Murder at The Washington Tribune: A Capital Crimes Mystery

by Margaret Truman

  Wilcox stood and made a move for the door.

  “And Joe,” Morehouse said, “contact one of your shrink sources and get a profile of how a serial killer thinks, the kind of guy he might be, a loner probably who pulled wings off butterflies when he was a kid, the usual. Maybe a shrink at one of the hospitals to give it weight.”

  Wilcox was glad to be out of Morehouse’s office and in the semi-sanctity of his own cubicle. He couldn’t seriously argue with the editor’s thinking. His suggestions made sense for follow-ups to a story about a serial killer, whether it was a figment of the reporter’s imagination or not. Actually, Morehouse’s instructions made things easier. Wilcox hadn’t been sure how to proceed with a second article, particularly whether or not to draw upon another fictitious quote from his alleged MPD source. He was glad he didn’t have to, at least for that day.

  Obtaining a quote from a mental health professional was easy. A clinical psychologist at Howard University Hospital had been only too happy to offer quotable insight for him to use in many of his articles over the years. She dropped what she was doing at the hospital to take his call.

  “Read my piece this morning?” he asked.

  “Sure I did. Let me guess. You want a profile of what kind of guy goes around killing pretty young women.”

  “Something like that,” he said. “I know you’ll be generalizing but—”

  “Not a problem. First tell me, were either of the two victims sexually assaulted?”

  “No report yet on the most recent. The autopsy on Jean Kaporis here at the Trib indicated she’d had intercourse within twenty-four hours of being murdered, but there didn’t seem to be any sign of assault.”

  “It would be unusual if sex wasn’t involved. I’ve never known a serial killer who wasn’t after sexual gratification, as perverse as it might be. Let me ask you something else. Why are the police considering this a serial killing? According to my textbook, it takes three related murders before that scenario comes up.”

  Her question took him aback. She’d never challenged him before, probably, he’d surmised, because she didn’t want to risk losing media exposure. She was a true media hound, always showing up on TV talk shows as the expert on myriad topics, most particularly sexual dysfunction. Her popular Sunday evening radio show was often devoted to that gritty subject.

  “I don’t have the answers for you,” he said. “Maybe the police know more than they’re letting on.”

  “There might be other murders with similar MOs?”

  “Maybe. How about a brief overview of the typical serial killer, nothing too deep, a thumbnail sketch. If this isn’t a good time for you, I can—”

  “No problem, Joe. Always happy to help.”

  Wilcox smiled. Of course she was willing to help, provided he spelled her name right.

  “Okay, here’s Serial Killer 101,” she said. “A nerd? No. Our fellow is probably intelligent, charismatic, charming, and/or good-looking. Of course, I’m, talking about serial killers who entice female victims with smooth talk. They’re almost always good talkers. If this guy you’re writing about isn’t a sexual deviant, then the profile might not apply. Often, some form of childhood abuse is in their background.”

  “Psychotic?”

  “I doubt it. Serial killers are usually psychopaths. There’s a difference. A psychotic killer would be out of touch with reality and have trouble eluding the police as a result. Chances are he’s keenly aware of what he’s doing, that it’s criminal. Ultimately, it’s a power thing. Determining life and death with the vulnerable gives him an inflated sense of power, something he needs because inside, he’s pathetically insecure, maybe impotent. Chances are he’s proud of what he’s accomplished and keeps every newspaper account of the murders as trophies.”

  “Likely he’s from the D.C. area?”

  “As opposed to a vagrant passing through? I’d put my money on his living here.”

  “You said he’s probably smart. What kind of job would he have?”

  “That’s always interesting, Joe. Very often, these people hold jobs below their intellectual level. Menial jobs. In some ways it fuels their sense of anger against what they perceive to be a world that doesn’t appreciate them. A lot of them have had jobs with law enforcement: police forces, security guards, things like that.” She paused. “Joe, you said in your piece that both victims worked in journalism. Are you saying whoever killed them is motivated by that?”

