Murder at The Washington Tribune: A Capital Crimes Mystery

by Margaret Truman

  Marjorie came to the window, leaned over to look outside, straightened and pulled down the shade.

  “You little jerk,” Michael said, slapping Joe across the face. “See what you did?”

  Joe whimpered and walked away, his hand to his stinging cheek. It was the last time Joe would see Marjorie Jones alive. She was discovered the next morning choked to death in a thick clump of wild raspberry bushes at the far reaches of the Jones property. Thorns from the bushes had torn into the flesh of her partially nude body. Her skirt had been lifted, and her sweater and bra were up around her neck. Her panties had been torn, exposing her genital area. Her mother, a stern, overweight woman with a crooked mouth, found her daughter’s lifeless body when she went out early in the morning to pick raspberries for canning. She told the local sheriff that she’d assumed Marjorie had gone to bed the night before and was sleeping late. “You know how these teenage girls are,” she told the sheriff. “All they want to do is sleep late.” She was at a loss to explain how Marjorie had ended up outside in the dead of night.

  Joe looked out his window that morning and was excited at seeing so many police cars in front of the Jones house, lights flashing, the sound of voices over two-way radios crackling in the already hot, humid air. He went into Michael’s bedroom where his brother was in bed, the covers pulled over his head.

  “Michael, Michael,” he said, shaking him. “Wake up. The police are over at the Jones house. Something must have happened.”

  Michael told him to get away, but Joe kept shaking his brother until he angrily sat up.

  “What happened to you?” Joe asked. Michael’s face and hands were covered with deep, bloody scratches.

  “Nothing happened,” Michael said. “Now let me sleep.”

  “But the police are here and—”

  Michael pulled the covers back over his head, and Joe left the room to continue observing the scene from his bedroom. Mr. and Mrs. Jones were talking with the sheriff and other officers. At one point, Mrs. Jones turned and pointed at Joe’s house, causing him to duck down out of sight. What was going on?

  Still in his pajamas, he ran downstairs where his mother was in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

  “Mama, did you see next door? The police are there and—”

  “None of our business, Joseph,” she said, looking briefly at him before returning to her chores at the old gas stove. “You get yourself upstairs and dressed proper, and tell your brother to do the same. There’s work to be done around here.”

  Joe put on the clothes he’d worn the day before and went into Michael’s room again. “Michael, you have to get up,” Joe said. “Mama says she wants us downstairs ’cause there’s work she wants done and—”

  Michael bolted upright as the sound of someone knocking on the downstairs door reached the bedroom. “Who is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Joe said. “Let’s go down and see.”

  Michael shook his head. “Look,” he said, “I’m not here. Okay? You go down and say I must have left here early.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do what I say, Joey. It’s important.”

  “Okay.”

  Joe left the room and descended the stairs. His mother stood at the front door talking through the screen to the sheriff and two uniformed officers. She turned and said to Joe, “Where’s Michael? I told you to get him up and—”

  “He’s not here,” Joe said, afraid to look directly at his mother or the men on the other side of the door.

  “Where is he?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know. Honest, I don’t know. Maybe be left early to go someplace.”

  “We’ll have to take a look for ourselves, Mrs. Wilcox,” the sheriff said. “If you don’t mind.”

  She stepped back to allow them to enter. Joe watched wide-eyed as the sheriff led the other officers up the narrow staircase. “His room’s to the right,” Mrs. Wilcox yelled after them.

  She looked at Joe, whose expression mirrored the confusion and fright he felt. “You go outside,” she said. “No reason for you to be here.” With that she went up the stairs, slowly, tentatively, head cocked to allow her to better hear what was occurring on the second floor.

  Joe didn’t follow his mother’s order. He came to the foot of the steps and listened to the men’s voices: “Check in there,” he heard the sheriff say. A moment later, his mother wailed, “Oh, my God!”

  “Get him outta there,” the sheriff commanded.

  “I didn’t do nothing!” Michael shouted.

