Murder at The Washington Tribune

by Margaret Truman

  A round table covered by a black cloth served as a night table. On it was a digital alarm clock, a lamp, and a five-by-seven color photo in an easel frame. Wilcox picked it up and examined the woman more closely. She appeared to be in her thirties. She wore large, round glasses with black frames; her hair was long and dark, with streaks of silver. She had a nice smile.

  He checked his watch. It was five-fifteen. Michael said he wouldn’t be back until six or six thirty. He returned to the living room and again sat at the desk, Maggie occupying one corner of the table, where she licked her paws clean. He’d carried with him into the apartment a file folder in which he’d collected hardcopy clips of the Trib’s stories about the Kaporis and McNamara murders, including the articles he’d written, and placed it on the small table next to the desk, arranging papers so that they partially obscured it.

  The cover was off the typewriter. He turned on the power, pulled open one of the file drawers, removed a sheet of blank paper and rolled it in behind the platen. Five minutes later he pulled the page from the typewriter, folded it carefully, and put it in the inside pocket of his sport jacket. Next, he found a blank Number Ten envelope, placed it in the typewriter, and typed an address on it. He turned off the typewriter, made sure everything on the desk looked the way it had earlier, sat on the couch and browsed magazines until Michael walked through the door.

  “Ah, Joseph,” Michael said, extending his arms as though expecting Joe to run into them. Joe didn’t leave the chair. “You obviously found the keys. Good. They’re yours to keep, and I hope you make frequent use of them. Drink? I need a glass of wine. You?”

  “Wine will be fine, Michael.”

  “Stay right where you are, Joseph. The service in this establishment is first-rate.”

  Michael returned with the wine, handed a glass to Joe, and opened a yellow director’s chair that had been folded in a corner of the room. He raised his glass: “To brothers,” he said.

  Joe tilted his glass in Michael’s direction before sipping. “You say you’ve quit your job,” he said, deliberately sounding nonchalant.

  “That’s right. It was a good job, and they treated me decently. But I felt it was time to look for something else, perhaps something more in line with my interests and abilities. I’ve decided to explore nonprofit opportunities.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “To pay something back to society, Joseph. I feel a need for that. You probably don’t understand, but—”

  “Have you had any success finding such a job?”

  “I’ve just started looking.”

  “How long will you be able to go without an income?” Joe asked, not caring whether it represented an inappropriate intrusion into his brother’s financial life.

  “Oh, for a while,” Michael replied. “You’d be surprised how much I was able to save during those forty years in the hospital. They didn’t pay patients much for the menial tasks we performed, but with nothing to spend it on, it mounted up. That, and the trust fund mother left, will tide me over for quite a long spell.”

  “Trust fund? Mother left you a trust fund?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No, Michael, I didn’t know.”

  He pressed his fingertips to his lips. “And she probably never wanted you to know,” he said. “Me and my big mouth.” He leaned forward and placed his hand on Joe’s knee. “I’m sure she meant well, Joseph. She knew she didn’t ever have to worry about you, not with the bright future that lay ahead for you, college, a career, family, all those things that money can’t buy. But I suppose she reasoned that if I was ever released from the hospital, I’d have nothing on which to fall back, no education, no career, no income.” He sat back and smiled. “It is absolutely amazing how much interest builds up over forty years, even on a meager investment.”

  “I imagine it does,” Joe said.

  “At any rate, Joseph, you didn’t come here to discuss my career aspirations. Are we going to dinner?”

  “Not tonight, Michael. I can’t stay long.”

  “Pity. Oh, well, you will let me play one song for you. I’m anxious that you know my time in the hospital wasn’t entirely wasted.”

