Murder at The Washington Tribune (31 page)

“As you wish. Noon it is. I'll have lunch for you and your colleagues.”

“That would be wonderful. One favor, Uncle Michael.”

“You need only to name it, Robbie.”

“Please don't tell my dad what we're doing. I want it to be a surprise.”

“My lips are sealed.”

As she lowered the phone into its cradle, a thought assailed her. Why would he be so cooperative about being filmed for a documentary about himself if he was a serial killer? Was that part of his innocence—or craziness?

She dragged out the article written by her father in which he'd quoted the shrink who'd said that such people enjoy the notoriety. That's why they collect everything written about them and their crimes, and write taunting letters to the press and to the police.

She went to her producer's office. “I need a camera crew for a noon shoot,” she said.

“What noon shoot?”

“I can't tell you now, but believe me, it's part of one hell of a big story.”

“What big story?”

“The serial killer.”

He stood behind his desk. “What have you got, Robbie, something about your father's letter?”

“No. Well, yes. Maybe. Trust me. This could be a bombshell. I want Carlos and Margo. They can keep their mouths shut.”

“Okay, okay. But you will let me in on the secret at some point.”

“Of course. Thanks.”

Back in her office, she called her father's number at the
Trib.

“Dad, it's Robbie.”

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Dad, why did you lie to me last night? I have to read in the newspaper about the second letter being delivered to the house? Mom must be terrified.”

“She's okay. I've been insanely busy as you can imagine,” he said.

“But why didn't you tell me about the letter?” she insisted.

“I didn't want to concern you,” he lied, and she knew he was lying. He didn't want to be scooped by her.

Until that moment, she'd considered sharing with him her conclusion about Michael and the letters. It wasn't that she thought he'd be upset to know his own brother might have written them that kept her from doing it. It wasn't because she thought he might be upset at the steps she'd taken, and the conclusions to which she'd come. She said nothing because, to be perfectly honest, it could jeopardize the exclusive she had on this emerging story, and she wasn't about to give that up. Not for anyone. No one. Two could play the same game.

“We're doing fine,” he said. “Edith Vargas-Swayze has arranged for police protection at the house. Nothing to worry about. I've got some media interviews this afternoon, including your own
Cityscape
at five.”

“Good,” she said. “I'll pop in if I'm around.”

“Great. Mom wonders when you're coming by again for dinner.”

“Soon.”

“How's your Mr. Curtis?”

“Tom? He's okay. Haven't seen much of him lately. Too busy. Have to run.”

“Love you, Robbie.”

But not enough to be honest with me,
she thought, choosing to ignore her own dishonesty.

Wilcox stared at the phone for what seemed a long time after his conversation with Roberta. Should he be ashamed at withholding information from her in an attempt to protect his exclusivity? The second letter would, after all, be of concern to her, if only out of fear for her mother. He decided he couldn't worry about it. There would be time later for introspection. His day was filling up fast, thanks to the article that morning. The book editor in New York had called and asked if she could come to Washington that day and meet with him, and he'd readily agreed. The news of a second letter from the serial killer had made the news there in the Big Apple, which also prompted a call from a New York literary agent, as well as from one headquartered in Washington. When informed about the editor, the New York agent told Wilcox, “Don't sign anything with her without representation. She'll try and lowball you. You're sitting on something big. Don't give it away.” Wilcox promised he'd think about it.

“Looks like he's about to make a score,” the officer monitoring the tap on Wilcox's phone at the newspaper said to his colleague.

“Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.”

“You know him?”

“Met him a few times. Not like the rest of the media whores. A standup guy, a straight shooter.”

“Maybe he'll give you a plug in his book.”

“Then I'll be famous, too. But I'll never forget my roots.”

They both laughed and went back to reading magazines while waiting for the next call.

“Joseph, it's Michael.”

Wilcox glanced around to make sure no one was within listening distance.

“Hello, Michael. How are you?”

“I'm fine, but you must be exhausted. I read the article in the paper this morning. Good lord, the maniac actually had the gall to personally deliver a letter to your home?”

“Yeah. Everyone's pretty uptight.”

“I would certainly imagine you would be. Is there anything I can do, any way I can help relieve the tension?”

“No, but thanks for the offer.”

“It's the least a brother can do for a brother, Joseph. How is Georgia faring?”

“She's fine. Look, I'm due at a meeting. I'll call later.”

“Of course. I'll be here all day.”

“No word on a job?”

“Not yet, but I'm not discouraged. Take care.”

An hour later, Detective Edith Vargas-Swayze returned to the communications center to check on calls made by, or to, Wilcox.

“Nothing interesting,” the officer said. “He's gonna become a millionaire. He's got book companies and agents chasing him.”

