Murder at The Washington Tribune: A Capital Crimes Mystery

by Margaret Truman

  He sat in silence after the call to his brother. Hearing Joe’s voice seemed surreal, and he tried to hear it again in his mind. He’d been planning that phone call for months, always putting it off for one reason or another, finding excuses to delay another day, trying to script what he would say, and how he would respond to what Joe might say. Hearing Joe answer the phone provided a momentary shock. He’d deliberately called his work number at night, hoping to be connected to voice mail. The conversation had gone by so fast that he wondered whether it had ever taken place. But he knew it had, and he was glad.

  He picked up the phone again and dialed another number. A woman answered.

  “Carla, it’s Michael.”

  “Hello there,” she said. “What are you up to?”

  “Thought I’d go over to Kramerbooks for some coffee and conversation. Join me?”

  “I don’t know, I—”

  “Oh, come on, Carla. The night is young. Besides, I wanted to talk to you about a concept I have for a novel based on Homer’s Elysian Fields. I’ve been reading the Odyssey again and want to discuss my idea with you.”

  Carla, whom LaRue had met at Washington’s venerable Kramerbooks and Afterwords Café, in Dupont Circle, agreed. She was an editor at a small publisher of regional guides, and they’d hit it off almost immediately, their love of literature, and an even greater fondness for discussing it, cementing the friendship. She was a good-looking woman in her mid-thirties, a few pounds away from being overweight and always assiduously working to avoid that happening. Her glasses were extremely large and round, with black frames and thick lenses. Her hair was dark, touched with premature gray, and she wore it loose so that it reached halfway down her back. Although they spent considerable time together, their relationship had never advanced beyond friendship, which did not necessarily reflect her feelings. She found Michael LaRue to be an appealing man, both physically and intellectually. Once, after he’d told her he’d been a professor of literature at the University of Illinois, she’d asked the obvious question: “Why are you working as a deliveryman?”

  To which he’d replied, “Because I’ve had enough of academia and all its pretensions. I made a decision to pursue a simpler life after a divorce left me shaken and unsure of who I was, or what I wanted to be—when I grew up.” That lovely smile emerged. “I don’t want to teach literature. I want to enjoy it as a reader. I want to read every book ever published, and become really good on my guitar, maybe write songs for my own enjoyment.”

  After hearing him play his guitar for her one night at his apartment, and being extremely impressed, she’d tried to persuade him to appear at open mike nights in local coffee houses.

  “That would defeat the whole purpose,” he said. “I play for me, and only for me.” He quickly added, “And for you, of course.”

  She never brought it up again.

  “Besides,” he announced on the phone this night, “I have something to celebrate.”

  “What’s that?” she asked. “I love celebrations.”

  “Can’t tell you,” he said. “Be content to celebrate with me without knowing why.”

  “Ah, my mysterious friend Michael,” she said with a laugh. “A half hour?”

  “A half hour.”

  THIRTEEN

  You had trouble sleeping?” Georgia asked Joe the next morning as they sat in their kitchen. It was 6:30 A.M.; he’d been up, showered, and dressed for more than an hour.

  “Yeah. It must have been the fast food I ate last night at the paper.”

  That morning’s edition of the Trib was open on the table.

  “HE SHOULD ROT IN HELL”

  Grieving Mom Speaks Out About Serial Killer

  “I wouldn’t trade places with you for the world,” she said with an admiring smile.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Having to speak with the families of victims after a tragedy.”

  “At least I don’t do what the TV types do, shove a microphone in people’s faces an hour after a family is wiped out in a fire and ask how they’re feeling. I’d better get going. I’m meeting Jean Kaporis’s mother and father at nine.”

  “Watch it—your daughter’s a TV type. You still believe the serial killer angle?”

  “Yeah. But I never said I believe it, only that the cops are romancing the possibility among themselves.” He took his sport jacket from where he’d draped it over the back of his chair, put it on, kissed her, and headed for the front door.