  “I wasn’t saying anything specific, just pointing out that similarity. What do you say?”

  “That’s a stretch, I say. Do you know how many serial killers are estimated to be running loose in America these days?”

  “No, tell me.”

  “Forty, maybe fifty. That’s a Department of Justice figure. You can’t prove it by me.”

  “This has been great,” Wilcox said, aware that members of his “task force” in the Kaporis murder had gathered and were standing around, waiting for him to get off the phone. “As usual, you’re the best.”

  “My pleasure, Joe. You ought to come on my radio show some night.”

  “And talk about sexual dysfunction?”

  “Sure, if you’re interestingly dysfunctional. Keep in touch.”

  “Got a minute?” Rick Jillian asked after Wilcox had ended the call.

  “Yeah, sure. Hi, Kathleen.”

  Kathleen Lansden, the researcher assigned to Wilcox, and Jillian pulled up chairs.

  “Great piece this morning, Joe,” Kathleen said.

  “Yeah,” said Jillian. “How’d you get a cop to admit they’re looking into the serial killer angle?”

  “You do this long enough and develop enough sources,” Wilcox replied, “things break your way sometimes. What do you two have?”

  Jillian ran over the list of Trib staffers he’d talked to, all of them having been interviewed by the police.

  “And?” Wilcox asked. “I’m sorry to rush things along, but I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.”

  “Well—” Jillian said, glancing around the newsroom.

  “Well what?”

  Jillian, a foppish young man with a penchant for bow ties, leaned close and spoke sotto voce. “There’s some talk, Joe, that Hawthorne might have been seeing Jean out of the office.”

  “Is that so? Who says?”

  “A couple of guys mentioned it. Actually, one was a woman. Nobody said they know it for certain, I mean, nobody says they saw them together. It’s more like an undercurrent.”

  “Hawthorne, huh?” Wilcox mused. “Makes sense, I suppose. Nice looking young guy, not married. And she was a knockout.”

  “Very,” Kathleen said. “But not quite the word I’d use.”

  “Think you can find out more?” Wilcox asked Jillian.

  “I don’t want to ask him,” Jillian said. “Based on just a rumor.”

  Wilcox looked at Kathleen. “Are you close to Hawthorne?”

  She shook her head. “Talk to him now and then, but with his ego, it’s hard to have a conversation.”

  Wilcox smiled at her characterization of Gene Hawthorne, which matched his evaluation. Wouldn’t that be something? he thought.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Wilcox said. To Jillian: “What about the visitors Morehouse wanted you to follow up on?”

  “I’m working on it. Nothing so far.”

  “Who’d we miss on the interview list?” he asked Kathleen.

  She handed him a list containing a dozen names.

  “Good. I’ll follow up. Rick, I need short interviews with a half dozen pretty women living in the District. Pretty and single.”

  “Why?”

  “To see what they think about a serial killer possibly working D.C. Morehouse wants it for my next article.”

  Jillian laughed. “Great,” he said, smiling broadly. “Nice way to meet single women.”

  “Don’t you want me to interview single men living in D.C?” Kathleen asked, playfully.

  “Sorry, Scarlett, not this time
, unless a woman starts knocking off single men. If so—”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Good. In the meantime, I want you to contact escort services in the D.C. area.”

  “Why? I’m being fired?”

  “Only if you say no to me. Start with the biggest. See if a Mary Jane Pruit works for any of them.”

  “The roommate?”

  “Yup. I need something by end of the day.”

  “If you say so.”

  “But Kathleen, whatever you come up with is for my ears and eyes only. Just me. Morehouse doesn’t see it.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Get going, both of you. I’ll be out of the office most of the day. We’ll meet here at six.”

  He was about to call Jean Kaporis’s parents in Delaware when an incoming call took precedence.

  “Dad, it’s Roberta.”

  She had something serious on her mind, he knew, from her tone, and from using her full first name. Happy calls came from Robbie.

