Death of an Intern (7 page)

I
fully expected my media pals to probe into Janet's background after my story came out, even though they had not probed into who Thalma Williams was, except for one TV interview of Thalma's mother. A conundrum for the media—black and white. Did black get covered differently than white? More times than not, I feared. Janet was white and worked for the Vice President. Did that make Thalma's life any less important?

Wilder had covered Thalma's killing. Would I have approached the two murders the same if I had covered Thalma as well? I didn't know Thalma, but had met Janet. Could there be a connection between Janet and Thalma? Were they victims of a serial killer, or killed by some slime-balls who didn't want to become fathers?

I made it back to the newsroom in fifteen minutes and was heading for Lassiter's office, when I saw the wild and ugly auburn-dyed hair of Gertrude Lane coming out of Lassiter's office. Gerty was heading left, so I took a different aisle.

I immediately thought someone must have complained to her about my visit. Kat must have told Grayson about my impromptu visit into the work area.

I did the ritual knock and entered. Lassiter was alone, but about to make a call. “Gerty slumming?” I asked facetiously.

“White House crap,” Lassiter said disgustedly. “Keep outta Gerty's way, but stay on your story. What's up?”

“A couple of things, there's—” I was interrupted by Mary's knock at the doorway.

“Excuse me. I saw you headed this way.” She waggled a piece of paper in her hand. “Thought you'd want to see this.”

I took the paper and Mary departed. I got the gist of it immediately. “What is this?”

Lassiter, caught off guard, quipped, “The President's balanced the budget?”

“How can they do this?” My anxiety level spiked.

“What, he closed down the Pentagon?” my editor quipped.

I scrunched my face and handed her the paper. “The Secret Service is butting in.”

Lassiter took the paper and began reading it.

I went on, “This is a murder case in the District of Columbia. This is not some political pal caught with their fingers in the booty jar.”

Then an idea hit me. I whirled and ran out of the office.

“Hey!” I heard Lassiter yell. “What were you going to tell me?”

I would get back to her. I went to Mary's desk. “I need personal stuff on the Vice President and his sister, especially the sister.”

“Planning a
Style
piece?” Mary cajoled, referring to the puff personality pieces in the paper's daily
Style
section.

I gave her a derisive look. “Hardly. I need background. I'm on my way to see Captain Walsh.”

I needed a snack and fetched a small bag of potato chips from my desk, and then headed for the elevator.

S
ecret Service Agent Donna Talbot had remained with Frankie Grayson after Kat left them. Talbot worked on the Vice President's detail, but she also acted as liaison between the overall office and the Service. And in doing the latter, she mostly worked with Frankie Grayson who was in on all decision-making sessions for her brother and the office.

Donna had a great admiration for the Vice President and felt it a privilege to serve him. She and Frankie had a good working relationship. Right after the newspaper reporter's unappreciated visit, Grayson had called Press Aide Judith Fisher to have her complain to Gertrude Lane about a beat reporter from the
Star
finagling her way into the office.

Grayson knew Lane would jump all over the opportunity to flaunt her so-called importance and to muzzle a lesser reporter at her paper. However, after Kat's message, Grayson had told Talbot, “I think we should make a formal complaint in writing.”

“It wouldn't hurt,” Talbot had replied, “but I'd be careful about making too big a thing out of it. It might raise more questions than it would quell.”

“I'll pass it by Rick.”

The Grayson twin picked up the phone. She could see her brother whenever, but she was also aware of protocol. It was something for which the whole office admired her.

“Rochelle, may I pop in?” Frankie waited. “Thanks. I'll be right there.” She hung up. “He's between meetings. Walk with me. Check this Wolfe out. See what you can dig up on her. Her husband is a friend of Ralph Morgan's. His attorney, I believe. That's how she got into the reception. Check him out too.”

“Will do.”

Talbot and Grayson separated as they reached the Vice President's office.

Rochelle Brand was at her desk outside the VP suite when Frankie Grayson entered. “Okay to go in?”

“He's expecting you,” Brand said, giving Frankie a smile.

“Hi. What's up?” Rick Grayson greeted his sister.

“We had a visit to the office from a
Washington Daily Star
beat reporter.”

