The Hangman (Forgotten Files Book 3)

Ken took in a deep breath and sat back. “How does this relate to the Hangman? Jim wasn’t the Hangman.”


Spoken like a loyal partner. “Understood. But I think his death is linked. Tell me about the day.”

Ken’s hands formed a steeple, and for a moment he didn’t speak. “It was a Saturday,” he said. “Rainy. Dreary. It had been warm the few days before, but the weather had shifted suddenly and turned cold. I had gone for an afternoon run and was stepping out of the shower when my phone rang. It was Amy, and she was hysterical. I could hear Julia crying in the background. She said Jim was dead. I thought she’d made a mistake. I’d seen him that morning at the shooting range. We’d closed a homicide in the early hours of the morning and went by the range to blow off steam.” He closed his eyes. “Amy screamed to come. I lived minutes away and it took no time to get there. I found her in the living room, holding Julia close. Amy was trying not to cry, but Jesus, who wouldn’t be a wreck. I went into the kitchen, and Jim was slumped over the kitchen table. He had an exit wound the size of my fist in his back. Blood was everywhere.”

“How long had he been dead?”

“He was still warm. I’d say less than an hour.”

“And the weapon?”

“Nine millimeter. One foot from his body on the floor.”

“Did he leave a note?”

Ken dropped his gaze and didn’t speak.

“It’s been twenty-five years,” Andrews said. “There’s no one left to protect.”

“There’s Julia. I always swore I’d protect her.”

“She deserves to know the truth, and from what I’ve seen, she can handle anything.”

“She was a kid,” he choked out.

Andrews waited. “What did you do?”

Thompson didn’t speak as he raised his gaze.

The hair on the back of Andrews’s neck rose as it did when something wasn’t right. Thompson had information. A secret he’d carried inside him for over two decades. Maybe if not for his illness, he’d have taken that secret to his grave, but Andrews could see the weight of it on his shoulders now.

“Tell me,” Andrews coaxed softly. He wasn’t a patient man but understood the value of pausing. He would press eventually, if necessary.

Thompson leaned forward and clasped his hands. “He did leave a note.”

“You took it?”

“I did. It was bad enough that Jim had killed himself, but he didn’t need the world knowing all the grim details. The press and brass would have swarmed all over it, and it would have ruined his legacy and humiliated his family.”

“What did it say?”

“He confessed to being the Hangman.”

Andrews sat still; his breathing slowed. He didn’t blink. “He said that in the note?”

“Yes. But the note made no sense to me. The handwriting was shaky.”

“Did you save it?”

“No. I shoved it in my pocket as the paramedics arrived. As soon as I got home, I burned it. I know that was a mistake. I should have saved it. But I couldn’t let the world think that my partner killed all those women.”

Andrews subdued frustration. “Do you recall exactly what it said?”

“I do. It said: I’m the Hangman.”

“That’s precise. Are you sure that’s what it said?”

“It’s burned in my memory. And not a day goes by that I wish I could forget it. Of all the memories that are slipping away, that one has its hooks in me.”

“You never told Julia.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Shit. I never told anyone until this moment.”

“Why now?”

“I can’t tell Julia. I can’t put this burden on her.”

“I’m going to have to tell her,” Andrews said.

“She won’t believe you. She’ll need hard forensic data to ever be convinced that Jim was the Hangman.”

Andrews mentally shifted. “What did the note look like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me about the note. You said shaky handwriting. What type of paper did he use? What was the color of the ink that he used? Were there stains on the page?”

“It was written on the back of a Chinese take-out menu. Dark ink. Uneven handwriting scribbled across the menu. There was a dark stain in the upper-right corner. Looked like food or coffee.”

“Had he ordered Chinese that day?”

“I saw later in the refrigerator that there was beef and mixed vegetables in there.”

“Where was the note?”

“On the kitchen table, stuck in the bowl of apples.”

“Was there a back door to the kitchen?”

“Yes. And it was open when I arrived. I asked Amy about it, but she said she freaked out and might have opened it when she ran outside.”

“Did you look out the back door?”

“Sure.”

Andrews sensed someone behind him and turned to see Wendy standing in the door. She was staring at her husband as if seeing him for the first time.

“Ken,” she said. “Is this true?”

He nodded. “It’s all true.”

“Jim left a note?”

“Yes.”

“What about the back door?” Andrews pressed. Staying focused on the facts was more important than Wendy’s reaction.

“I shoved the note in my pocket. Their backyard was bordered by woods, and I briefly searched, hoping to see someone, something, or anything to help explain what had happened. I didn’t want to leave the girls alone too long. When the paramedics arrived, it all rolled on from there.”

Wendy went to Ken, knelt by his chair, and wrapped her arm around him. “Honey, why didn’t you say something?”

“I wanted to protect Jim and Julia,” he said. “I couldn’t believe he’d killed those women.”

“When you were partnered with Jim, did you ever wonder if he was connected to the Hangman murders?” Andrews asked.

“Jim knew all the women from his undercover work, and he knew the murders weren’t random. But he never once made me think he’d killed them.”

“He never made a note of his relationship with them in his files.”

“Like I told Julia, he hated writing down his thoughts. He didn’t trust that the information wouldn’t be compromised.” Ken clenched his fists as his gaze sharpened. “But I never once had any gut feeling about him wanting to hurt those women. They had helped him, trusted him, and he wanted to repay that trust by helping them straighten out their lives.”

“Stay here,” Andrews said. He moved into the living room and dialed Tobias Novak’s number. Though Julia was his contact on the case, this suicide fell within the jurisdiction of the city police, and that meant Novak.

On the second ring, he heard a crisp “Detective Novak.”

“Garrett Andrews with Shield Security.”

A pause. “What can I do for you?”

He recapped what he’d learned.

More silence. “Are you certain he’s not confused?”

“He appears lucid. Actually, he appears quite in control.”

“Does he know about the Ortega murder?” Novak asked.

“It didn’t come up. And Ortega’s death doesn’t mean Jim didn’t commit the original three.”

“I’ll get Julia, and we’ll be right over. Can you stand firm?”

Julia. Not Agent Vargas. Interesting. “Of course.”