Murder at The Washington Tribune (20 page)

He shrugged. “Went okay, I guess. Your MPD spokesman was smooth in debunking the serial killer theory.”

“Yeah, he was good. He always is. The commish puts him out in front of the cameras whenever he wants a point to be made. You held your ground.”

“All I did was say that it's possible that a serial killer is prowling the streets.”

“And you said someone from MPD told you we were considering it.”

“That's right,” he said, shifting position in his chair. “Hell, Edith, how can you
not
consider it?”

“Considering it is one thing, Joe. Telling the public is another.”

“The public has a right to know.”

“Not if it panics them and causes them to change their daily lives.”

“That's not the point, Edith. You have to understand that—”

He was glad their drinks and calamari arrived to interrupt the conversation. He didn't want to get into an argument with her. He and Edith had been friends for a long time; she'd been at his house for dinner and celebrations a number of times, including a surprise birthday party Georgia had thrown for him a month earlier. And, of course, there was that sweaty night in a tangle of sheets that threatened to redefine their otherwise platonic relationship.

He lifted his glass. “Here's to your conversion to Judaism,” he said.
“L'chaim!”

“Salud!”
she said, touching the rim of her glass to his and laughing.

They slipped into a conversation about her current woes with her estranged husband. The more she discussed it, the angrier she became until, at one point, Wilcox thought she might tip over the table. “Hey,” he said, “you'll get through this. You married a jerk, that's all. No judge is going to buy his story about being out of work and broke and needing financial support from you.”

“You sound like some naÏve kid, Joe. There are plenty of judges who are jerks, too, black robes and alleged wisdom or not. Believe me, I've seen plenty of them.”

“I was trying to make you feel better,” he said.

“I know, I know. Maybe I can make you feel good.”

“Oh? I can't wait.”

She thought he'd taken her comment as sexual innuendo. “Let's not go there, Joe.”

“What?”

“Let's order.”

She waited until they were on dessert to make him feel good. She leaned across the table as far as she could and said, “The pen truly is more powerful than the sword, Joe. You've proved that.”

“How?”

“Based upon your articles about a serial killer, my guys are about to go public and acknowledge the possibility and announce the formation of a special task force.”

“Why?” Wilcox asked.

“Heat from the city pols. Because of your articles, lots of pretty young women are calling to say they're scared, and asking what the police are doing to catch the guy.” Wilcox started to say something but she continued. “Now, Joe, I'm telling you this off the record. Right?”

“Right. When are they going public?”

“Not sure, A day or two. I still don't buy it, Joe. Don't get me wrong. I'm not doubting that you got somebody at MPD to give you the serial killer scenario, and I understand how the similarities between the two murders—good-looking young women working in the media, both strangled—adds some support.” She shook her head. “The tail really
can
wag the dog, huh?”

“I suppose so.”

The news that MPD would now give credence to his reports did not please him. It was all based upon a lie, albeit a small one, that was now growing in importance. The tail wagging the dog, indeed!

But he didn't dwell on that, any more than he was able to focus on much of the conversation at the table that night.

Michael!

It was always Michael invading his thoughts.

“This was nice,” Vargas-Swayze said over coffee.

“Yes, it was,” Wilcox said. “Aside from MPD deciding to sign on to the serial killer possibility, what else is new in the investigations?”

“Unfortunately, not much. Everybody's got a theory. One killer or two? Thanks to you, Joe. Crimes of passion or premeditation? Targets of opportunity or carefully planned? Somebody who works at the
Trib
? Some homeless guy? My partner, Dungey, who's no fan of the press, tends to agree with your serial killer angle.”

“That's nice to hear,” Wilcox said.

“He's looking into the young reporter you mentioned, Gene Hawthorne.”

“Probably nothing there, but it was worth mentioning.”

“Of course it was.”

“You were going back to question people who were at the paper the night Jean Kaporis was killed. Anything worthwhile there?”

“No. Still, Dungey has latched on to a few,” Edith said.

“Based on what?”

“His gut. Nothing more than that. He's like that, Joe. He trusts his instincts more than most cops I've worked with. We all think our instincts are the best, but they usually don't pan out.”

“You can't convict anyone on instincts,” Wilcox said.

“How true,” she said. “The only thing I've learned from questioning those who were in the building the night of the murder is that you guys at the
Trib
eat a hell of a lot of pizza.”

He laughed.