  Joe protested but Michael ignored him and went to the guitar, switched on the amplifier, and played random, rich chords until sliding into a bouncy version of what Joe eventually recognized as “Bye Bye Blackbird.” Although Joe was not musically trained, nor did he possess a sophisticated musical ear, it was obvious to him that his brother had become a talented guitarist. The fingers of his left hand moved quickly and effortlessly over the instrument’s frets, while his right fingers plucked at the strings, singularly and in bunches, an adventuresome improvisation that threatened to stray from the familiar melody, but never did, anchored by it instead, Michael’s creativity demonstrated within its framework. When he finished and the final chord had faded, Joe applauded. Michael bowed his head and turned off the amp.

  “That was very good, Michael,” Joe said. “Impressive.”

  “Thank you. Of course, it’s just an example of something good coming out of something bad. Had I not been incarcerated in that hospital for so many years, I never would have had the inclination or time to practice the guitar. I was inspired by Joe Pass.”

  “Who?”

  Michael laughed as he sat in the director’s chair. “You obviously are not a jazz lover. Joe Pass spent many years in prison because of his involvement with drugs. He had nothing to do but practice his guitar playing. When he came out of prison, he was the best jazz guitarist in the world.”

  While Joe had been impressed by Michael’s playing, he found himself gripped by resentment, particularly about being given a lecture on music and some obscure jazz guitar player. He felt at once a feeling of inadequacy sitting there with this older brother, who’d spent virtually his entire adult life committed to a hospital for the criminally insane, a sick, depraved murderer who’d sexually assaulted and brutally killed a young girl, a neighbor, an innocent being. He was grappling with these thoughts when Michael asked, “More wine?”

  “Sure,” Joe said, not knowing why he’d elected to prolong his discomfort.

  “So, Joseph, tell me about yourself,” Michael said after delivering the second glass and again taking the director’s chair. “I know what you’ve become since we were teenagers, but not what you think and feel. What are your views, your perspective on life?”

  “I hadn’t thought about such things recently,” Joe said.

  “Politically?” Michael said. “Is it true that all journalists are left-leaning liberals?” He said it with a laugh.

  “No, it’s not true,” Joe said.

  “I hope not,” Michael said. “I’ve had all these years to think about politics and how it influences our lives.” He slowly shook his head; his face formed a serious mask. “So much of society has been destroyed by liberals who’ve turned us into soft, weak citizens, always looking for the next handout, forever wanting the government to take care of us rather than being expected to take care of ourselves.” He lowered his chin and assessed Joe’s reaction to what he’d said. “You don’t agree, Joseph.”

  “It isn’t a matter of agreeing or disagreeing, Michael. It’s just that—”

  “I know, I know. What is this former madman doing pontificating about how we should live our lives? Here I am, suddenly thrust upon society after forty years of dutifully taking my medications and sitting through thousands—yes, literally thousands of hours of banal group therapy, in addition to thousands of hours sitting one-on-one with my personal therapist who asked stupid, moronic questions over and over until I learned the answers he expected and regurgitated them on cue, never failing to smile or to assume a deep sense of seriousness of purpose where and when suitable to the moment.”

  He’d said it in a monotone. Now, he rose in the chair to a ramrod position and spoke in a louder, more authoritative voice. “I challenge anyone to survive what I’ve survived, Joseph—to face more than fourteen
thousand hours of that form of degradation—and not end up feeling somewhat superior to those who make up this sad world.”

  Joe didn’t know what to say in response, so said nothing.

  Michael’s tone suddenly softened, as though a switch had been activated. A wide smile crossed his tanned face, accompanied by a low, self-effacing chuckle. “What am I doing?” he said, “mouthing off to my one and only brother. What is wrong with me? I suppose having my thoughts and beliefs suppressed for so long has left me in need of a soapbox. Forgive me, Joseph.”

  “It’s okay, Michael. I think I understand.”

  “Actually,” Michael said, “there are advantages to being held in an institution for forty years. I’ve found it difficult since being released.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “Little things that become big things. I never had to even think twice about what to wear each day. Like being in the army, I suppose. Two uniforms, summer and winter. I wore hospital pajamas most of the time. Not terribly stylish, but functional. I ate what they served me, except for those special nights when we were allowed to cook our own meals. Even then, we were told what ingredients to use.” He sighed deeply. “No decisions to be made, Joseph. I’m having trouble making them now that I’m a so-called free man.”

