He glanced up at a bulletin board in front of his workbench filled with dozens of faces of women who could die tomorrow and no one would notice. There were so many lost souls ripe for the picking.
But the images faded from focus as he zeroed in on the center image. This was an older picture, taken over twenty-five years ago. He pulled the thumbtack out and studied the face of the young girl and her father. Jim Vargas and his daughter, Julia.
He remembered that bright fall day. He had followed Jim and his daughter to the soccer park, curious about the man who had been so sure and cocky when the media had interviewed him on the newly dubbed Hangman case, which brought the total to three deaths.
“We’re still sifting through evidence,” Vargas had said. “We have several solid leads and expect an arrest soon.”
He took the statement as a direct challenge, and that had prompted him to track Vargas and his kid. He’d watched Jim taking pictures of his girl. The kid was cute. Kept tugging on her soccer uniform.
“Want a picture of the two of you?” he had asked, smiling, watching for a reaction.
Jim had grinned, surprised and happy to see him. “What brings you out here?”
“Fresh air.”
And so he’d snapped three pictures of Jim, the great cop who thought he couldn’t be stopped, and his little pride and joy. The Hangman had left the park that day convinced Jim didn’t know shit about the Hangman’s identity. He was in the clear. He now had the advantage.
He’d never expected to slip into the Hangman’s skin again to kill. But if the last twenty-five years had taught him anything, it was that life had a way of circling back around and flexibility was key to survival.
To re-create his past pattern, two more women would have to die. The knots and displays would have to be more graphic and more intricate. He wasn’t sure if he’d re-create the original displays, but the endgame was a given: Julia Vargas would die just like her father.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Friday, November 3, 6:30 p.m.
Novak found Julia waiting for him in the lobby of police headquarters. She was leaning against a wall, eyes closed, her arms folded over her chest. Her hair looked a little messy, as if she’d run her fingers through it too many times, and she held a fresh large coffee in her hand. She also looked tired. He guessed she’d not eaten, something she’d pretended to do earlier but had avoided. Hadn’t she said caffeine and nicotine were her two major food groups?
He moved toward her, and when she didn’t open her eyes, he touched her gently on the arm. Her lids snapped open. For a flash, she stared at him, her eyes vacant and afraid. And then, just as quickly, the look was gone and she was in control.
“You okay?” he asked.
A slight shrug and a half smile followed. “Never better.”
“Ready to talk to Vic Carson?”
“Let’s go.”
When they arrived at Carson’s shop, the parking lot was at least half-full. Inside, there were a dozen people milling around either playing vintage games or rifling through bins to find games to buy.
Novak showed his badge to the kid behind the register. “Looking for Vic Carson.”
“He’s in the back, fixing a game. Want me to call him up?”
“We’ll go back there.”
“Yeah, sure.”
As the pair moved toward the back, Novak commented, “None of these customers were alive in the nineties.”
“Ancient history comes alive,” she joked.
“If the nineties are ancient, what does that make me?”
“Novak, you’re timeless. An old soul.”
He winced. “That hurt, Julia.”
She shrugged. “I bet you read the classics, smoke a pipe, and yell at the kids to get off your front lawn.”
He laughed. “Only two of the three.”
“Which one did I get wrong?”
Shrugging, he pushed through the swinging door. “Hang around and find out.” He paused. “What do you do on your off-hours?”
“Work at animal rescue shelters, bake cookies, and channel thoughts about world peace.”
“Seriously.” He wanted to know more about her.
“Run, weapon train, help Cindy at the bar. Nothing really noteworthy.”
“You might want to expand your interests.”
She paused, studying him closely. “Like what?”
He wanted to give whatever it was between them more time and nurturing. “How about we try a date?”
A brow arched as if she were waiting for a punch line. “Are you serious?”
He didn’t hesitate. “I am.”
She relaxed into a smile. “Maybe.”
As they moved along the hallway, he noticed she ran her finger along her belt until her right hand bumped her service weapon. Novak did the same. As routine as this visit felt, both understood routine could turn deadly on a dime.
At the end of the hallway, he found an open door and a workshop filled with dozens of old gaming systems. Many were dismantled and picked clean for parts.
In the center of it all was a large man with shoulder-length graying hair cinched back in a ponytail. He wore a black Pac-Man T-shirt and faded jeans.
“Mr. Vic Carson?” Novak asked.
The man looked up. Thick, dark-rimmed glasses made his gray eyes look large. “What is it?”
Novak introduced himself, holding off on Julia’s introduction. He didn’t want the Vargas name to be a distraction. “I hear you’re the creator of the Hangman website.”
Carson set down a small screwdriver and pulled off his glasses. “Why would you say that?”
“I have it on good authority you created it,” Novak said.
Carson sniffed. “There a law against setting up a website now?”
“No law against it. But it draws attention when anyone shows an immense interest in serial murders.”
“The twenty-fifth anniversary is this year. And as you can see from the crowds outside, there’s a yearning for the nineties and their murder and mayhem.”
“Your website is detailed.”
“Again, no law against it.” Carson looked at Julia. “Detective Novak, are you going to introduce me to Agent Vargas?”
“You know me?” Julia asked.
“Sure. How could I not?” He moved around the counter, and after wiping his hand on a rag, extended it to her.
She didn’t accept it. “How long have you been stalking me?”
“Stalking is a harsh word,” he said.
“Then what is it?” she asked.
“I’m simply a curious admirer. Your father was the lead investigator. I researched him extensively.”
“Did you know the original victims? You lived in the city at the time.”
“No, I did not. But I frequented Shockoe Bottom a lot and spent time in the bars near the crime scenes. I read all the newspaper accounts.”
“You have an alibi for the nights they died?” Julia asked.
Carson smiled. “As a matter of fact, I do. I was working in Roanoke that fall doing temporary work.”
“That’s three hours west of here,” Novak said. “Easy to drive down and back in a day.”
“But none of the victims died quickly,” Carson said. “And all the shrinks I talked to about the Hangman said he liked to watch his victims die. Doesn’t make sense to string up a victim and then leave before the main event.”