by Mary Burton
“On its way now,” Andrews said.
She clicked open the attachment and tilted the phone screen toward Novak. The image was grainy and the lighting poor, but she could see the swaying, elevated body of the victim. The woman was struggling, her feet twitching as she clearly fought to get her last few breaths. The killer circled her body slowly, moving behind her and then back in front, catching every last gruesome spasm of her body as she strangled to death.
“Jesus,” Julia muttered.
“You said the video was uploaded to the Hangman site? That’s administered by Vic Carson, correct?” Novak asked.
“It is, but bear in mind that site is fairly easy to hack. I did it easily when I removed this video.”
“So the footage is down now?” Novak asked.
“Yes,” Andrews said. “Whoever uploaded the footage was careful not to leave a trail. It’ll take me some time, but I’ll find them. I’ve been able to find the address of Stuart Lambert,” he said.
“He worked in the porn shop located on Cary Street,” Julia said, confirming what she knew.
“Correct. He was seen with all three victims days before each vanished. Lambert changed his name to Whitcomb and enrolled in college at Duke University. He earned his undergraduate degree in physics and also his master’s and PhD. Now he runs a small computer engineering firm that specializes in systems design.”
“A guy like that would know how to hack a computer,” Novak said.
“My thoughts exactly,” Andrews said.
“Let’s have his address,” Novak said as he checked his watch.
Andrews rattled it off.
“Thank you,” Julia said.
“Keep me posted,” Andrews said, just before he hung up.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Thursday, November 2, 11:30 a.m.
Novak and Julia arrived at the small office building on Grove Avenue. Julia was silent, tense. Few cases carried more emotional weight for her than the Hangman. She was glad Novak was helping her with the burden.
The office was nestled in a tree-lined section where older brick homes had been converted to offices. There was no sign out front indicating it housed an engineering firm.
“Stuart Lambert Whitcomb is supposed to be a genius,” Julia said. “He went to Harvard on full scholarship at the age of sixteen and was top of his class until he had a nervous breakdown at nineteen. His parents brought him home, and after a hospital stay and a few prescriptions, they thought it would be good for him to work in a low-level job until he was a little older and could return to school. Got a job working the counter in a porn shop in the Bottom near where the bodies were found.”
“Porn’s not exactly a stable occupation,” he said.
“No argument here. Andrews sent me a more detailed brief on the guy. Honestly, a little troubling how much Andrews can find out about a person online.” She checked her file and pulled out a picture taken of Whitcomb in 1992. His hair was dark and thick and his face lean. What made anyone look twice were the eyes. Gray and penetrating, they had a haunting, unsettling quality. “He was twenty-one when this picture was taken.”
Novak studied the image. “What kind of profile did the detectives get on Whitcomb?”
“Quiet. Withdrawn. Didn’t speak much. His parents hired an attorney immediately and shut down the questioning. According to Andrews, he changed his last name to Whitcomb in 1992. Guess he needed a new beginning.”
“What happened at Harvard? A breakdown can be defined many ways.”
“There was an incident with a female student. She said he yelled at her in a chemistry class. The teacher called campus security, and by the time they arrived, Stuart had broken a beaker and had the woman cornered.”
“Did they have a prior relationship?”
“Not according to Jim’s notes.”
In front of the building a huge oak was quickly shedding its brightly colored orange and yellow leaves. Below it was a wrought-iron bench and an urn full of bright-yellow mums.
“Nice view,” she said. “Just like the view out my office window. Oh wait, I have no window.”
“If you wanted a corner office and a view, you’re in the wrong line of work.”
“True.” Her shoulders back, she climbed out, and together they walked toward the front entrance.
Inside, a young woman with blond hair and a pleasant round face smiled up at them as they approached. The decor was conservative with Oriental rugs, oil-painting landscapes on the wall, and mahogany furniture. It was a far cry from Stuart Lambert and the days of running a porn video shop.
“Welcome to SLW Engineering,” the blonde said. “How may I help you?”
Both pulled out their badges.
Novak spoke first. “We’d like to speak to Stuart Whitcomb.”
She studied their badges. “Mr. Whitcomb is in a meeting right now.”
“Do us a favor and let him know we’re here,” Novak said.
“Can I tell him what it’s in reference to?”
“The Hangman,” Julia said.
“I don’t understand,” the receptionist said.
“He will,” Julia said.
The woman vanished around the corner, leaving Julia and Novak to wait.
Less than a minute later, a slim man appeared. He was dressed in an expensive suit, tailored white shirt, and a red tie. His hair had grayed at the temples and his face had grown thinner over the years. But the eyes remained as sharp and haunting as in the ’92 photo.
“I’m Stuart Whitcomb.”
“Detective Tobias Novak and Agent Julia Vargas.”
Mention of Julia’s last name immediately drew his attention to her, but he made no comment as he waited for the receptionist to take her seat. Though she didn’t look up, the blonde was clearly paying attention. “Come into my office, and we can have a conversation.”