  Joe placed his empty glass on the floor. “I’d really better be going.”

  “If you must,” Michael said, standing. “I have a suggestion, Joseph.”

  “Which is?”

  “I suggest that the next time we meet, it be at your house.”

  “No, Michael, I don’t think so. As I’ve said before, I—”

  “If I didn’t know better, Joseph, I’d almost say you’re ashamed of me.”

  “That’s not it and you know it,” Joe said. “Getting you together with Georgia and Roberta will be on my timetable, not yours.”

  “You sound angry.”

  “I’m under a lot of pressure at work.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course. The serial killer. Anything new in that regard? Is my kid brother about to solve the case?”

  “Thanks for the wine, Michael, and the concert. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Joseph, if I’ve offended you, I—”

  Joe went to the door, stopped, and turned. “You’ve done nicely, Michael. You’ve obviously put your life together and I commend you for that. But forty years is a lot of time, and I’m not sure it can ever be made up. Why don’t we stand back, take a deep breath, and maybe try it again some time in the future. This is not a good time. I wish you well.”

  He wasn’t sure whether the expression on his brother’s face was anger or hurt. He didn’t care. He left the apartment and almost bumped into the man with the cane whom he’d met upon arriving.

  “Is he in there?” the man asked.

  “Yes, he’s in there,” Joe replied, and walked quickly out of the building, went to his car, started the engine, swore loudly, tuned the radio to a classical station, cranked up the music, and pulled away from the curb, almost sideswiping oncoming traffic.

  TWENTY-ONE

  When Wilcox arrived at the Trib the following morning, there was an e-mail message from Morehouse on his computer: Follow up on the escort service link. Check the agency to see whether Jean Kaporis had ever taken assignments from them.

  Wilcox walked into his boss’s office. “I disagree,” he said flatly.

  “With what?”

  “Following up on the escort service. What are we trying to do, Paul, paint Jean as a hooker? She’s dead, for Christ’s sake. She was young but she was one of us. She was no hooker.”

  “I’m not saying she was. Do you have a better angle to pursue for tomorrow’s edition?”

  “As of this moment? No.”

  “So develop the escort agency slant. It doesn’t have to focus on Jean. Check MPD and see whether women working for escort services have ever been murdered in the line of duty. Get Jillian and Lansden to interview some of those gals, find out how dangerous the work is. Get their views on the possibility that the serial killer might have met his victims through escort agencies. While you’re at it, see if the McNamara girl didn’t turn a few tricks in her spare time, too.”

  Wilcox knew it was futile to argue. He returned to his cubicle and pretended to work the phone, looking busy, calling friends at other media outlets to ask what they planned to do as follow-ups to the serial killer story. At eleven, he called home and confirmed with Georgia that Roberta was coming for dinner, and that he would be home in time to join them. He’d just completed that call when one of the mailroom’s young employees arrived with the first of two mail deliveries for that day.

  “Morning, Mr. Wilcox,” he said, handing Joe his bundle of mail.

  “Good morning. All well with you?”

  “Doin’ okay. You have yourself a good day, Mr. Wilcox.”

  He started opening his mail. There were letters from readers of the newspaper either chastising him for unduly frightening the public with his articles (he silently agreed), or praising his courage, insight, and dedication to keeping the public informed. He saved one envelope for last. After taking pains to satisfy himself that his actions were unobserved, he used a letter opener made by Roberta in grade school in the shape of a bird’s head and beak to slit open the envelope. He removed the single sheet of paper, unfolded it, and stared at the typewritten words.

  “Jesus!” he said, loud enough for a reporter in the next cubicle to hear.

  “What’s up, Joe?” the reporter asked.

  Wilcox handed over the page from the envelope to his colleague.

