Murder at The Washington Tribune (18 page)

SEVENTEEN

Wilcox had trouble finding parking on the street and circled the block a few times until a space opened up across from the address Michael had given him. It was a few minutes after four when he completed his parallel parking and shut off the engine. He sat quietly and stared at the building for a few minutes before slowly leaving the car and crossing the street. He paused at the door, drew a breath, entered the foyer, and read the names on the tenant panel on the wall. Listed next to the apartment number was the name
MICHAEL LARUE
. Strange, he thought as he pushed the button opposite the apartment number.

“Joseph?” the voice came through a tiny speaker.

The tinny sound startled Wilcox. “Hello?” he said, leaning closer to the panel.

A buzzer and the metallic sound of the door lock disengaging filled the confined space. “Joseph, come in.”

Wilcox pushed open the door and stepped into the hallway that ran from the front to the back of the building. A door opened at the far end and Michael stepped into the hall. “Down here, Joseph,” he said.

Wilcox approached this man, his brother, who was silhouetted in light from inside the apartment. Joe's initial reaction was to Michael's height. He hadn't remembered him being so tall.

“Well, well,” Michael said, smiling. “You
are
here. How wonderful.”

Joe tentatively extended his hand, which Michael shook enthusiastically.

“Hello, Michael. I—”

“Come in, come in,” Michael said, turning and entering the apartment. Joe followed.

He stopped a few feet inside and took in his surroundings; soothing recorded classical music came from unseen speakers.

“Like it, Joseph?” Michael asked, indicating the apartment with outstretched arms. “It isn't especially large, but it's perfectly adequate for one person. Come in, come in and sit, make yourself at home. Take that chair over there. It's the most comfortable one.”

Joe ignored the invitation and instead went to the window and looked out on to the side street. A passage in the music caught his attention, and he cocked his head.

Michael noticed. “Like classical music, Joseph?”

“Debussy,” Joe replied.
“La Mer.”

“Ah ha,” said Michael. “You obviously do like classical music. And some of the most familiar. Jazz, too?”

Joe turned and for the first time since entering the apartment took a close look at his brother. While he'd been struck at Michael's height, he now was aware that this man he hadn't seen for decades was also physically fit. His black T-shirt was molded to his slender yet muscular torso. He hadn't begun to bald as Joe had, nor had gray appeared. His hair was very black—dyed? Joe wondered—and neatly trimmed on the sides, but featuring a ponytail. What was especially evident was his tan. His face and arms were bronzed; piercing green eyes seemed to reflect inner bemusement.

“Jazz?” Joe said. “No. I've never gotten into that. Some Dixieland maybe.” He noticed the guitar and amplifier. “You play, Michael?”

Michael stood by the instrument. “I play at it,” he said. “All those years in the hospital gave me nothing but time to learn. I tried art but realized that wasn't for me, so I turned to music, for which I seem to have a greater affinity. People say I've become quite proficient. I certainly love it. Do you play an instrument?”

“Afraid not. Michael, I—”

A cat appeared through the open bedroom door.

“This is Maggie,” Michael said as the animal came to Joe and rubbed against his leg. “A Maine coon cat, a lovely breed. They sell for more than a thousand dollars from breeders. I rescued this poor thing from the SPCA. Cost me a hundred-dollar donation. Well worth it. Drink? I have wine, Scotch, or vodka. I believe you're a Scotch drinker, but maybe you enjoy variety.”

“Nothing, thank you. Oh, some Scotch on the rocks, a small one. I'm doing a television show this evening.”

“How exciting. Back in a jiffy.”

How did he know I drink Scotch?
Joe wondered as Michael came from the kitchen carrying the platter of hors d' oeuvres. He set it on a small table and said, “Drinks on the way,” and disappeared again.

Joe found himself relaxing. The music was nice, and the initial shock of finally confronting Michael had worn off. He went to the platter of food and tasted some. Michael returned carrying a glass of Scotch on the rocks and a half-filled glass of white wine. He handed Joe his drink and raised his glass. “To brothers, Joseph, and to being close again. Cheers!”

After clinking, they sat on the small couch.

“I suppose there are many questions I should be asking,” Joe said, sipping his drink.

“And I have questions, too,” Michael said in a low baritone. “Where shall we begin? I know. You're the reporter. Asking questions is your business. Go ahead, Joseph, interview me as though . . . as though . . . as though I'm a movie star who's been out of the public eye for a while and am making a comeback.” He laughed. “No,” he said, “I'll ask the first question. How did you become a journalist? As I remember, the only thing you thought about was football and baseball.”