“And use a lot of office supplies.”

He frowned. “I wasn't aware of that,” he said.

This time she laughed. “We spoke with a couple of deliverymen for office supply companies who made deliveries that night.”

He thought of Michael, who'd said he was delivering supplies for an office supply company, and had made a delivery to the newspaper.

“Any names?” he asked.

“Pizza deliverymen?”

“Yeah, and office supply guys.”

She shook her head. “There's nothing worth pursuing with them,” she said. “Dungey latched on to one guy, didn't feel comfortable with him, but he's not pursuing it, at least for the moment.”

“Who was the guy?” Wilcox asked, sounding as casual as he possibly could.

She scrunched up her face. “French name. LaGlue. LaBrew. I think Dungey is uncomfortable with anybody with a foreign sounding name. He's a real Smith and Jones kind of guy. Good basketball player by the way. He's . . . Joe?”

“What? Or. Sorry. My mind wandered there for a minute. Happening more and more these days. Come on, let's go. It's past your bedtime and—”

“
My
bedtime?” she said, punching his arm.

“All right,” he said, “
my
bedtime.” He kissed her on the cheek and hailed a passing empty cab. Another kiss on the cheek and he was gone, his thoughts as murky as the dark backseat of the cab.

NINETEEN

“What've you got on the murders?” Paul Morehouse asked when his senior reporter arrived the next morning.

Wilcox had been asking himself that same question. Because Morehouse wanted more from him, he was determined to oblige. At least this time they would be based upon truth.

“MPD's close to announcing that they've set up a special task force to hunt down the serial killer.”

“Where'd you get that, Joe?”

“A source.”

“How close are they to making the announcement?”

“A day, maybe two.”

“They've been debunking the serial killer angle from the beginning,” Morehouse said. “What changed their mind?”

Wilcox shrugged.

“Can you get it on the record?”

“No,” Wilcox said with a shake of the head. “Not until they go public with it. A few days at the most.”

“Go with it tomorrow,” Morehouse said. “Anonymous MPD source.”

“Okay.”

“What else?”

“At the moment? Not much. I'm working some leads today. Hopefully, they'll pan out.”

Wilcox was almost out Morehouse's door when his boss stopped him. “Hey, Joe, don't miss this.”

Wilcox returned to the desk and accepted the memo Morehouse handed him. He read it, scowled, and said, “A little premature, isn't it?”

“Hey,” Morehouse said, extending his hands palms out in a defensive posture. “I don't make policy around here. I just follow it. Be sure to go, huh? They're serious about it upstairs.”

Wilcox retreated to his cubicle. Gene Hawthorne walked by and glanced in at Wilcox, who muttered to himself and read the memo again.

It was addressed to Wilcox, and had come from the
Tribune
's vice president of human resources. In it, the veep pointed out that because Wilcox was within two years of retirement, he was eligible for the buyout program that had been initiated a year earlier. He was instructed to report to a conference room on the executive floor at three that afternoon for a briefing on his options.

He tossed the memo on his desk and looked at his watch. Eight o'clock. What time did Michael go to work? He picked up the phone and dialed his brother's number, intending to leave a message on the machine. Instead, Michael answered. “Joseph,” he said, as though getting the call was akin to winning a lottery. “I'm so glad you called. I was afraid you might let too much time pass. I loved seeing you yesterday, both in person and on the telly. You were wonderful, really showed up the others on the show with you.”

“Thank you, Michael. I appreciate that. Look, I started thinking after leaving your apartment yesterday that you're right about how important it is for us to reestablish a relationship after all these years. I'm sure you understand how shocked I was to hear from you and to know you were no longer at the hospital.”

“Of course I understand, Joseph, and I told you that. I am willing to go at whatever pace is comfortable for you and your family.” His exaggerated diction annoyed Joe.

“The family. Well, I do want to go slowly there, Michael. Let's spend whatever time together is necessary for us to forge a new bond. Once that happens, I would love to introduce you to Georgia and Roberta. Tell you what. I know you're working but—”

“Wrong, Joseph,” Michael said in a scolding way, a teacher chiding a student who'd given the wrong answer to a quiz question. “I've been doing some serious thinking, too.”

Joe filled the ensuing pause with, “And?”

“I called in this morning and gave them my resignation, effective today.”

This time, Joe initiated the pause. His immediate reaction was fear that Michael would seek financial support from him. “How are you going to support yourself, Michael?”