  “Wow!” was the reaction.

  The reporter stepped into Wilcox’s cubicle and handed back the letter. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. It could be a joke, some clown playing games. Then again—”

  “You have to treat it as legit, Joe.”

  “I know, I know. I’ll run it by Paul.”

  “What’s the postmark on the envelope?” the reporter asked.

  Wilcox picked up the envelope and examined the printing surrounding the thirty-seven-cent stamp. “The post office right down the block,” he said.

  “He’s a real nutcase,” said the reporter.

  “Looks like it. Excuse me.”

  Morehouse was in conference with a couple of Tribune executives when Wilcox approached his door. The Metro editor waved him away. Wilcox held up the letter and fluttered it in front of the glass. Morehouse, annoyed at the intrusion, got up from behind his desk and came to the door. “I’m in a meeting,” he said.

  “I know. Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you should see this right away. It arrived in today’s first mail.”

  Morehouse took the letter, put on half-glasses tethered by a multicolored ribbon, and read. When he was finished, he handed it back to Wilcox and chewed his cheek. “It just arrived?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Let me finish up in here. Don’t show it to anybody. Got that?”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll meet in a half hour.” He started to return to his office, stopped, looked at Wilcox, and said, “This is good, Joe. This is really good.”

  Wilcox bided his time in his cubicle. The reporter in the adjacent space asked what Morehouse had said, but Wilcox deflected his questions. Ten minutes later, Morehouse called him to return to his office.

  “You think this is legit?” Morehouse asked after Wilcox had settled in a chair behind the closed door.

  “I have no idea,” he replied. “But I think we have to treat it as though it is.”

  “What does the guy want?”

  “What he says in the letter. Don’t give it to the police, he says. Don’t try to trace it. He says he’ll be in contact with me again.”

  Morehouse thought for a moment before saying, “He doesn’t say we can’t publish it in the paper.”

  “Not specifically, but I’m not sure how he’ll react if it does appear. He might break off contact
if we run it.”

  “Not likely,” proclaimed the editor. “This fruitcake wants the attention and notoriety. He’ll be disappointed if we don’t run it. “

  “I don’t know, Paul.”

  “Yeah, well, you know how these guys think. Make the accompanying article personal, Joe. Play on how the serial killer has chosen you as his conduit to the world. Respond to him in the piece. Encourage him to stay in touch. Promise you’ll respect his needs and wishes. Set up a running dialogue. You’re his buddy, his confidant. This is big stuff, Joe, not only for the paper, but for you, too.”

  “I’ll get on it right away, Paul. We’ll drop the escort angle?”

  “For now. Good work, Joe. Very good work.”

  Wilcox ordered in Chinese and spent the rest of the day writing the article to accompany the letter. Another meeting took place later that afternoon between him, Morehouse, and the Trib’s chief legal counsel, who’d been brought into the situation by Morehouse. The debate involved whether the paper should show the letter to the police prior to publishing it. The consensus: The article would run, along with the letter. The police would be brought in once the paper was on newsstands. To tip law enforcement prior to that would risk a leak, allowing other media to scoop the Trib.

  At five, Wilcox informed Morehouse that he was leaving.

  “It’s a great piece, Joe, but it needs some sharpening.”

  “You’ll have to get somebody else for rewrite,” Wilcox said. “I’ve got a command performance at home tonight.”

  “Okay. Nice work, buddy. Let me ask you something. How does it feel to have a maniac out there sending you love notes?”

  “Not good,” Wilcox said.

  “Well, get used to it, my friend. This won’t be the last letter you get from him. Count on it.”

  “I know,” Wilcox said. “I know.”

  He retrieved his car from the parking lot and headed home. He’d wondered all afternoon whether he could go through with this scheme that had been hatched on the spot at his brother’s apartment. He’d assumed he would have trouble doing it. But somehow, for some reason, it all seemed reasonable now. No debilitating bout of conscience, no second thoughts.