“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 Withdrawn.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.”