Joe couldn't help but smile. “Yeah, I suppose I was a jock back in high school.”

“And chased all the pretty girls,” Michael added. “Maybe I should have pursued sports and pretty girls back then. Maybe I wouldn't have—” His words trailed off.

“Hey, Michael, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I'd understand.”

“Oh, no, Joseph. There was a time when I was too embarrassed to speak of what I'd done. It was too painful to ever mention it. But I learned how important it is to be open and candid, to face one's life squarely, the good and the bad, the high and the low points. Oh, no, Joseph, I don't have any problem being honest about myself and who I was. Notice I put that in the past tense? Who I was and who I am now, are two very different people.”

Thank God,
Joe thought. “How did you know I drank Scotch?” he asked. “I was thirteen when you last saw me.”

“Aha,” Michael said, standing and going to the center of the room. “Caught in the act. Well, Joseph, it took a significant amount of time for me to get up the courage to call you. During that time I decided to get to know you from afar, gain a sense of who my brother was before seeing him face to face. I've been spying on you.” He said it with dramatic flair, an actor supplying the curtain line in a British murder mystery.

“Spying on me? You've been following me?”

“Sometimes. I've taken the public tour at your newspaper a few times and saw you working at your desk, in your cubicle. As a matter of fact, I've seen you at work other times.”

“How so?” Joe asked, feeling uneasy again.

“I work for an office supply company, Joseph. I deliver supplies to businesses, including
The Washington Tribune.
I saw you once when I brought something to your newsroom.”

“That's interesting, Michael,” Joe said, finishing what was in his glass.

“A refill?” Michael asked.

“Thanks, no. Tell me more about spying.”

“Oh, I waited outside your building one day and followed you to lunch. You met a very handsome woman. Hispanic, I surmised. That's when I noticed you drank Scotch. I was at the next table. It took every ounce of restraint on my part to not reach over, pat your hand, and announce who I was. But I didn't want to interrupt your conversation.”

He didn't mention that he'd seen Edith Vargas-Swayze again, when she and her cop partner interviewed him at work.

The idea that he'd been spied upon as he went about his daily routines caused Joe to squirm. “When else did you spy on me, Michael?”

“Oh, my goodness, Joseph, I sense you're offended at what I did. If so, I apologize. It's just that after so many years, and the circumstances that kept us apart, I was reluctant to simply pop up like a jack-in-the-box and announce, ‘Here I am, brother.' Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” Joe said. “I see that you've changed your name. LaRue, is it?”

“Yes. I decided that if I was going to get a fresh start in my life, I needed to wipe away everything from the past.”

It would have been better if you had, including me,
Joe thought, not pleased with that uncharitable view.

“LaRue has a nice ring to it, don't you think?” Michael asked.

“Yes. A nice ring.” Joe fell silent, his attention on the cat, who had climbed up on a windowsill and was playing with the blind's cord.

“Joseph,” Michael said, aware his brother's attention was elsewhere.

Joe turned and faced him. “What?”

“I realize how shocking it must be for you to be sitting next to me after so many years. Frankly, I never thought I'd have this opportunity again, that I would die in the hospital. Forty years is a very long time to be put away. At first, I kept track of the days on a calendar, crossing each one off, filled with anger that my life had been taken away from me.”

“It was your anger that put you there, Michael,” Joe said, not sure he should have.

“Yes, it was. I couldn't accept that at first. Everyone else was wrong except me. The world conspired against me—and I admit, Joseph, that that included you and mother and father.”

Joe winced.

“Did you ever read
I'm Okay, You're Okay?
”

“Yes, I did.”

“I thought it was a brilliant book. I saw myself in it. I was okay, the world was not.”

Joe recalled the groundbreaking book in which the Freudian concepts of ego, superego and id were redefined as adult, parent, and child, and one's way of viewing others helped define how successful they would be in establishing relationships. His interest stemmed from his job as a cops reporter writing about society's criminal element. Criminals, the book pointed out, tended to function with the attitude that they were okay but others weren't. Emotionally healthy people were the I'm okay, you're okay individuals, whose positive outlook applied not only to them but to the rest of society.

