“I bet your mom had the bumper sticker ‘My Kid’s an Honor Roll Student,’” Julia said. “And that you also sat in the front of the class and asked lots of questions.”
Novak slid into a parallel parking spot. “I know this area well, and I spent a good portion of last night getting up to speed on the Hangman case basics, like that the site of the third murder has remained relatively unchanged.”
They walked the brick sidewalk under the bridge toward the long dark building that hugged the James River. Ten years ago, this entire area was submerged in water after a freak storm. So if by some fluke evidence did survive, it would likely have been destroyed.
“I’m mostly interested in what the space looks like. Why choose warehouses? What was it about this building that attracted the killer?” Julia asked.
He reached for the warehouse door posted with a “No Trespassing” sign, ratting the lock. Then he pulled a small case from his breast pocket and opened it, working with two small picks. The lock yielded in seconds.
“I’d be impressed if I actually saw that.”
They stepped inside the dark structure, where Novak found a light switch and turned it on. Large fluorescents buzzed overhead and gave off a faint glow. Even in the dim light, the stain left on the walls from the flood was visible. A dank, musty smell clung to the air.
From her backpack, Julia removed a crime-scene photo tucked in her case folder. She angled the image until she had the exact space in her sights. “Our luck is turning,” she said, grinning.
A chill passed through her as she thought about her father standing in this exact spot, staring up at the body of the third victim, Vicky Wayne. Like her, her father had studied the same beams, smelled the same moist, dense air, and walked the wood floor.
Novak stepped back; his gaze methodically swept over the open warehouse space. “What do you remember about your father?”
“He wasn’t around much, and when he was, he was bone-tired and on edge. He was also a good guy, and he loved us.” A distant memory coaxed a small smile. “He always grilled hamburgers on my birthday.”
“What did your mother say about him when he wasn’t around?”
“Always positive, but as I grew older she said less and less. Said he was one hell of a cop. Aunt Cindy tries not to complain about him, but she never liked him. She always thought he took the easy way out.”
“At least your father didn’t try to take anyone with him when he killed himself.”
She hesitated, waiting for him to expand on the comment. When he didn’t, she handed him several photographs. The light above them had brightened, chasing away the shadows and revealing the old brick walls of the large barren room. He held up the crime scene captured in the photograph.
In the picture, the woman’s suspended figure was front and center in the shot. Her body was wrapped in a series of knots that began with coils around her ankles. The ropes twisted around and up her legs until they banded around her waist. From there the rope snaked across her breasts and then around her neck. Her hands were bound behind her back.
“I also have video,” she said. She dug a tablet from her backpack and selected a computer file created from the original VCR tape. She hit “Play” and handed it to Novak.
“We’re at the third murder scene.”
She recognized the deep baritone voice of her father. She wished she could say she had better memories of him reading bedtime stories, but she didn’t.
“She looks like she was strangled to death similar to the other two,” the voice continued.
A much younger and more muscular Ken Thompson stepped into the frame. While her father was forever frozen in time as a young man in the prime of his life, Ken had since become old. Seeing Ken’s broad shoulders, thick dark hair, and trimmed mustache caught her off guard. She’d forgotten how handsome he had been.
Ken opened a small spiral notebook. “I spoke to a dozen people in the area, and no hits.”
“No one who’s around here is going to call it in even if they did see something. Only trouble comes here.”
In the background, several officers grabbed the rope holding the woman, and while one cut, another held the body, digging his feet in so it wouldn’t drop to the floor.
Slowly the woman’s body came to the floor, the stiff legs and torso coming to an awkward rest. Her feet were discolored a dark blue.
“She’s rigid, which means rigor mortis has set in. She’s been dead, what, about twenty-four hours?” Ken asked.
“Give or take,” Jim said as he moved forward, squatting beside the body. He rolled the woman on her back and studied her with a keen intensity. He brushed the hair from her face as he shook his head.
Novak hit the “Pause” button. “He looks at the victim as if he knows her.”
She studied the frame, searching for what Novak saw. “He may have crossed paths with her on the streets. He worked the city for years.”
“It’s more than that.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means his expression reads shock as well as sadness. He knew her well enough to be saddened by her death.”
She challenged Novak as any good cop would. “How can you say that?”
“Come on, you worked undercover,” Novak said. “I bet you read body language better than most.”
Julia leaned into the picture, looking at her father, knowing he was a man of so many secrets. She hit “Play” and watched as he rubbed his temple and slowly blinked. “Maybe he knew her from one of his undercover jobs. Maybe a confidential informant.”
“If I had to guess, I’d say it was more than a professional relationship,” Novak said. “Look at his expression. The way he brushes the hair from her face.”
“CIs are people, Novak. They have hopes and dreams. Cops working with CIs can see the good in them at times.”
“That ever happened to you?”
“Sure.”
But Novak was right. Julia had seen it, too. Jim’s stoic expression didn’t hide the grief the cop had for the victim.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Wednesday, November 1, noon
Novak and Julia found Gene Tanner, the husband of the first victim, in the back office of his sports bar, Touchdown. He was frowning at a wide-screen computer that displayed multiple columns of numbers, mostly red. With glasses perched on his nose, he glared at the numbers.
Julia moved to knock, but when she met Novak’s gaze, she put him to work. “Batter up.”
Nodding, Novak rapped on the door and waited for the man to look up. “Mr. Tanner.”
The man’s face scrunched with annoyance. “You’re cops. What do you want?” He pulled off his glasses and tossed them on his desk. “You all look alike to me. It’s like you go to a school to be trained to stick out.”
Novak had carefully studied Tanner’s profile in the Hangman files. He’d been one of the initial suspects in his wife’s death. The detectives had leaned on him hard until the second victim’s body had been found suspended in a nearby warehouse.