  Joe went up the stairs two at a time and came to Michael’s open bedroom door. It was hard to see beyond the bulk of the three lawmen, but when one of them moved aside, he saw that Michael was huddled at the rear of his shallow closet, his knees drawn up to his chin. His brother was crying and saying over and over, “I didn’t do nothing, I didn’t do nothing bad.”

  Mrs. Wilcox turned and saw that Joseph was taking it all in. She grabbed his ear and said angrily, “You obey me now, Joseph, and go downstairs. We’ve got big trouble here. Go on. Git!”

  He did as he was told this time. He went outside to the elm tree where he’d joined his brother the night before and sat on the ground, his eyes on the door from the kitchen. As he waited, he heard the sound of his father’s car as it turned off the road and came up the dirt driveway. Michael Wilcox senior had left for work early that morning at a woodworking mill twenty minutes down the road from the house. He’d been employed at the mill for almost twenty years and had recently been promoted to foreman on the day shift. The family had celebrated that night with a fudge cake, Mr. Wilcox’s favorite, baked by Mrs. Wilcox, and a glass of nonalcoholic wine for the adults, soda for Michael and Joseph. Drinking alcoholic beverages was forbidden in the Wilcox home; mother and father were staunch churchgoers and active in church affairs and events.

  Joseph ran to his father as he exited the car. “Something bad’s happening, Papa,” he said breathlessly.

  “They inside?” his father asked. He was a tall, gaunt man with unruly gray hair, and wore coveralls over a white T-shirt with JESUS SAVES emblazoned on the front.

  “Michael’s hidin’ in the closet,” Joseph said.

  “Mama’s in there with them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Jones girl’s dead?”

  His father’s words shocked Joseph. “Marjorie’s dead?” he said weakly.

  “You stay here and don’t talk to nobody. You got that?” his father said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The senior Wilcox, who’d received a call from his wife the moment things had erupted next door, walked purposefully toward the house. Joseph felt a wave of relief sweep over him. His father would make everything right. He always did. Every time Michael had gotten into trouble at school, which was often, his father would go to the school and return bearing the news that Michael would not be expelled and would be given another chance.

  Marjorie was dead?

  What did that have to do with Michael?

  He remembered the cuts and scratches on his brother, and his relief evaporated.

  What had Michael done now?

  Marjorie was dead?

  Did Michael hurt her?

  Sounds from the kitchen shut off his thinking. He watched as the kitchen door opened and the two uniformed officers brought Michael through it, one on each side of him. Michael was bent over, and Joseph saw that his hands were tied behind him. He stopped walking and dropped to his knees. The officers jerked him to his feet and continued toward their cars, which were still in front of the Jones house. Mrs. Wilcox stood at the kitchen door and cried. Joseph’s father was nowhere to be seen.

  He watched them put Michael in the rear seat of one of the marked patrol cars. The door was slammed shut, and the officers got in the car and drove away, kicking up dust.

  “Joseph!” his mother yelled.

  He ran to the house and burst into the kitchen. His father was on his knees praying in front of a statue of
the Virgin Mary that occupied a corner of the kitchen, beneath a picture of Christ on the cross. His mother took his hand, led him to his father, and the three of them said disparate prayers; Joseph didn’t know what to pray for but silently asked that whatever had happened that morning and the night before would go away. “Let Michael be okay, God. I love you, God. I love Michael.”

  Michael Wilcox was charged in the murder of Marjorie Jones. The elected county prosecutor added rape to the initial charge, but an autopsy indicated intercourse had not taken place. Her hymen was intact. Attempted rape was a possibility, but it was decided that adding that charge would only muddle the case for murder in the first degree. A public defender was assigned to represent Michael, who’d confessed to the crime his first night in custody. His attorney came to the house shortly after being assigned and met with Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox. Joseph had been told to stay in his room, but he sneaked out and lay at the top of the stairs while they conferred downstairs.

  “I’m afraid there’s not a lot I can do for Michael,” the attorney said. He was an older man who attended the same church as Michael’s parents. “He’s confessed to the murder, and all the evidence supports that confession.”