  “Joe,” she said, following him.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “You seem—oh , I don’t know. You seem preoccupied.”

  “I guess I am. Must be the lousy sleep and another full day. I’ll be late.”

  “No, you won’t. Roberta and her new boyfriend are coming tonight for dinner. Remember?”

  He slapped the side of his head. “I absolutely forgot. Don’t worry, I’ll be here.”

  Clouds that had rolled in overnight opened as he drove to the District, and his wipers had trouble keeping up with the deluge, as well as with the torrent of thoughts that had consumed him since receiving the call from his brother.

  It had kept him awake for much of the night, and dominated his every thought that morning. He’d considered telling Georgia about it but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Michael’s sudden injection into his life represented for Joe Wilcox a monumental and unwelcome intrusion, a Category Five hurricane, a nuclear bomb.

  It had been almost forty years since they’d had any contact, enough time for Joe to have virtually forgotten that Michael even existed, although mental snapshots of him occasionally came and went, each causing a jolt to the nervous system, a jab in the stomach. Michael’s name hadn’t been mentioned in Joe’s house since early in his marriage to Georgia; Roberta didn’t know that she had an Uncle Michael.

  “Damn him!” Joe fairly shouted within the confines of his car. “Goddamn it!”

  Anger represented only one of his emotions since receiving the call. There was guilt, too, forty years of it. When guilt gripped him, as it irregularly did, he went through a mental exercise of absolution. Cognitively, he could rationalize his behavior toward his brother, excuse it, chalk it up to the circumstances surrounding their forty-year estrangement. But then the emotional quotient butted heads with reasoning, leaving him as confused as ever about what he felt, or more important, what he should feel.

  Georgia had suggested early on that he seek counseling to help rid himself of any conflicts he might be harboring. He never followed through. He didn’t need to bring to life on some shrink’s couch what he’d decreed as dead, his only brother.

  He dreaded going to his cubicle and checking voice messages. To his relief, Michael had not called again. Of course he hadn’t. Joe had said that he would call. The number left by Michael was still on his desk. He crumpled the paper into a ball and held it above the wastebasket but didn’t drop it. Better that he should dial the number rather than receive another call from Michael there at the office, or, God forbid, at home.

  Michael said he would be away during the day. Did he have a job in Washington? Where did he live? He’d said he was calling from his apartment, not a hotel. That meant he intended to stay. The possibility was chilling.

  Why had he come to Washington? Of all the places in the United States to which he could have relocated, why did it have to be here?

  The answer was obvious. He’d chosen Washington because that was where his brother and his brother’s family lived. Another chill, another flip-flop of his stomach.

  He dialed the number Michael had given him. A taped voice on a machine answered:

  “Hello. You’ve reached Michael. I can’t take your call at the moment, but leave a message and your phone number after the beep—leave it v-e-r-y slowly, please, or repeat it—and I’ll get back to you in short order.”

  The beep sounded as Joe lowered the receiver into its cradle. Michael
had an answering machine, another indication that he wasn’t just passing through. As he stared at the phone, a comforting thought occurred. Maybe it had been a prank call by someone who’d learned that he had a brother he hadn’t seen in years, and decided to torment him, a crazy person with a grudge against him for something he’d written. Lord knows he’d had his share of nuts over the course of his career.

  The voice on the answering machine echoed in his mind. Was it really Michael’s voice? He had no way of knowing. Michael was sixteen the last time Joe had seen him, or heard him speak.

  The phone rang, causing him to flex in his chair. He picked up the receiver with trepidation.

  “Joe, it’s Jeanette.” Jeanette Roos was the Trib’s ombudsman, gender aside. “I need to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “About the serial killer series you’re doing.”

  “What about it?”

  “The unattributed MPD source you quoted.”

  Wilcox’s stomach tightened.

  “I’m doing my next column about how reporters use unattributed or anonymous sources at times for their stories. I have to cite our rules about it, Joe, and therefore explain why you were allowed to fall back on one.”