  “Hi, hon. I understand we’re getting together for dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Right, but—”

  “So tell me about this new boyfriend. Will I like him?”

  “I hope so. Dad, I read the article this morning. Big space—nice placement. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Who gave you the serial killer quote at MPD?”

  “Oh, come on, Robbie, you know I can’t reveal that, even to my favorite daughter. And don’t say it. You’re my only daughter.”

  “Was it Edith?”

  “No, it was not.”

  “I’m disappointed, Dad. You promised you’d never stonewall me.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Knowing the cops are working a serial killer angle is pretty big stuff. It got you page one.”

  He held his anger in check. Although she was his daughter, someone for whom he’d throw himself in front of a truck, he didn’t appreciate being chastised by her.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry you think I stonewalled you. I was working against a hell of a deadline Paul Morehouse imposed. I—”

  “What about the boyfriend in L.A.?”

  “Him? I knew nothing about him. They inserted that sidebar without telling me. Besides, he had nothing to say except that he’s an aspiring Brad Pitt.”

  “Anything else you haven’t told me?” she asked, her tone cold.

  “No. How about you? Anything to pass on to me?”

  “No.”

  “See you tomorrow night at dinner,” he said. “Let’s find some time and talk about this. Now’s not a good time.”

  “Fine. Have a good day.”

  Click.

  Philip Connor answered Wilcox’s call.

  “Mr. Connor, it’s Joe Wilcox at the Tribune.”

  “Hello, Mr. Wilcox. I read your story in the paper this morning. Colleen’s picture looked nice, really nice.”

  “Yes, it did. Mr. Connor, I—”

  “Will they find the bastard who killed Colleen and the other girl?”

  “I’m sure they will, as long as people like you continue to speak out. Are Ms. McNamara’s mother and sister still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was hoping they could find time for me today.”

  “They’re still pretty upset, Mr. Wilcox.”

  “Of course they are, but I’m sure the police interviewed them.”

  “They did.”

  “It’s important that their voices be heard. If the citizens of this city become outraged enough, that puts the pressure on the police to add additional resources and manpower to the hunt for the killer.”

  “I see.”

  “Would you be good enough to ask them if they’ll spare me a few minutes? I’ll make myself available any time that’s convenient for them.”

  “Hold on.”

  He came back on the line. “They said they would, Mr. Wilcox. Her mom’s not that keen on it, but she agreed. Her sister, too. They said it would be best for them later in the afternoon.”

  “Four?”

  “That will be fine, I guess.”

  “Good. I’d like to talk to you again. See you at four.”

  Wilcox enjoyed interviewing people, and knew he was good at it, as good as any cop. Of course, they had the advantage of being authority figures capable of tossing you in jail, and could play out the good cop–bad cop scenario. But he had power, too. He could take what you said and slant it any way he wished, turning the most innocuous statement into a damaging one. He didn’t do that like bottom-feeder reporters often did, but men and women on the other end of his pen knew he could, and perhaps would.

  He especially liked second interviews because he had the advantage of what had been said during the initial one. Amazing, he thought, how versions of an event could vary from one interview to another, details altered, new recollections surfacing, attempts to correct or change the record.

  He made some notes in preparation for the interviews and was about to call Jean Kaporis’s parents in Delaware when Gene Hawthorne stopped by the cubicle.

  “Good morning, Gene,” Wilcox said, pleasantly.

  “Hey, Joe. Nice play on the serial killer story. Really nice.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Joe, Paul suggested I pop by and spend some time with you. He thought I might be helpful in the pieces you’re working on. I know you’re well sourced, but I’ve got a few contacts that could be helpful.”

  “Do you? I appreciate the offer, Gene, but—”

  He was about to blow him off, but thought of what Jillian had said. Was there the possibility that Hawthorne had a personal relationship with Jean Kaporis?

  “That would be great,” Wilcox said. “How about lunch?”

  “Today?”