“Really?”

“He got a call from his daughter at the TV station. He's gonna be on some show over there.”

“He talked to his brother, too,” the second officer on duty said.

“I didn't know he had a brother. Play them for me.”

“All of them?”

“Uh huh.”

After they'd played the recordings of Wilcox's phone conversations that morning, Vargas-Swayze said, “Play the brother's call again.”

“Thanks,” she said after she'd heard it for the second time. “Give me who the brother's phone number is listed under.”

It took only a few minutes to trace the phone number that had automatically been displayed during the call. “Michael LaRue,” the officer said, and gave her the address.

“Something wrong?” the second officer asked, taking note of her grave expression.

“What? No, nothing wrong. Thanks guys.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Michael had prepared a lunch of sautéed chicken breasts accompanied by a platter of raw carrots, string beans, and radishes, and French bread. Roberta nibbled on a carrot or two, but was less interested in food than she was in setting up the shoot. Her crew grabbed bites as they went about their chores.

“Let's start with some shots of him playing guitar,” Roberta said. After much fussing with the equipment, particularly the lights, the taping started. Michael sat on a chair with a blank white wall behind him and played “Our Love Is Here to Stay,” his body hunched over the guitar as though it were part of him, head moving in time with the tempo he'd established, an occasional grunt of satisfaction accompanying a difficult run. They taped the entire song. When he'd struck his final chord, Roberta and the crew applauded.

“Thank you, thank you,” Michael said, bowing.

“How about some shots in the kitchen?” Roberta suggested.

“I'm afraid all the cooking is done,” Michael said.

“We can fake it,” Roberta said.

And so they did, Carlos maneuvering with the camera propped on his shoulder,
cinema verite
style, and Margo positioning the microphone on a boom just out of camera range as Michael pretended to apply his culinary skills.

“That's enough,” Roberta directed. “Let's go back to the living room and do an interview.”

She settled Michael in a chair, and pulled one up for herself so that she faced him. “Now, Uncle Michael,” she said, “if I start asking anything that makes you uncomfortable, just let me know and we'll turn off the tape.”

Carlos and Margo looked at each other.
Uncle Michael? He's her uncle?

“What kind of things will you be asking me?”

“I'd like to talk about your childhood—including that unfortunate incident with your neighbor.”

“Marjorie,” he said flatly.

“Was that her name?” Roberta asked, aware that the camera was already running.

She and Carlos had worked together on many occasions and knew what each was thinking without words needing to be spoken. The best material from an interview often came during the setup, when the interviewee didn't think the camera was on and spoke freely.

That this debatable technique had been taught by one of her college professors tended to mitigate in her mind its deceitfulness. The professor, who taught a class in television interviewing, had cited a New York radio talk show host of yesteryear, Long John Nebel, known for his acerbic on-air approach to guests, especially those for whom he had little regard. The guest would spend preshow time in the Green Room signing releases and talking with Nebel's producer. At some point, the producer would ask, “Is there anything you don't want John to get into on the show, anything you'd just as soon not make public?” The guest might cite some incident in his life that would be embarrassing to have broadcast to thousands of listeners. Unknown to the guest, there was a microphone in the Green Room, and Nebel, sitting in his office, heard every word. At an appropriate moment in the show, the guest could count on being asked about the very thing he wished to avoid.

“This may seem unfair to you,” the professor had lectured, “just as running the camera before an interview without the interviewee's knowledge might strike you as, well, mendacious. But your job as a journalist is to get the story, the
real
story. Once someone agrees to sit for an interview, it isn't necessary to give him or her an official signal that you're starting. In fact, it's best not to. Grab whatever you can, however you can, and sleep well at night knowing you've gone after and gotten the truth. And always remember that the person agreeing to the interview is looking for something out of it, too. Catching them off-guard helps ensure that you'll be capturing who they
really
are, without the spin they'll put on things during the more structured interview.” It was one of the most popular courses at the university until the professor was eventually fired for, as the university's provost put it, “misleading our students.” By that time, Roberta had graduated and had begun her career.

“Yes,” Michael said. “Marjorie Jones. You want to talk about her?”

“If it's all right with you.”

“It isn't easy,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “If you'd rather not—”

“Oh, no, no restrictions, Robbie. Complete honesty is crucial, I was told over and over. I will talk about anything and anyone you wish.”

“One of the things I'd like to ask is how it feels to kill someone.”

The camera continued to roll, the microphone picking up every word.

“How it feels?” He became pensive, head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He came forward and leaned toward her. “In my case, rage, and fear of being found out and punished by my parents preceded the act. As the act continued, the rage abated. I suppose there was some pleasure in it, but I really don't recall specifically.”