The VP didn't comment, just looked at her.

“She came in unannounced on a visitor's pass. Rather than have her turned away, I met with her. She wanted to know about Janet. I told her what we would be providing, and that we'd requested no interviews. She wasn't rude, maybe a little pushy. I called for Kat to show her out and left them. The reporter then barged her way into our work area as Kat was escorting her to reception from Con II.”

He was preoccupied. “She do anything?”

“No. She asked Kat some questions, and then left when Kat pushed it.”

“So?”

“I'd like Fisher to make a mild protest to the
Star
about clearances and security. Be on record. I did ask Fisher to tell Lane that a beat reporter invaded her territory.”

The VP smiled. “I bet she jumped all over that.”

“No doubt in my mind.”

“That's enough for now.”

“I'm sure you remember that reporter we allowed to get friendly?”

He nodded.

“Fortunately, we had more on him than he thought he had on us.”

“Do what you think best,” her brother said dismissively.

“We can never let down our guard.”

T
he Metropolitan Police Department was headquartered on Indiana Avenue Northwest in between 4th and 5th streets, close to where Pennsylvania Avenue and Constitution Avenue merged just west of the Capitol Building. The Judiciary Square Metro Station was only a couple of blocks away.

The Homicide Division, except for their Cold Case group, was housed in Southeast at Pennsylvania Avenue and Branch Road. However, Max Walsh maintained an office at headquarters for geographical and other conveniences.

I was in Max's office pacing and complaining to him about my morning meeting with Frankie Grayson and Kat Turner. “They're hiding something,” I concluded.

The Captain of Homicide scowled.

“I'm no national security threat,” I complained. “Why should the Secret Service get involved in the Rausch murder investigation? Are they looking to take over the case? They don't trust MPD?”

“Actually they didn't request—”

“I saw—”

“No!” Walsh interrupted sharply. He leaned forward in his big desk chair.

Whoops. I overstepped. I gave him my attention.

“Their legal counsel requested a joint task force,” he said. “Ms. Rausch worked closely with the Vice President. Somebody could have been trying to get at him through Rausch.” He leaned back in his seat, his eyes on me.

“I doubt that. We've got two dead, formerly pregnant women whose fetuses or embryos were stolen. One didn't work for the Vice President. Where's the national threat in that?” I implored.

“You do ask good questions,” he said wryly.

“Oh, come on. What am I missing here? If the Secret Service wants in, why isn't the Vice President's office being more proactive? Marsha said Janet only socialized with White House people and had no known boyfriend. Who slept with Janet? Does this joint task force thing work both ways? Will they investigate that for us?”

“The Vice President is their protectee,” Max emphasized. “Besides, the investigation is not going in their direction. It is out on the streets, searching for the perp who killed two women after they left the 2nd Street Clinic.”

“Are there any connections between the two victims? Do you have the TV interview of Mrs. Williams?”

“Now what are you going to go and stir up?” He rose and walked around his desk to me. “That woman lost her only child.”

I stopped pacing. “Do we know who fathered her dead grandchild?”

“It just so happens we do.”

“Oh?”

“He's in the military and currently out of the country. He knew she was pregnant, and they had planned to marry when his tour was up. Also, she had a fulltime job with a nonprofit working with homeless shelters.”

“Okay, so I went off. I'm sorry.” I gave him my best
woeful
look. “Anybody talk to people at the nonprofit, the shelters?”

“Yes. Her employer gave her a glowing report. We haven't interviewed anyone at the shelters,” he said quietly, but firmly.

“But with Janet, we don't know anything about the paternity—”

“And we may never know. All we have on her is this.” He handed me a two-page report. “Her bio, compliments of the White House. Be my guest.”

I scanned it. “May I have a copy?”

Walsh walked around his desk and pushed a button on his phone. “Delia.”

I felt suddenly weary and plopped into one of his big soft chairs. Delia entered.

“Please make a copy of this for Ms. Wolfe,” he asked the policewoman, pointing to what I was holding.

Delia gave me a serious look as she took the papers. “Girl, you all right?”

I sat up. “What? Oh, I'm fine, just a little weary.”