“You sound worried, Joseph.”

“Worried? About what?”

“About money. Was I looking for money from you?”

“Michael, I—”

“I wouldn't blame you for worrying about that. After all, you're not a Bob Woodward or some other reporter who's gone on to write bestselling books. I'm sure you've made a decent living and all that. Does Georgia work?”

“No. Not any more. I'd like to get together again today, Michael.”

“That sounds splendid. Dinner?”

“I'll have to play that by ear.”

“Come to the apartment first. Drinks are so expensive in restaurants. We can have one here and then decide whether to go on to dinner.”

“That would be fine, Michael. Fiveish?”

“I have an appointment at five, but—”

“We'll make it later,” Joe said.

“No, come at five,” said Michael. “I will leave a small envelope containing a key to the building's front door, and one to my apartment, beneath the faux planter to the right of the front door.”

“Michael, I really don't—”

“Joseph, we are brothers. Aha! I'll have duplicate keys made for you and they will be in the envelope. Yours to keep.”

“All right,” Joe said. “What time will you be back from your appointment?”

“Six, six-thirty at the latest.”

After hanging up, Wilcox made a routine call to MPD's office of public affairs and spoke with a deputy there. “Hear that you're setting up a task force to focus on the serial killer possibility.”

The cop on the other end of the phone laughed. “No comment,” he said.

“I'll take that to mean I'm right,” Wilcox said.

“Jesus, Joe, now that you're a talking head, don't let it swell up.”

“No fear of that,” Joe said. “I'll dutifully report your lack of comment.”

He read comments made by single women to Rick Jillian, one of which caused him to laugh out loud: “I had a dream last night and saw the serial killer in it,” one woman told Jillian.” She went on to describe him as being unusually tall—“at least six-six,” she'd said—with a greenish complexion and a patch over one eye. “He spoke in tongues,” she added.

Armed with more rational quotes generated by Jillian's interviews, and with some additional psychological material from researcher Kathleen Lansden, Wilcox spent the rest of the morning writing the next edition's feature piece.

Georgia called at eleven: “Joe, Roberta wants to talk with us about something.”

“Talk about what? Is she all right?”

“I don't know. She sounded serious. She's working tonight, but she's coming to the house tomorrow night for dinner. I want you here.”

“Sure. She wouldn't give even a hint of what this is about?”

“No.”

“She's not planning to marry that Curtis guy, is she?”

“Joe, stop asking questions. I don't know what she's doing. You will be here.”

“Of course I will. I'll be late tonight though. Don't hold dinner.”

He decided to have lunch at the press club, and went there a little after noon. It was a pleasant day in D.C., sunny and warm but not hot. He rode the elevator to the club's floor and took a seat at the Reliable Source Bar.

“Mr. Wilcox, sir,” the barman said. “How are you on this fine day?”

“Okay, thank you. A bloody, extra horseradish.”

The drink had no sooner been placed before him when John Grant, his friend from the Associated Press, sidled up, slapped him on the back, and took the adjacent stool. “How goes it, Joe?”

“Pretty good. You?”

“Could be worse. I got up this morning, took a breath, and it worked. That puts me ahead of the game. What's new on the crime beat?”

“Not a hell of a lot. I'm working some leads on the young girl-killer story.”

“Oh, speaking of that—” The bartender stood waiting for Grant to order.

“—martooni, up, with two olives.” Grant resumed his conversation with Wilcox. “What's with this hooker angle?”

Wilcox, who'd just taken a sip of his drink, coughed, and swallowed hard. “What hooker angle?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“I was talking this morning to someone in the shop who covers D.C. She said something about Jean Kaporis's roommate working for an escort service. That true?”

Wilcox didn't want to admit he knew nothing about it. At the same time, he didn't want to acknowledge that he
did
know but had decided not to use it.

“I've heard the rumor,” he said, taking another drink. “I don't see any relevance to the murder.”

Grant leaned close. “Is it possible, Joe? I mean, could Kaporis have been turning tricks after hours and pissed off some client?”

“I doubt it, John. I really doubt it. Where did your friend get it?”

“She didn't say.”

“Are you moving it on the wire?”

“This morning.”

They enjoyed their drinks in silence until Grant said, “What's with your buddy Hawthorne?”

Wilcox turned to him. “My buddy?”

Grant laughed and ordered a second drink. Wilcox declined.