Carlos and Margo were now totally immersed in what they were hearing. This guy who played beautiful guitar and was a good cook had murdered somebody named Marjorie Jones? What was Roberta onto? Her uncle? She'd sworn them to secrecy on the way over to the apartment. Now they knew why.

“Do you want to start the interview now?” he asked Roberta.

“If you're ready.”

“As ready as I will ever be,” he said, drawing the back of his hand across his brow in an exaggerated display.

Roberta turned to Carlos and Margo. “Ready?” she asked.

“Ready,” they said in unison, the camera and Nagra tape recorder still rolling.

Roberta held up her hand. “Before we begin,” she said, “I'd like to get something from you about what's happening right here in Washington, D.C. You know that a serial killer is walking the streets.”

“Of course. I've read your father's articles about it.”

She hesitated as though grappling with whether to ask the next question. “All right,” she said, “I'll be direct. With a serial killer roaming the streets, do you ever think that because of your past, you might be considered a suspect?” She didn't allow him to reply. “Do you think that because you've killed someone yourself, you have a better understanding of the mind of someone else who kills?”

It was his turn to ponder. After a long pause, he said, “Perhaps I do, Robbie. Killing someone is anathema to those who've never done it. But once you've killed, that act no longer seems so heinous. It's like breaking through a barrier, I suppose. Kill someone? Inconceivable! But it becomes conceivable once you've broken through that barrier.” He held up his hand, and a pained expression crossed his tan, chiseled face. “I am not saying, of course, that I consider myself as having crossed that barrier and would now find killing someone easier. I'm speaking conceptually, and—”

He continued with his stipulation, and Roberta allowed him to talk. She didn't care what he said at this point. She had on tape his provocative statement about crossing barriers to edit and use as she saw fit.

Sensing she might have pushed this line of discussion as far as she could, she shifted gears and got Michael to speak of his childhood, his family and friends, the impact of his parents' deep religious faith on his life, and his relationship with his brother.

“Joseph was such good boy,” he said, smiling, “always eager to please Mother and Father. He looked up to me as his big brother, which is understandable. But I'm afraid I ended up not being a sterling role model.”

“What happened with Marjorie Jones?”

He sighed, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

“Would you tell me about it, how it happened, what you were thinking, and the aftermath?”

He spoke without interruption for twenty minutes. It was a wrenching tale that focused on the act of murder itself and the subsequent trial. At one point, Roberta thought she might become ill, and considered pausing the interview, but she didn't want him to lose his train of thought and fought through her nausea.

“Whew!” he said when Roberta told Carlos and Margo that they were breaking.

“That was—it was powerful,” she said. “A remarkable story.”

“Not so remarkable, I'm afraid,” he said. “More tragic than anything.”

“I think we've done enough for today,” she said. “Next time, I'd like to have you talk about your stay in the hospital, how you put that time to good use, and the way you've reinvented your life since coming to Washington. Believe me, Michael, your story, properly told, will be an inspiration to everyone.”

“If you say so,” he said. “I do have a concern, however,” he added.

“What's that?” she replied.

“I wouldn't want this documentary to lead people to speculate that I might have had something to do with the terrible thing that happened to those two young women, the one who worked with your father, and the girl in the park.”

“Of course it won't,” she said, pleased that the lights were still on and that Carlos had started the camera again, and that the mike was live. “I'll make sure that it reflects the exemplary life you've led since leaving the hospital.”

“I know you will,” he said, getting up and leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. “More chicken?” he asked.

“We have to get back,” Roberta told him. “The lunch was wonderful.”

He walked them from the building to the small van with the station's call letters emblazoned on the side.

“This most recent letter to your father must have your dear mother frantic with worry,” he told her as Carlos and Margo carefully packed their equipment into the rear of the van.

“She's a pretty strong person,” Roberta responded. “I'm not worried about her.”

He looked back at the building. “I miss my friend Rudy,” he said.

“Yes, I'm so sorry about that. Any leads that you know of?”

“No. Funny. He was an irascible sort, drinking too much to alleviate the physical pain of his war wounds—and I'm sure the mental pain that accompanied it—but there was a side of him that was likable and decent. I liked him. We used to play chess, you know, and checkers. He wasn't very good, but he tried hard. What sort of world do we live in, Robbie?”

“The only world we have,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Thank you so much for your honesty, and for allowing me to capture it. You're an astonishing person, Uncle Michael. I'll be in touch.”

He watched them drive away before turning and walking slowly back to the building.

Edith Vargas-Swayze had watched the scene, too, from an unmarked car parked across the broad avenue.
What was Roberta Wilcox doing there with a camera crew?
she wondered as she pulled away and headed for the precinct.