  “Do they want to kill him?” Mrs. Wilcox asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. The prosecutor is calling for the death penalty.”

  She closed her eyes and prayed silently.

  “The crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain,” her husband said aloud, citing Isaiah’s prophecy about the coming of the Messiah. “My firstborn has brought a plague to this Christian house.”

  “I understand,” the attorney said, “but we have a legal problem here. I know the two of you well. You are hard-working, decent people who follow the word of the Lord and practice His moral teachings. But the law doesn’t always recognize such truths. What we must do—what I must do—is to try and spare Michael’s life. He was obviously not of his right mind when he committed this act. The young Jones woman evidently had questionable moral principles. Michael has told me of seeing her undressing in the window of her own bedroom, enticing and corrupting impressionable young men like your son.”

  “A harlot!” Mr. Wilcox said with finality.

  “Perhaps not that,” said the attorney, “but someone who must be, at least, partially culpable in this unfortunate incident. I know that your fine son has had many troubles in his young life, at school, in the community. His anger and aggressiveness is well known in Kankakee.”

  “He’s been a bad seed,” the father offered. “I pray, most merciful Father, to be forgiving of me for bringing such a soul into Your world.” He said it to the ceiling.

  It became silent downstairs, and Joseph crawled to the very edge of the stairs to better hear. Finally, the attorney spoke.

  “The important thing,” he said, “is to spare Michael’s life.”

  “But you said—” the mother said.

  “I said the prosecutor is asking for the death penalty. But I believe I might be successful in pleading insanity for Michael. If so, he would be found not guilty by reason of insanity and would be remanded to a hospital for the criminally insane.”

  “Insanity,” the mother wailed, and began to cry.

  “He must be that,” said the father. “Only an insane person would do such a terrible thing.”

  “Exactly,” the attorney agreed. “I believe that based upon Michael’s past behavior, and the behavior of the young lady next door, I stand at least a decent chance of defending Michael on that basis. There’s also the possibility that a plea bargain can be struck with that as the outcome. Citizens around here aren’t keen on laying out thousands of dollars for trials. The prosecutor’s comin’ up for reelection soon. He might see the wisdom of sparing the county that expense.”

  “I see,” the father said.

  “Do I have your permission to pursue that course of action?”

  “Michael has taken a life,” the father said. “It is written in Exodus that there shall be eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.”

  “But our God is forgiving,” the mother said. “If Michael’s life can be spared, it will be God’s will.”

  And the will of twelve jurors, the attorney thought.

  “Please,” Joseph heard his mother say. “I don’t want my firstborn to die.”

  After a long pause, the father said to the attorney, “I hereby give my permission.”

  “I will have to discuss it with Michael,” the attorney said.

  “I will tell him what to do,” said the father. “How long will he remain in the institution?”

  “Until he is judged fit to rejoin society. It will be years. But I stress to you that I may not succeed in achieving a not guilty verdict, or be able to arrange a plea bargain with the prosecutor. But I assure you I will try.”

  “That is all we can ask,” the mother said.

  “Let us pray,” the father said.

  The muffled words of prayers drifted up the stairs. Joseph returned to his room, flung himself on his bed, and sobbed, his body heaving until there were no more tears to shed.

  Michael was held without bail until his trial, which commenced seven months later. Joseph asked his parents if he could join them when they visited Michael in jail, but was rebuked each time. Going to school was torture for him. Classmates taunted him about having a pervert, a sex fiend, and a killer for a brother. Marjorie Jones’s mother and father shunned any contact with the Wilcox family. Two of her older brothers attacked Joseph on a few occasions, sending him home with a bloody nose and violet circles around his eyes. He never cried in school, or when suffering the brothers’ pummeling, but when in the sanctity of his bedroom, he would weep so hard that nausea would result. He considered running away but could not muster the courage to do it. His parents came down hard on him to do well in school despite “the plague your brother has cast over this family,” and he did, spending many hours alone with his schoolbooks—and his dreams of one day escaping to a better, gentler life.

