Her last job before landing at Billy’s had been at a Northside bar called Ollie’s. The bar had been a known hangout for the newly arriving Russian immigrants. She’d been a cocktail waitress. After one of her arrests, the officer had taken her to the emergency room because she’d been beaten pretty badly. One of her injuries included a broken thumb.
Rita’s last arrest had been for cocaine possession. She’d been holding enough to be charged with intent to distribute, but the commonwealth attorney had dropped the charge. The attorney who’d been representing her had been Jack Holcombe.
“Jack,” Novak said to himself. “You the boyfriend?”
He turned to his computer and did a quick Internet search. Jack Holcombe had practiced law in Richmond for a firm called Ricker, Davis & Michaels between 1980 and 1996. He’d died at the age of forty-five of a drug overdose. “Another dead end.”
CHAPTER TEN
Tuesday, October 31, 11:00 p.m.
Halloween night, and the streets and bars of Shockoe Bottom were packed with partygoers dressed in every kind of costume imaginable. He appreciated each reveler’s ability to slip on a creative mask and become someone else.
However, several blocks south, where it was quiet and dark, he was doing his own form of creation.
He wasn’t fond of the name the press had given his alter ego. The Hangman. Not inspiring or original. The name implied a lack of finesse and beauty. He wasn’t sure who in the media had come up with it, but it sucked. Still, it was easy for the common folk to recall, and he did want to be remembered. Over the years, he’d thought twice about reviving the Hangman persona but knew he had to wait for the right time. Timing was everything.
He hefted the blonde’s unconscious body out of the back of the van and, bracing booted feet, hoisted the limp weight onto his shoulder.
Lana was small, likely not more than 120 pounds, but he struggled to steady their combined weight. This was a young man’s sport. Through the ink black of the moonless night he negotiated the uneven pavement that he’d walked a thousand times before. He knew every rut, every crack, and basically every inch of this area.
He pushed open the back entrance of the warehouse, knowing he’d unlocked it hours ago in preparation for this moment. He was meticulous and always prepared. Call it paranoia, but he never killed unless he had calculated all the possible ways a gig could go sideways.
He obsessed over all the details, including the cops’ schedules, security cameras, the precise location of where death would occur, area traffic patterns, electrical hookups, and which homeless individuals frequented the area. He did not want his work discovered unfinished. His subjects deserved the very best from him.
Soon he’d post keywords on social media to bring his fans to his gallery, but for now he needed silence and time to create.