Novak motioned for Julia to walk in front of him, and together they followed Whitcomb down a long carpeted hallway filled with professional awards to his plush office. As she suspected, there was a large window that overlooked a pond. The geese were toddling past among amber leaves scattered on the neatly trimmed lawn. Peaceful, just as she’d thought. Also a bit boring.
They took their seats in front of a large ornately carved desk, which he sat behind. Carefully he threaded his fingers and leaned toward them a fraction. “What is this about?”
“We’re reopening the Hangman case.” Novak let the words sit there, seemingly content with however long it took for Whitcomb to respond. Nearly a full minute went by with the three of them staring at each other.
Finally Novak asked, “Jim Vargas interviewed you on numerous occasions, is that correct?”
Whitcomb’s gaze held Julia’s a beat longer before shifting back to Novak. “That is correct. Vargas and his partner, Ken Thompson, leaned on me pretty heavily. I always thought I’d have been railroaded into prison if not for my attorney. Once those detectives had me in their sights, they developed tunnel vision.”
“Perhaps they had good reason to question you,” Novak said. “You worked in a porn shop two blocks from where the three bodies were found.”
“And,” Julia added, “surveillance tape from a bar across the street from your shop recorded you making contact with all three victims.”
“A lot of people came into that establishment,” he said. “Consumers weren’t streaming product then, so they had to procure it in person.”
“How did an upscale kid like you end up in a job like that?” Novak asked.
“You’ve both read the files, I’m sure. After leaving Harvard, I needed some downtime to collect myself. I picked that store because I originally thought the chances of me running into friends or people I knew were slim. As it turned out, a few frequented the store. It was mutually advantageous for all of us to be discreet. No one was going to say, ‘I saw Stuart Lambert working in a porn store while I was renting a BDSM video.’ They left me alone, and I kept their secrets.”
�
��You worked in the store a while.”
“Two years. Well, twenty-three months and seven days,” he corrected.
“That’s one heck of a memory,” Novak said, smiling as he shook his head. “I can barely remember what I had for breakfast.”
“I have a good memory,” Whitcomb said. “Not photographic, but it’s exceptional.”
“What kind of computer work do you do here?” he asked.
“Basically, we set up systems.”
“Does that mean installing the wires and monitors?”
“That’s a simplistic way of putting it, but yes, that’s correct.”
“What about web design?” Novak asked.
“Occasionally some of our clients need a site, and we handle it for them.”
“And security? Can you, I don’t know, test their systems and hack into it?” Novak asked.
“It’s one of our services.”
Novak grinned. “I don’t know how you do it. I still struggle with my TV remote.”
Julia thought she should be taking notes on Novak’s rope-a-dope interview techniques. It wouldn’t be long before he snared his prey. While Novak could distance himself from the brutal facts of the case, she found it much harder with this investigation. Her anger was just under the surface, and it was a struggle to keep her voice and facial expressions in check. Though she’d never admit it, she was glad to have Novak taking point this time.
Novak got to the heart of their visit. “Rene Tanner, the first Hangman victim, was caught on the security tape in your store.”
“She was,” Whitcomb said. “In fact, I remember Detective Vargas showing me a receipt from my store. It had been found in Rene Tanner’s pocket. We all lived and worked in Shockoe Bottom. In many respects, we were in the business of sin.” He picked up his glasses from his desk and with a tissue carefully cleaned the lenses. “As I also told the police in 1992, I do not remember any of the women specifically. I was polite enough but didn’t care to get to know or bond with anyone. I was working in that place until I could get back into school.”
“What was the area like then after the first murder?” Novak asked.
“No one panicked at first. Sure, people were talking about the killing. But it didn’t have much of an impact on our business or the others’. In fact, business picked up a little. Folks were curious.”
“And after the second killing?” Novak asked.
Whitcomb shrugged. “Most of my clients were men. And though we occasionally had slow nights, it didn’t last long. For some of my customers, it would have been a turn-on.”
Some men found pleasure in hurting women, a lesson Julia had learned. “The cops’ first visit to your shop was routine. They were talking to all the businesses, correct?”
“That’s correct. They asked for our surveillance videos, and the store owner promptly turned them over with the promise from the cops to not divulge he was releasing the tape with all his clients on it.”
“Why do you think you were a suspect?”
Whitcomb kept his expression blank. “Agent Vargas, it sounds like you’ve read the files, so I bet you already know the answer, don’t you?”
“I’m looking for your take on the story,” she said.
He sat back. “The media got wind of the story, and because it was such a horrific crime scene, the police knew they had to get in front of it. After the second kill, reporters wrote about the two murders daily. I assume the pressure was building. The murder rates in the city were climbing then, and Richmond was getting tagged in the national media. Gene Tanner was cleared, so they needed another suspect.”
“Media pressure is one thing,” Novak said. “But the cops set their sights on a particular person. They must have had a reason for looking at you.”
He shrugged. “I fit the profile. I’d had mental health challenges and worked in an establishment that featured BDSM videos. I was easy and convenient to blame.”
“Didn’t they also find your sweater at one of the crime scenes?” Julia asked.