“You got a blood sugar problem?”

“Not that I know of. I've been running hard—the serial killings. A good night's sleep, I'll be fine.”

“If you say so.”

Delia didn't sound convinced, but went off to make the copies. I reached into my briefcase, took out the bag of chips, and began munching one after the other.

Max sat behind his desk, looking at me and shaking his head. “Lunch?”

“This? Oh. No. Just a snack.”

“Unhuh.”

I munched as he went over some papers on his desk. Delia returned with my copy. “Thanks, Delia. By the way, how's your family?” I asked, hoping to distract any more questions about my health.

“As much trouble as ever. Here's the bio,” she said separating it from some other papers she was carrying. She handed the second batch to her captain. “Here's the report on the 2nd Street sweep.”

On her way out, Delia gave me another look, like
what are you hiding?

She's too perceptive for my own good, I thought.

Max was scanning the papers Delia gave him. “We waited until dawn this morning, after staking out a two-square-block area overnight, to walk the area.”

I put away my chips and took out my tape recorder, punching record.

“They found Rausch's car a block south from the clinic, unlocked and parked at the curb. Her purse was under the car. Its keys were on the driver's side floor. She was apparently assaulted getting in. They found a broken umbrella and clinic brochures.”

He saw the recorder. “Be careful what you do with that.”

“It will self-destruct if I don't use it properly, you know that,” I teased.

“They've towed Rausch's car to our garage. Forensics has it.”

“From what state are the license plates?”

Max looked over the papers. “Doesn't say.”

“Yet we're sure it's her car?” I wondered why that had been overlooked.

“There were pictures of her with others in her wallet. A Virginia driver's license with her name, photo, and social security number that is being verified.”

“So this guy sits in his vehicle and stakes out pregnant women?”

“Appears that way.” Max put the report down. “As we speak, we have uniformed teams talking to every known neighborhood clinic, asking them to instruct their clients about safe conduct. We've asked for media support.”

“Okay. May I have a copy of what you're telling them? I'm sure our people will be on it, but I can put something in my followup article.” I turned off the recorder and put it away. I fiddled with my hands, a habit of mine from childhood when I'm tense.

“Now, what is the real reason you are here?” Max asked in a fatherly tone.

I smiled. He read me like a book. “I came to apologize,” I ‘fessed up.

Max furrowed his brow.

“Janet's roommate?”

“Who seems to have disappeared,” he said flatly.

“Not really. She's on
Scalawag.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he said, nodding.

“I had to protect her,” I said defensively.

Max raised his arms making the gesture of laying out a big headline in front of himself: “Reporter Holds Rausch's Roommate Hostage to Get Inside Story.”

“I have told you everything she told me. She wants to talk to you, but she's not up for the limelight.”

He leaned toward me. “Are you implying I exploit my interviewees?”

I pulled back. “Of course not. It's just that we don't know enough about what's going on with these murders. Maybe Janet was specifically targeted.”

“They are serial killings. Is the roommate pregnant?”

I shook my head. “Could you talk with her, maybe this afternoon after three?”

I taxied back to the paper and worked on my followup article. I didn't feel any closer to finding the killer, but Max's information was at least publishable. The MPD release would be out later.

MPD knew the paternity with Williams, but not with Janet. I decided a comment about the lack of information coming from the Vice President's office was in order. Why weren't they being more forthcoming?

From what Marsha told me, Kat Turner was in the know. Without information about Janet's social life, I had no place to look except to the Vice President's office. That's where Janet spent many of her off hours, according to Marsha. Still, the father could have been a pickup which Janet did not want to admit to, even to her roommate.

The public was in a furor over these killings, and rightfully so. I put MPD's precautions for pregnant women in my article and delivered it to Lassiter. I felt that asking a question about the paternity of Janet's baby was perfectly reasonable. Especially in light of the celebrity attached to her by virtue of her employment.

I called Marsha about meeting her on
Scalawag.
I met Max in the marina's parking lot at four. True to his word, he interviewed Marsha gently for about ten minutes.

“I wish I knew more.” She smiled.

Max shook that off. “You did fine.”

“There's some interesting stuff in Janet's room you might want to see,” I said.