  “Why me?” he said. “They do it all the time around here.”

  “I know, I know, but there isn’t a choice lots of times, especially with politicians. I’ll level with you. Our leaders in the executive suite are evidently getting steam from MPD about the serial killer claim. MPD brass claims that no one in the department is floating that scenario. The pols are coming down hard on the cops to catch this so-called serial killer before he kills again. Our leaders, especially Harris and Wright, want me to defend our decision to go with your stories based upon an anonymous source. What can you give me?”

  “Nothing, Jeanette. I do have a very good source over at MPD who says they’re working with the serial killer concept. I believe him.” She started to say something, but he interrupted. “And don’t ask whether I’d be willing to share my source with anyone here. Morehouse gave the piece the green flag, and so did his boss. End of story.”

  “Hey, Joe,” she said, “don’t snarl at me. I just work here, like you.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I’m a little edgy this morning.”

  “Problem?”

  He forced a laugh. “My daughter is bringing a new boyfriend for dinner tonight. That’s enough to make anyone uptight.”

  She laughed along with him and ended the conversation.

  He checked the clock. Almost 8:30. Morehouse buzzed him: “Need to see you, Joe.”

  “I only have a few minutes,” Wilcox said as he entered Morehouse’s office. “I’m meeting with Jean’s mother and father.”

  “Good. Look at this.” He handed Wilcox a message slip.

  “What does someone at Fox TV want with me?”

  “They want the famous Joseph Wilcox on one of their talk shows tomorrow night.”

  “What talk show?”

  “D.C. Digest. They’re doing a half hour on the serial killer. Give ’em a call.”

  “I don’t want to go on a talk show, Paul.”

  “Yes, you do, Joe. It’s good for the paper. You, too. I’ve cleared it with PR. Call ’em back and tell ’em you’ll be there.”

  Wilcox shoved the message slip into his jacket pocket and left for his breakfast at Old Ebbitt Grill with Jean Kaporis’s parents. He entered the Washington landmark restaurant and bar and asked the young woman at the podium if anyone had come in looking for Joe Wilcox. She pointed to an older man with a cane, and a considerably younger woman.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Kaporis,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Joe Wilcox.”

  “A pleasure, sir,” replied the father. “I’m Marshall Kaporis. This is my wife, Victoria.”

  “Thanks for making the trip,” Wilcox said, leading them to the podium where they were immediately assigned a table in the bustling restaurant.

  “Is there any progress in the investigation?” Marshall Kaporis asked the moment they were seated. Although he was probably in his early to mid-seventies, there was a youthful glow to him. Maybe being married to a younger woman does that for you, Wilcox mused. On second and closer inspection, Victoria Kaporis was not as young as she’d appeared to be in the lobby, nor as he’d envisioned when interviewing her by phone. He pegged her as early fifties, with skin that had enjoyed, then suffered too many hours baking in the sun. She had strong facial features and surprisingly pale blue eyes, considering her coloring. He had noticed in the lobby that she had a hell of a figure for someone on the Social Security side of fifty. Marshall Kaporis had done okay for himself.

  “I should let you know, Mr. Wilcox,” Victoria said, “that Jean was not my daughter. She was my stepdaughter.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” Wilcox said.

  “They had a wonderful relationship,” Marshall said, his eyes moistening.

  Wilcox said, “Speaking of daughters, I understand you were interviewed by my daughter, Roberta.”

  “Yes,” Marshall replied. “A lovely young woman. She was extremely courteous and sensitive to what we’d just been through.”

  Wilcox grinned. “She’s a good reporter—better, a good person. You mentioned to Roberta that Jean had confided in you about some of the men she’d been seeing since coming to Washington.”

  Marshall and Victoria looked at each other.

  “I don’t remember us saying that,” Victoria said.

  “Well,” Wilcox said, “maybe you weren’t that specific. But I did hear that you might have some information that could help in the investigation.”

