“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.”