Whitcomb cleaned the lenses of his glasses again. “I used to wear the sweater to work. One day, it went missing from the back room. Irritating, but hardly a reason to call the cops.”
“When the third victim was murdered, you had an alibi?” Novak asked.
“I was with my parents. We were visiting my doctor. Why are you digging into this old case now? It’s been twenty-five years.”
“Mr. Whitcomb, can you tell me where you were last night?” Novak asked.
“Last night?” That question prompted a curious grin. “I was at home. But I thought we were talking about twenty-five years ago.”
“Were you at home with anyone?” Novak asked.
“Susan Ramsey.” He removed his cell from his pocket and rattled off the number. “Does that help?”
Novak scribbled down the number. “It does. Thank you.”
“But why the questions about last night?” Whitcomb pressed.
“There was a murder last night,” Novak said.
A gray brow arched. “Like that of the Hangman?”
“There were similarities,” Novak said.
Whitcomb shook his head. “And so now you’re coming back to the guy the cops tried to nail twenty-five years ago.”
“We’re just asking questions,” Novak said.
“Cops don’t just ask questions,” he said. “They always have an agenda.” He rose. “This interview is over. I’ll need you to leave my office.”
Neither Julia nor Novak budged. “All friendly questions here,” Novak said.
Whitcomb shook his head. “It’s not friendly. You’re trying to entrap me.”
“I’ll be contacting Ms. Ramsey,” Novak said. “When did she leave?”
“About eleven p.m.” Whitcomb’s lips flattened into a grim line. “I’m finished talking. You can address all your questions to my attorney. Now please leave or I make calls to your bosses.”
Novak slowly closed his notebook, and in no particular rush, tucked it in his breast pocket. “I was hoping to keep this friendly.”
“We aren’t friends,” Whitcomb said.
“We’ll talk again,” Novak said.
They left the office. Outside, Novak pulled sunglasses from his pocket and slid them on.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I don’t know. He’s wary of police, but if he got a bad deal the last time, he’s in for some more trouble really soon.”
“He shut up as soon as you mentioned last night’s murder. In the original cases, he spoke to the cops for hours before his parents hired an attorney.”
“He’s smarter now.” Novak remained where he stood.
“Interesting guy,” she said.
Novak stared at the building, his jaw tensing. “What do you think, Julia?”
“He’s a nut in my book.”
“He did something twenty-five years ago. He might not have killed those girls, but he was no angel. Can you get your buddy at Shield to dig a little deeper on that one?”
“Sure, I’ll ask right now.”
She texted Andrews the request, and he responded immediately. “He’s on it,” she said.
Novak listened to his messages. “My partner has found the hotel where Lana Ortega was staying. I’m going to check it out. Care to tag along?”
“Damn, Novak, that’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me today.”
“Julia, if that’s the nicest, then you need better friends.”
“So I keep telling myself.” The stiffness released in her back as they moved toward the car. Inside, she settled into the seat. “You really think it’s the same killer?”
“If it’s not, then it’s someone who knew a lot of details about the original killings.”
“If it’s the same guy, it puts my father in the clear.”
“That’s important to you.”
“It is. I always said it didn’t matter, but it does.” She and her mother had lived their lives on the outsid
e because of her father.
“We’ll figure this out, Julia.”
She tipped her chin up. “We certainly will.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Thursday, November 2, 2:45 p.m.
Novak parked a block away from the familiar upscale historic hotel located in the city center. When Bella had been younger, this was her place to visit at Christmas. He and his dad had made the trek with her each year. Neither Novak nor his father had liked the place—too fussy—but it was worth the trip to see Bella’s excitement. Now that his dad was gone, he continued the tradition.
He and Julia walked past a flowing fountain decorated with a dolphin centered among arching streams of water. The hotel was well over a hundred years old and was considered the place to have tea or dinner. She didn’t look in awe or that impressed. Instead, she studied the entrance in a tactical sort of way. The image of her balancing a teacup with a plate of biscuits made him smile.
“Why the smirk, Novak?” she asked.
“Imagining you here at high tea.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s not pretty.”
She shrugged. “For your information, I had tea here at Christmas with my mother and aunt when I was ten. I liked the cookies, but the tea wasn’t sweet enough, and my new shoes pinched. The entire experience wasn’t a good fit. But I pretended to like it because my mom loved it.”
“How do you and Cindy celebrate Christmas?”
“When I’m not on the job, I’m working a little behind the bar at Billy’s. The holiday season is a big time for her.”
“Where are you most at home?”
Slowly she shook her head. “Still working on that one.”
“You don’t have a clue?”
“Not really. Do you?”
“Thought I did. Now, I’m starting fresh.”
Novak introduced himself at the front desk and showed his badge, and the clerk quickly hurried into a back room in search of the hotel manager.
Julia turned from the front desk to study the gleaming marble and lush carpets and furnishings.
A man behind them cleared his voice. They turned to see a man wearing crisp suit.
“I’m Mr. Young,” the man said.