  Michael’s attorney was unsuccessful in brokering a plea deal with the prosecutor, and the murder trial of Michael Wilcox went forward. It was the talk of the county and of the state of Illinois. Each courtroom day was played out on the front pages of newspapers across the state, with a picture of Michael frequently accompanying the articles. The press accounts were the only conduit Joseph had to what was happening to his brother. His mother and father refused to discuss anything with him, or to allow him to attend the trial. Nor did his father make an appearance in the courtroom. He went to work at the mill each day, leaving visits to the courthouse to his wife, who was faithful in her attendance.

  The trial lasted six days. After closing arguments, during which Michael’s attorney frequently invoked God and the Bible in pleading that his client’s life be saved, the jury deliberated for only four hours before announcing its verdict: Not guilty by reason of insanity.

  The judge imposed sentence a week later. Michael Jeremiah Wilcox was to be confined to a state mental hospital until such time that medical authorities deemed him sufficiently cured to once again take his place in society.

  During Michael’s early years in the institution, Joseph frequently asked his mother to allow him to accompany her when she traveled to see his brother on visitation days. Her answer was always negative, which only fueled his speculation and fantasies about what it must be like for Michael in such a place. His father refused to visit even once, and retreated into his own inner world, going to work, returning to the house at four, and secluding himself in a corner of the living room where he read the Bible until dinner. Michael’s name was never mentioned, and Joseph eventually accepted this prohibition.

  Church remained an important part of the family’s weekly activities, and Joseph was expected to fully involve himself. That meant attending services on Sunday mornings, a Bible class one night a week, and a youth prayer group every other Saturday. He grew to dread attending church. Not only did he f
ind the experience boring and uninspiring, he sensed the change in attitude of the other parishioners toward him and his family. They were friendly and courteous enough, but looked at him in a way that made him uncomfortable. Once, he overheard a woman tell another, “That other Wilcox boy’s the one I’d be worried about. Insanity is in the blood and genes, runs right through a family like any other disease.”

  His father died during Joseph’s senior year in high school, keeling over at church one Sunday morning as he passed the collection plate, a chore in which he took great pride and pleasure. The funeral was sparsely attended, some men from the mill, a few neighbors, and those members of the congregation who attended all funerals as a godly social obligation. The reverend praised the father for his love of God and love of the church. Mrs. Wilcox asked Michael’s lawyer if there was any possibility that Michael might be allowed to attend, but was told that was out of the question.

  Joseph graduated among the top of his class and went off to college on a partial scholarship, which supplemented a small amount of money left by his father. He’d edited his high school’s small newspaper; the scholarship was based upon that and his stated intention to pursue a career in journalism. He came home on breaks during his first two years and wanted to visit Michael. But his mother forbade it, and he never pressed her to change her mind. She died during the summer between his sophomore and junior years. He sold the house, which had been left to him in her will, and never again stepped foot in that house, on that land, at the cemetery where both parents were buried, or in a church. Nor did he attempt to see Michael. As far as he was concerned Michael was dead, too, and he decided it was better that way. He forged his life as a reporter, met and married Georgia, and fathered Roberta. He’d succeeded in escaping and had freed himself from the family into which he’d been born, and vowed to never look back. He’d kept that vow for more than forty years.

  Until now.

  Knowing how difficult parking was in Adams Morgan, he took a taxi there, telling his turbaned driver to take him to the busy corner of Eighteenth Street and Columbia Road, the heart of this section of the city. He was glad Edith had suggested having dinner there. While Washington was no longer considered a culinary wasteland—it now had as many good restaurants as any other major city—the city’s eateries tended to reflect the pretentiousness of the city itself and its political heavyweights, the food not always matching up to the promise. But Adams Morgan’s eclectic array of restaurants served authentic ethnic cooking, one of the reasons tourists and native Washingtonians alike flocked to this gentrified conclave north of Dupont Circle, which had become Washington’s Latin Quarter and Greenwich Village rolled into one.