“Yeah, your buddy, the hotshot reporter with the attitude. I heard you and he got into it up here.”

“I'll be damned,” Wilcox said, reconsidering and asking for a second drink. “What's this place become, a little old ladies' club? Yeah, I brought the bastard here for lunch and got into it with him. He left in a huff, which was fine with me.”

“That's not the way he tells it,” Grant said.

“You talked to him?”

“No, but I heard him talk about it.”

“How did that happen?” Wilcox asked, feeling increasingly agitated.

“I was in the Trib Bar, that little joint up the street from you,” Grant said. “Hawthorne was there with a half-dozen yuppie friends, pontificating and shooting off his mouth after a snootful of booze, trying to impress the gals who were with him—who, by the way, were knockouts. Anyway, our young Mr. Hawthorne is giving a lecture on how journalism has changed, and how people who've been in it for a while can't keep up with the changes.”

“Changes for the worse,” Wilcox muttered.

“That's not the point, Joe. Hawthorne starts telling a story about this over-the-hill reporter who took him to lunch here at the club. God, he went on about how the club is nothing but a haven for hacks and losers. Tickled his audience, who were all about his age. I was tempted to take a shot at him, but my pugilistic days are long gone.”

“He mentioned me by name?” Wilcox asked.

“Yeah, once. At some point in the story, one of the gals asked who the reporter was who took him to lunch. He said it was Joe Wilcox, which was not an unfamiliar name to one of the nubile young ladies because she associated you with the serial killer stories. That triggered recognition from the other, who said she'd seen you on TV. So did I, Joe. You've got a new career ahead of you. Let's have lunch. I'm starved.”

“I'm not staying,” Wilcox said, draining his second drink. “No, I, ah, I have an appointment somewhere. I have to be somewhere. I have to—I'm sorry. Good seeing you. I have to go.”

“Okay,” Grant said. “Hey, Joe, about Hawthorne. Don't let it get to you. I just thought you'd enjoy hearing the story.”

“Sure. Yeah, I did.”

Wilcox stood and asked for his bill.

“I've got it,” said Grant. “Go on, go to your appointment.”

Grant watched his friend leave the room.”You notice anything strange about Joe?” he asked the bartender, who'd been serving drinks at the National Press Club for more than twenty years.

“He looks a little uptight, Mr. Grant.”

“That's an understatement,” Grant said, shaking his head. Unstated:
The guy's cracking up.

Wilcox walked to the
Tribune
Building but didn't enter. He went past the entrance and wandered aimlessly along nearby streets. There were times when he thought he might pass out and took refuge against a building wall, trying to be as subtle as possible so as to not draw attention to himself. Mild nausea came and went.
What's wrong with me?
he wondered. He felt like an old man, feeble and easily victimized, taking careful steps to avoid falling, crossing intersections with great care, starting across when the light changed but hesitating because he wasn't sure whether it was safe to go to the other side.

After forty-five minutes of this drifting, he felt sufficiently composed to return to the newspaper and his cubicle. He'd no sooner settled in his chair and started to check e-mails and voice mail messages than Morehouse summoned him.

“What's up?” Joe asked, taking a seat across the desk from the editor.

“What've you got for tomorrow?”

“Just what I sent you before lunch.”

“What's the problem, Joe?”

“There is no problem, Paul. I'm working my sources. Hopefully, I'll have more tomorrow.” It seemed insufferably hot in Morehouse's office, and Wilcox dabbed at his brow and upper lip with a handkerchief.

“You sick?” Morehouse asked.

“Sick? No. It's hot in here.”

“Well, Joe, it'll get a lot hotter if we don't come up soon with a different slant on the murders. We took the lead in packaging the serial killer idea, thanks to you. Now that we have, we can't just drop it. Everybody else in town is running with our story, Joe. I'm not running a journalistic charity here.”

“I'm doing all I can,” Wilcox said, weakly.

“I doubt that.”

Wilcox stiffened. “Now wait a minute, Paul,” he said. “Don't tell me whether I'm giving it my all. I resent that!”

Morehouse came from behind his desk and stood at the window overlooking the main newsroom. Wilcox started to get up to leave but Morehouse motioned for him to remain seated. The editor said, without looking at Wilcox, “You know I like you, Joe.”

Joe didn't respond.

“I always have,” Morehouse said, his attention still on the scene through the window. “Times have changed, though. You aware of that?”