“About seven.”
Two hours between the time the shot was fired and paramedics arrived. Plenty of time to collect a note or clean up evidence that might have been incriminating. It was natural to protect a partner, especially one who could no longer defend himself.
“If you had to make the call on his death certificate, would you have called it a suicide?” Andrews asked.
She flipped through more pages. “The medical examiner spoke to Amy Vargas and asked if there had been any mental health issues or talk of suicide. She’d said no. Though the couple was separated, she said they’d been talking about reconciling. She said he knew she was coming by the house with their daughter the day he died. No one reported him making farewell declarations, nor did his everyday routine or spending habits change.” She shook her head. “The gun was found one foot from the body, which investigators believe was the result of the weapon recoiling after the bullet discharged. There was some sign of alcohol in his system, but not enough to impair. Jim Vargas’s death has the hallmarks of suicide, and I can certainly understand why the determination was made.”
“But what’s your opinion?”
Absently she tapped the file with her finger. “My next comment needs to be treated with the utmost discretion.”
“Understood.”
“I would have given Vargas the benefit of the doubt. I would have marked it as undetermined.”
“Why?”
“Given what I’ve learned about this man, who was one tough cop, I don’t see him racking a hollow point into his weapon and pulling the trigger knowing his wife and kid are coming by the house and will find him. He would have known the bullet would blow out his back and project blood everywhere.” She pressed her index finger to her abdomen. “The trajectory of the bullet bothers me. Why fire down toward the heart? Most suicides fire up into the heart to avoid bone.”
“There was gunpowder residue on his hands?”
“Yes. But it was noted that Detective Vargas had gone to the shooting range that morning. The residue on his hands could have also come from that. But as you may know, residue degrades quickly after an hour and is all but gone after six hours.”
“Thank you, Dr. Kincaid. You’ve been helpful.”
“Mr. Andrews, it’s just an opinion. Take it for what it’s worth.”
“Understood. I value your opinion.”
“Why are you questioning this autopsy’s findings?”
“I’ve read Jim Vargas’s case notes and watched several of his crime-scene videos. He was chasing a serial killer. It makes no sense why a man like that would leave the game via suicide. He put himself through hell to make the Popov arrest. And then he kills himself and gives Popov the only thing the mobster wanted more than freedom? I don’t buy it.”
“Popov was incarcerated at the time of Jim Vargas’s death,” she said. “And you have no proof Popov knew Jim had been the mole.”
“A man like that gets to where he is by knowing whom he can trust. And he would have had a reach that extended far beyond prison walls.”
Absently she touched the ring encircled by a chain around her neck. “Have you discussed this with Julia?”
“No. And I won’t until I have all the DNA retesting results from the Hangman case. That will be tomorrow. And I could be off base. Jim Vargas was a chameleon, and if anyone could have hidden a darker, homicidal side, it would have been him.”
“Jekyll and Hyde.”
“Maybe.”
“Call me if I can help any further.”
“Thanks.” He rose, shook her hand, and left.
In his SUV, Andrews checked his phone and searched for Ken Thompson’s address. The man was suffering from the early onset of Alzheimer’s, but it was possible he might shake loose a memory or two. He drove the twenty-five minutes crosstown and parked in front of the neat rancher house. It was almost noon, so not too early to make an unannounced call.
He approached the front door and rang the bell. Seconds later he heard the movement of footsteps. The door snapped open to a slender woman in her midfifties. Silver hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. A light flannel shirt and jeans hung loosely on her body.
“I’m Garrett Andrews,” he said. “I’m working with Julia Vargas on the Hangman case.”
The woman’s gray-green eyes narrowed. “She didn’t mention your name.”
“I’m assuming you’re Wendy Thompson.”
Again, prudent hesitation consistent with someone who’d worked for the police. “That’s correct.”
“I’d like to speak to your husband, if I may.”
“About what?”
“His partner, Jim Vargas.”
Her grip tightened on the door. “I don’t see how this will help with the Hangman case.”
“It may not,” he conceded. “But the death of Jim Vargas has always been shrouded in question, and your husband was the first man on the scene.”
“You understand he’s not well.”
“And I promise to be careful with him, Mrs. Thompson. My intent is not to upset him.”
“I’m not comfortable with this, Mr. Andrews.”
Footsteps sounded behind Wendy, and her husband appeared.
“Mr. Thompson,” Andrews said. “Garrett Andrews. We met the other day.”
Thompson stared at him a long moment before he said, “Mr. Andrews. At Shield.”
“That’s right.”
Wendy glanced up at her husband. “Ken, he wants to talk to you about Jim.”
Thompson patted his wife on the arm. “Sure, I’ll help Mr. Andrews in any way I can.”
Wendy laid her hand over his. “Are you sure it’s wise?”
Ken squeezed her hand. “I forget details, but I’m not an invalid yet. Let me help this young man while I still can.”
Her jaw tightened, but she yielded, pushing open the screened door. “Come in, Mr. Andrews.”
The house was a modest one-story. The walls were an antique white and covered with dozens of pictures that chronicled both their lives and careers. They’d traveled extensively, but did not have children. He thought about the blank walls of his own home. It wasn’t that he didn’t have memories; he simply did not want to remember.
He followed Wendy to a sunporch that overlooked a modest backyard. Ken indicated to Andrews to take a seat on a floral sofa while he moved toward a recliner. “Wendy, would you excuse us?”
“Ken, I really think I should stay.”
“It will be fine, honey. Mr. Andrews is here to help Julia, and I told her I’d do whatever she needed.”
Her gaze flickered to Andrews in a silent warning before she left.
Ken sat. “Excuse my wife. She’s worried about me. The diagnosis has really upset her.”
Andrews sat. “Understandable.”
“I have to remind her daily I’m still here for the most part and am not crippled.”
“Good to hear. I’m counting on your memory.”
“What do you want to know?” Ken asked.
“Tell me about the day Jim Vargas shot himself.”