  Marshall’s cane slipped off the back of his chair and hit the floor with a loud crack. A waiter picked it up and rehooked it over the chair. “Sorry,” Marshall said.

  “Bad back?” Wilcox asked.

  “Knees. I’ve had two replaced.”

  “At the same time,” Victoria clarified.

  “Ouch,” Wilcox said. “Jean never mentioned who she was dating? She was a beautiful young woman. I’m sure there were plenty of men pursuing her.”

  Marshall beamed. “Jean was always popular,” he said, not attempting to mitigate his pride. “Class president in her junior year, and won a few local beauty contests. I’ll bet your daughter did, too.”

  “No, Roberta never pursued that. Breakfast?”

  Marshall and Victoria Kaporis spent the next forty-five minutes talking about Jean with expected parental pride. Wilcox listened attentively and responded appropriately, but his mind wandered to the only name consuming him.

  “Was Jean an only child?” he asked after their plates had been cleared.

  “Yes,” Marshall said. “I’m afraid she was spoiled because of that. My wife and I doted on her.” He smiled and patted Victoria’s hand. “Of course, once Jean’s mother died—cancer, a long battle, bless her—Victoria stepped right in and doted on Jean, too.”

  “I understand,” Wilcox said, looking for their waiter. As much as he liked these two people, he was anxious to leave, to get back to the paper and work on the next day’s article—and to see if Michael had called. As they waited for the check, he asked, “Did you know the young man Jean had been dating here in D.C., the one who went back to California after they broke up?”

  Marshall shook his head. “No,” he said, “that was after—”

  Wilcox waited for him to finish. When he didn’t he said, “After what?”

  Marshall sat back, his pleasant face turning serious. “Jean had gotten involved with a married man,” he said. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, or anyone for that matter.”

  Wilcox waited silently.

  “But you seem to be a trustworthy man.”

  A reporter’s most valuable asset, being trusted.

  “You wouldn’t print this, would you?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “You have my word. But I don’t know what it is
you don’t want me to print,” Wilcox said.

  “Jean was involved—but only briefly—with a married man,” Marshall said. “She didn’t know he was married when she started seeing him. When she found out that he was, she was devastated.”

  “She talked to you about this?”

  “Yes. She came home over a weekend and told us about it.”

  “I felt so sorry for her,” added Victoria. “Poor thing, she’d been duped by this man, lied to, taken advantage of.”

  “Who was he?” Wilcox asked.

  They looked at each other before Marshall said, “We never knew his last name. I think his first name was Paul.”

  “Paul?” Wilcox said. “No last name?”

  “No,” Marshall said, slowly shaking his head.

  “What did this Paul do?” Wilcox asked.

  “It didn’t last long,” Victoria offered. “Their affair, I mean. Only a few weeks, according to Jean.”

  “What did Paul do for a living?” Wilcox repeated.

  “She never said,” Marshall answered, “and we didn’t ask questions. We just let her talk, which is what she needed.”

  “She didn’t need us probing,” Victoria said. “She needed to vent, that’s all. She felt much better when she left.”

  “Have you met Jean’s roommate, Ms. Pruit?” Wilcox asked.

  “Yes, once,” the father answered. “We’d come to visit Jean and went to her apartment. A nice young woman—”

  “If only she didn’t smoke those ghastly cigarettes,” Victoria Kaporis said. “It wasn’t a healthy environment for Jean to be living in.”

  But it didn’t kill her, Wilcox thought.

  “They had an arrangement,” Marshall said. “Mary Jane was never to smoke in Jean’s bedroom. She kept the door closed all the time to keep out the smoke.”

  “Sounds like a sensible arrangement,” Wilcox said.

  “I suppose it was,” Victoria said, not meaning it.

  They parted on the street in front of the restaurant.

  “Thank you for the breakfast, sir,” Marshall said, shaking Wilcox’s hand. “And thank you for caring about Jean. I hope you find who killed her.”