“With the help of the good men and women at the hospital, I eventually shed my anger and was able to see that not only was I okay, but that my fellow men were, too. And women, of course.” Michael laughed. “Women! I envy you, Joseph, having a beautiful, loving wife and splendid daughter.”

“You don't know Georgia,” Joe said.

“True. Oh, well, I might as well admit it. I've taken the liberty of enjoying an advance peek at your Georgia, too, and Roberta. Of course, I see Roberta all the time on TV. But—”

“How dare you?” Joe said forcefully.

“How dare I
what
?”

“Sneak around spying on my wife and daughter. What did you do, stalk them?”

“That would be criminal,” Michael said with a modicum of indignation. “I wanted to feel that I at least knew what they looked like before actually meeting them. Is that so terrible?” He didn't give Joe a chance to respond. “You're forgetting, Joseph, that I've not been as fortunate as you in life. You went on to become a respectable journalist. You married the girl of your dreams and fathered a loving daughter. I've had none of that, but I intend to make up for lost time. Won't you help me achieve that, Joseph? I've paid my debt to society, paid it in full. I came to Washington because my only living relative was here—
my brother
!”

Joe stood and went to where the cat was now sleeping on the sill. He ran his hand over its head and back, waking it and eliciting a rumble of a purr. He liked four-legged animals. He and Michael had had dogs and cats growing up, and he and Georgia had brought strays into the house and raised them with love. Their last pet, a mixed breed rescued from the local pound, had been put to sleep at the advanced age of sixteen. That was two years ago, and they'd never pursued having another animal in the house.

He leaned closer to Maggie to better hear her contented sounds, and wasn't aware that Michael had come up behind him. When he realized it, he straightened with a start.

“I didn't mean to frighten you,” Michael said.

“You didn't,” Joe said, moving toward the door. “I'd better be going.”

“Your TV appearance,” Michael said. “You'll be talking about the serial killer?”

“Yes.”

“I'll be watching, Joseph.”

“Good.”

“Joseph.”

“Yeah?”

“This won't be the last time we spend time together. Don't tell me that it is. Don't destroy me again.”

“What the hell are you saying, that I played a part in what you did and what happened to you?”

“No, no, no, no, no. I learned, among many things, that it's important that I take full responsibility for that. What I am saying, Joseph, what I'm begging—and I hate to beg—is that you bring me into your life. I desperately need that, Joseph. I was told it's vitally important for me to reestablish contact with family. Please.”

“Michael, I—” Joe managed a smile. “Welcome to the family, Michael. But let's take it slow. Okay?”

“Absolutely.”

“Give me some time to adjust to this and to bring Georgia into it.”

“Take all the time you need, Joseph. But in the meantime, we can meet now and then, can't we?”

“Sure. Now and then.”

There was an awkward moment when Joe was afraid Michael would hug him, embrace him physically. He stepped away to avoid it and said, “Take care, Michael.”

EIGHTEEN

Wilcox had an hour and a half to kill before appearing on
D.C. Digest.
Had he not planned to have dinner with Edith Vargas-Swayze after the TV show, he would have grabbed a bite before it. He considered going back to his office at the
Trib
but decided against it. Because there was no breaking news upon which to base another article in the series, he was off the hook for a day—but only a day. Morehouse had said that he expected the story to pick up again, and had urged Wilcox to pull out all the stops to make that happen. Newsstand sales since the articles had begun to appear were up by 8 percent, and subscriptions had increased, too.

He found a coffee shop near the TV studio and wiled away the time sipping an iced coffee and nibbling on a piece of lemon pound cake to take the edge off his appetite. But nothing could take the edge off his thoughts about having gone to Michael's apartment.

Cognitively, he was happy that his brother was no longer confined to the Illinois hospital where he'd been a patient for so many years. That Michael had come out of that experience looking as good as he did and with a relatively positive view of his future, was admirable. His desire to reintegrate with Joe and his family wasn't unreasonable. As he'd said, his doctors urged him to reestablish contact with his family as part of his post-hospital recovery.

But as those good thoughts came to him, they were accompanied by a visceral dread. The way Michael had begun the process of reintroducing himself to Joe and the family was upsetting at best. To think that he, Georgia, and Roberta had been spied upon, followed, their movements deliberately observed by someone with an agenda, sent a shiver up Joe's spine. And there was Michael's threatening tone during his phone calls, and at the apartment. When Joe had demonstrated initial shock and reservation at hearing from a brother he hadn't seen in four decades, Michael had hinted he would go through Georgia: “You know how women are, more social than men.”