  “Yeah. I’m free. I’ll take you to the Press Club.”

  He knew what Hawthorne was thinking. He’d once heard Hawthorne comment that he wouldn’t be found dead being a member there. “Bunch of over-the-hill hacks,” he said, “has-beens drowning in martinis and rehashing the past.”

  The young reporter’s mischaracterization hadn’t surprised Wilcox. Typical of him and others like him, shallow young people lacking any understanding and appreciation of institutions like the Press Club. President Calvin Coolidge had laid the cornerstone for the club in 1926, making it the oldest professional and social media organization in the country, and the largest with more than four thousand members. Its Speakers Luncheon series was the most prestigious and influential news lecture series in America; more heads of state had appeared at the club than at any forum in the world outside the Oval Office. Its membership included the most important names in journalism, men and women of distinction who’d defined responsible journalism.

  Over-the-hill hacks and has-beens? Wilcox had thought after hearing Hawthorne pontificate to young colleagues.

  “Okay,” Hawthorne said. “What time?”

  “Twelve-thirty. I’ll meet you in the lobby. You know where it is, I assume.”

  “Sure I do. But one thing, Joe.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No pitches over lunch, okay? I’m not the club type.” A big grin accompanied this statement.

  “Oh, no fear of that, Gene,” Wilcox said. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  He watched Hawthorne swagger off. Joe wondered whether the heat of his anger showed in his reddened face and the pulsating veins in his neck.

  Jean’s father was warm and cooperative on the phone, and said he and the Mrs. would be happy to talk to him any time. To Wilcox’s relief, he said they would be happy to drive to Washington to meet. The only caveat was that they not have to come to the Tribune Building where their daughter had died. They agreed to meet for breakfast at nine the following morning at the Old Ebbitt Grill on Fifteenth, NW.

  With that interview nailed down, he called the office of the District of Columbia’s medical examiner. His doctor friend was one for whom he’d done favors over the
years.

  “Hello, Joe,” the assistant ME said, his voice sounding like it was being squeezed through a very narrow opening. “Nice piece this morning.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But what’s this serial killer nonsense? It takes two to tango, Joe, but three or more to qualify as serial murder.”

  “So I’ve been told. But it wasn’t my idea. MPD’s floating that theory.”

  “They should know better. What can I do for you?”

  “I need a confirmation that both Jean Kaporis and Colleen McNamara were murdered in the same way, by asphyxiation. Strangulation.”

  “You have it.”

  “Have what?”

  “Confirmation. That’s the way both young women were killed.”

  “I can quote you on that?”

  “No. You’d better quote the boss. He’s signed off on manner of death in both cases. I’ll tell you this. If a third young woman, who happens to work in the media, ends up being killed in a similar fashion, I’d say then there might well be a serial killer in our midst.”

  “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” Wilcox said.

  “Yes. Let’s hope. Stay in touch.”

  He spent the remainder of the morning starting work on a follow-up story for the next day’s edition. As he walked through the newsroom on his way to lunch, he looked up and stopped to watch Roberta deliver a report on the noon news.

  “I’ve been told by a reliable source in MPD that emphasis in the Jean Kaporis murder case—the young reporter at The Washington Tribune who was strangled to death a month ago in a storeroom at the paper—is now focusing on individuals who had been on the premises the night of her death, but not necessarily someone employed by the Tribune. I have also been assured by MPD sources that speculation that a serial killer might be involved in both the Kaporis case and the more recent murder in Franklin Park, is without merit. The police are treating the two killings as separate and unrelated incidents, perpetrated by two different individuals.”

  Her statement that someone within MPD was denying that there was a serial killer on the loose was to be expected.

  But the claim, “by an unnamed source within MPD,” that they were now looking at someone from outside the Trib in the Kaporis case, was worth following up. Who was his daughter’s source? Did she really have a source? It would have seemed inconceivable to him, until now, that she, or any other responsible journalist, would fabricate a source.