Murder at The Washington Tribune

by Margaret Truman

“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.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “Here’s to our star!”

  Others at the National Press Club’s Reliable Source bar raised their glasses in a tribute to Joe Wilcox.

  “I’ll drink to that,” he said, holding up a glass of sparkling water garnished with a lime wedge.

  “You drinking water, Joe?” someone asked.

  “I’ve got a TV and a radio interview later on,” Wilcox said, defending his choice of drink. “Wouldn’t do to pass out on the set.”

  “This N.Y. editor is coming to D.C.?” he was asked.

  “This afternoon. I’m meeting her here at the club.”

  “Introduce me to her,” said a colleague. “I’ll write a book about any damn thing she wants as long as the money’s right.”

  They retreated to a table where the drinks kept coming along with their lunches.

  “What’s this break in the serial killer case your daughter hinted at on the news?” was the question.

  “I don’t know,” Wilcox replied. “She’s playing it close to the vest.”

  “Even with her old man?”

  Wilcox laughed and finished his sandwich. “Afraid so. I taught her right. Never reveal a source.”

  “And these days go to jail,” said one of the other women at the table.

  This led to a semiserious discussion of recent court rulings in which reporters found themselves in legal hot water for not revealing their sources in criminal cases. Wilcox half listened to the conversation as he mentally ran down his commitments that afternoon.

  “Keep the movie rights,” someone said.

  “And get a real drink, Joe. Water’ll just corrode your pipes.”

  As Wilcox pulled out his wallet, his cell phone sounded.

  “Wilcox.”

  “Joe, it’s Edith Vargas-Swayze.”

  “Hello. How goes it?”

  “Where are you?”

  “The Press Club. About to leave.”

  “I have to speak with you.”

  “Great. I’m jammed up all afternoon and into the early evening, but—”

  “Joe, I have to talk to you right away. It’s important.”

  He left the table and went to an unoccupied corner, the phone to his ear, his hand covering the mouthpiece. He’d received many calls from Edith over the years asking to speak with him. This time, her tone was different. His stomach tightened.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell you when we meet.”

  “Where?”

  “The Press Club. I’m five minutes from there. I’ll pick you up in front.”

  “Edith, can’t you tell me what this is about?”

  “I’ll be there in five,” she said.

  As he clicked the phone shut, he had a fleeting notion to leave the building and not wait for her, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He returned to the table. “Got to run,” he said.

  “Another call from the coast, Joe?”

  “Yeah.” He tossed money on the table. “They want me to star in the movie. See ya.”

  He rode the elevator down to street level and went to the street where Vargas-Swayze sat behind the wheel of a bilious-green unmarked police car with a dented fender. He got in. She slipped the gearshift into drive and pulled into traffic.

  “Where are we going?” he asked, checking his watch. “I’ve got some TV things and a meeting with—”

  “Later, Joe,” she said, her eyes straight ahead.

  As she turned onto Connecticut Avenue NW and he realized that she was driving in the direction of Michael’s apartment building, bile came up and stung his throat. He reached in his pocket for a Tums that wasn’t there.

  “Edith, will you please tell me what this is all about?”

  She pulled to the curb in front of a fire hydrant, directly across the street from where Michael lived, turned off the ignition, drew a breath, and faced him. “Want to tell me about it, Joe?”

  “Tell you about what?” The quaver in his voice said much.

  She pointed at the apartment building. “There,” she said. “Where your brother lives.”

  “Michael?”

  “Michael LaRue. Michael Wilcox. Whatever he chooses to call himself. Is that where you wrote the letters?”

  He became smaller in his seat, as though developing a slow leak. He couldn’t face her, looked in every direction but hers. She placed a hand on his arm. “Joe, listen to me, please. I know you wrote those letters yourself. Your fingerprint is beneath the typed words. No one approached your mailbox the day the letter showed up except the mailman—and you.”

  He said nothing for what seemed an eternity. Finally, he looked at her, his lips tightly compressed, his eyes squeezed almost shut. “How did you learn about Michael?”

  “The tap on your phone. The conversation you had with him this morning.”

  He’d forgotten about the tap despite knowing from years of interacting with MPD that most people soon forget their phones are tapped, the way interview subjects forget a tape recorder is running even though it’s right in front of them.

  “What’s this all about, Joe?”


  “You already seem to have all the answers, Edith.”

  She shook her head. “I want to hear them from you.”

  He sat sullenly, although it didn’t represent what he was feeling. He didn’t know what to say, so said nothing. But he would have to say something, attempt to explain his actions, rationalize what he’d done. He forced himself to think more clearly. All she knew was that Michael was his brother. He couldn’t refute that. As for having written the letters, that was hardly her concern. It wasn’t a police matter—maybe. It was between him, his conscience, and whoever he might have to answer to at the Tribune.

  “What if I did write those letters?” he asked, not combative, a sincere question. “Why should that concern you?”

  “Did you? Are you saying you did?”

  “I’m not admitting anything. But if I did write those letters, it’s hardly a police matter. Who’s hurt?”

  The words exploded from her. “Who’s hurt?” she said. “Come on, you know better. Who’s hurt? Let’s start with you and your reputation. What about the integrity of the newspaper? What about all the young women in the city looking over their shoulders, adding locks to their doors, their worried parents, husbands, and boyfriends? Caramba, Joe, you can’t dismiss it as nothing more than a prank that doesn’t seriously impact others.”

  She was right, of course, and he didn’t have a comeback. Had she stopped there, she’d have accomplished a lot, shaming him, making him feel like a naughty kid.But she didn’t stop.

  “All that’s bad enough, Joe,” she said, her hand now back on his arm. “But it goes beyond those things. What you did was criminal, a criminal act. Hindering an investigation. Producing false evidence. Withholding evidence. Lying to authorities. Need I go on? A prosecutor could add a dozen other charges, anything that tickles their fancy.”

  When he didn’t respond, she squeezed his arm as hard as she could. “Joe,” she said, “it’s me, Edith, your friend. I’m not out to hurt you. I want to help.”

  “I know.”

  “I have to ask you a question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Did you write those letters in order to generate a sensational story for yourself, or—?”