As he sat in the coffee shop, these thoughts caused new anger to bubble up and to sour the taste of cake in his mouth. The truth was—and he had to admit it to himself—he did not want Michael Wilcox, or LaRue if he preferred—back in his life.

He'd been twelve years old when the murder had taken place. Michael, his taller, handsome, all-knowing big brother, was sixteen at the time. The victim had been a neighbor, Marjorie Jones; blond, flirtatious, and physically developed beyond her fourteen years. She had a habit of not always drawing the shade when undressing in her small second-floor bedroom, which Michael had discovered one evening. After keeping his find to himself for a week, he eventually shared it with his younger brother.

One night after dinner, when it had become dark, Michael allowed Joe to huddle with him behind an elm in the side yard and wait for Marjorie to put on her show.

“She wants us to see her naked,” Michael said in his worldly wisdom. Joe didn't understand why any girl would want boys to see her without clothes, but he never challenged Michael's analysis of what became an almost nightly event.

“Look, look,” Michael said when the light came on and Marjorie appeared. Joe giggled. “Shut up!” Michael said.

If she wanted them to see her, Joe reasoned, why would it matter if she knew they were there? But he didn't say that to Michael. He kept silent as Marjorie began to take off her clothes, slowly, looking as though she might be posing, disappearing from view, then coming back into the frame created by the window.

“Look,” Michael said, “she's gonna take off her bra. Oh, man!”

“Did you ever see hair?” Joe asked.

“Shut up. Yeah, of course I did. Look.”

Marjorie faced the window as she unhooked her brassiere and allowed it to drop to her feet.

Joe squealed.

Marjorie came to the window, leaned over to look outside, straightened and pulled down the shade.

“You little jerk,” Michael said, slapping Joe across the face. “See what you did?”

Joe whimpered and walked away, his hand to his stinging cheek. It was the last time Joe would see Marjorie Jones alive. She was discovered the next morning choked to death in a thick clump of wild raspberry bushes at the far reaches of the Jones property. Thorns from the bushes had torn into the flesh of her partially nude body. Her skirt had been lifted, and her sweater and bra were up around her neck. Her panties had been torn, exposing her genital area. Her mother, a stern, overweight woman with a crooked mouth, found her daughter's lifeless body when she went out early in the morning to pick raspberries for canning. She told the local sheriff that she'd assumed Marjorie had gone to bed the night before and was sleeping late. “You know how these teenage girls are,” she told the sheriff. “All they want to do is sleep late.” She was at a loss to explain how Marjorie had ended up outside in the dead of night.

Joe looked out his window that morning and was excited at seeing so many police cars in front of the Jones house, lights flashing, the sound of voices over two-way radios crackling in the already hot, humid air. He went into Michael's bedroom where his brother was in bed, the covers pulled over his head.

“Michael, Michael,” he said, shaking him. “Wake up. The police are over at the Jones house. Something must have happened.”

Michael told him to get away, but Joe kept shaking his brother until he angrily sat up.

“What happened to you?” Joe asked. Michael's face and hands were covered with deep, bloody scratches.

“Nothing happened,” Michael said. “Now let me sleep.”

“But the police are here and—”

Michael pulled the covers back over his head, and Joe left the room to continue observing the scene from his bedroom. Mr. and Mrs. Jones were talking with the sheriff and other officers. At one point, Mrs. Jones turned and pointed at Joe's house, causing him to duck down out of sight. What was going on?

Still in his pajamas, he ran downstairs where his mother was in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

“Mama, did you see next door? The police are there and—”

“None of our business, Joseph,” she said, looking briefly at him before returning to her chores at the old gas stove. “You get yourself upstairs and dressed proper, and tell your brother to do the same. There's work to be done around here.”

Joe put on the clothes he'd worn the day before and went into Michael's room again. “Michael, you have to get up,” Joe said. “Mama says she wants us downstairs 'cause there's work she wants done and—”

Michael bolted upright as the sound of someone knocking on the downstairs door reached the bedroom. “Who is it?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Joe said. “Let's go down and see.”

Michael shook his head. “Look,” he said, “I'm not here. Okay? You go down and say I must have left here early.”

“Why?”

“Just do what I say, Joey. It's important.”

“Okay.”

Joe left the room and descended the stairs. His mother stood at the front door talking through the screen to the sheriff and two uniformed officers. She turned and said to Joe, “Where's Michael? I told you to get him up and—”

“He's not here,” Joe said, afraid to look directly at his mother or the men on the other side of the door.

“Where is he?” she demanded.

“I don't know. Honest, I don't know. Maybe be left early to go someplace.”

“We'll have to take a look for ourselves, Mrs. Wilcox,” the sheriff said. “If you don't mind.”

She stepped back to allow them to enter. Joe watched wide-eyed as the sheriff led the other officers up the narrow staircase. “His room's to the right,” Mrs. Wilcox yelled after them.

She looked at Joe, whose expression mirrored the confusion and fright he felt. “You go outside,” she said. “No reason for you to be here.” With that she went up the stairs, slowly, tentatively, head cocked to allow her to better hear what was occurring on the second floor.

Joe didn't follow his mother's order. He came to the foot of the steps and listened to the men's voices: “Check in there,” he heard the sheriff say. A moment later, his mother wailed, “Oh, my God!”

“Get him outta there,” the sheriff commanded.

“I didn't do nothing!” Michael shouted.

Joe went up the stairs two at a time and came to Michael's open bedroom door. It was hard to see beyond the bulk of the three lawmen, but when one of them moved aside, he saw that Michael was huddled at the rear of his shallow closet, his knees drawn up to his chin. His brother was crying and saying over and over, “I didn't do nothing, I didn't do nothing bad.”

Mrs. Wilcox turned and saw that Joseph was taking it all in. She grabbed his ear and said angrily, “You obey me now, Joseph, and go downstairs. We've got big trouble here. Go on. Git!”

He did as he was told this time. He went outside to the elm tree where he'd joined his brother the night before and sat on the ground, his eyes on the door from the kitchen. As he waited, he heard the sound of his father's car as it turned off the road and came up the dirt driveway. Michael Wilcox senior had left for work early that morning at a woodworking mill twenty minutes down the road from the house. He'd been employed at the mill for almost twenty years and had recently been promoted to foreman on the day shift. The family had celebrated that night with a fudge cake, Mr. Wilcox's favorite, baked by Mrs. Wilcox, and a glass of nonalcoholic wine for the adults, soda for Michael and Joseph. Drinking alcoholic beverages was forbidden in the Wilcox home; mother and father were staunch churchgoers and active in church affairs and events.

Joseph ran to his father as he exited the car. “Something bad's happening, Papa,” he said breathlessly.

“They inside?” his father asked. He was a tall, gaunt man with unruly gray hair, and wore coveralls over a white T-shirt with
JESUS SAVES
emblazoned on the front.

“Michael's hidin' in the closet,” Joseph said.

“Mama's in there with them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Jones girl's dead?”

His father's words shocked Joseph. “Marjorie's dead?” he said weakly.

“You stay here and don't talk to nobody. You got that?” his father said.

“Yes, sir.”

The senior Wilcox, who'd received a call from his wife the moment things had erupted next door, walked purposefully toward the house. Joseph felt a wave of relief sweep over him. His father would make everything right. He always did. Every time Michael had gotten into trouble at school, which was often, his father would go to the school and return bearing the news that Michael would not be expelled and would be given another chance.

Marjorie was dead?

What did that have to do with Michael?

He remembered the cuts and scratches on his brother, and his relief evaporated.

What had Michael done now?

Marjorie was dead?

Did Michael hurt her?

Sounds from the kitchen shut off his thinking. He watched as the kitchen door opened and the two uniformed officers brought Michael through it, one on each side of him. Michael was bent over, and Joseph saw that his hands were tied behind him. He stopped walking and dropped to his knees. The officers jerked him to his feet and continued toward their cars, which were still in front of the Jones house. Mrs. Wilcox stood at the kitchen door and cried. Joseph's father was nowhere to be seen.

He watched them put Michael in the rear seat of one of the marked patrol cars. The door was slammed shut, and the officers got in the car and drove away, kicking up dust.

“Joseph!” his mother yelled.

He ran to the house and burst into the kitchen. His father was on his knees praying in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary that occupied a corner of the kitchen, beneath a picture of Christ on the cross. His mother took his hand, led him to his father, and the three of them said disparate prayers; Joseph didn't know what to pray for but silently asked that whatever had happened that morning and the night before would go away. “Let Michael be okay, God. I love you, God. I love Michael.”