Murder at The Washington Tribune: A Capital Crimes Mystery

by Margaret Truman

  The Wilcoxes waited.

  “Roberta was with him.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Over the course of his career in The Washington Tribune’s newsroom, Paul Morehouse had heard every four-letter word known to man. But what he was hearing this evening on the phone from his wife rivaled it. The slight, ordinarily demure woman let loose with a string of invective that would make any contemporary comedian proud.

  She paused to breathe.

  “Look,” he said, “I know you’re upset, but we can work this out.”

  “ ‘Work this out?’ ” she screamed, and started down the list of classic forbidden words again, adding a few of her own invention.

  He had no choice but to continue listening or to hang up. He chose to listen, glancing nervously into the newsroom through his window and hoping her shrill, piercing voice wasn’t reaching others’ ears.

  He’d expected the tirade; she’d thrown in his face that morning her discovery of the e-mails, sending him from the house in search of refuge at the newspaper with a sense of dread. It was the dread that trumped other emotions at that moment as she growled, “Did you kill that woman?”

  “What?” His exaggerated shock sounded exactly that, exaggerated, and false.

  “Jean Kaporis! Did you kill her?”

  “Oh, Jesus, Mimi, come on. Look, I made a mistake, that’s all. I’m sorry. I—”

  “Tell that to the police, you lying bastard!”

  It sounded as though she’d destroyed the phone while hanging up.

  He was pondering what steps to take next when Gene Hawthorne knocked on his door.

  “Not now!” Morehouse shouted.

  Hawthorne opened the door.

  “I said—”

  “You have to hear this, Paul,” the brash, young towheaded reporter said.

  “What?”

  Hawthorne closed the door behind him, leaned on the desk, and said, “I just got off the phone with a source at MPD.”

  “Yeah?” Morehouse said, his mind elsewhere.

  “A good source,” Hawthorne said. He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Joe Wilcox is there.”

  “So?”

  “He’s there, Paul because—” It was almost a whisper now. “Because he wrote those letters.”

  “What letters?”

  Hawthorne stepped back, a smug smile on his face.

  “Those letters?” Morehouse said. “The serial killer letters?”

  “That’s right. Joe wrote the letters. He’s a phony.”

  “Why the hell would he do that?” the gruff veteran editor asked aloud.

  “The police are searching for his brother, too,” said Hawthorne.

  “What brother? Joe doesn’t have a brother.”

  “He sure as hell does, Paul. They’re looking for him in connection with the knifing in Franklin Park. Rudolph Grau, the brother’s neighbor.”

  “Are you sure?” Morehouse asked. “About the letters?”

  “It’s a good source, Paul. Want me to follow up on it?”

  “Yeah. No. I’ll have to run this by upstairs. Jesus. You’re positive?”

  “Like I said—”

  “Keep it to yourself, huh?” Morehouse said, getting up and taking his suit jacket from an antique clothes tree that had been a gift from Mimi. Again to Hawthorne: “You tell nobody about this until I say so. Hear me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Hawthorne left, and Morehouse placed a call to the executive suite where he told a secretary that it was urgent that he see the publisher immediately. She checked, came back on the line, and said, “He’s in a meeting, but should be free in fifteen minutes.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  Of the many things Morehouse admired about himself, it was his ability to remain calm and collected under fire that he treasured most. He silently reminded himself of this as he realized he was about to come unraveled. “Steady goes it,” he said aloud. “Easy, easy.”

  A clock on the wall said it was nearly time to go upstairs. He rose from behind his desk and took steps toward the door, but the ringing of his private line stopped him. Was it Mimi again? If so, he wouldn’t answer. Unsure of what to do, he again reminded himself to calm down and to think things through.

  He picked up the receiver.

  “Paul Morehouse?” the woman asked.

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “Detective Vargas-Swayze, MPD.”

  His voice wasn’t as convincing as he’d hoped. “What can I do for you, detective?”

  “We’d like to speak with you.”

  “About what?”

  “If you’d rather not have us come to your office, we can agree to meet someplace else,” she said.

  “What’s it all about?” he repeated.

  “We’ll get into that when we meet. Your office? Ten minutes?”

  “Ten minutes? I won’t be here. I’m on my way to a meeting.” Vargas-Swayze, he thought. Joe Wilcox’s friend. “Is this about Joe Wilcox?”

  “No, sir, it’s about you. We can bring you in for questioning, or we can do it at the newspaper. Your choice, but you’ll have to make a choice—now.”

  “Look,” he said, “I have this meeting. It’s important. I don’t have any reason to play your game, detective. If you want to speak with me, call my attorney.” He rattled off the name and number.

  “Okay,” Vargas-Swayze said from where she stood on the sidewalk in front of the Tribune Building. With her were two other detectives and three uniformed officers. She cut the connection and instructed the uniformed men to cover any exits from the building other than the main one. To the detectives: “Let’s go.”

  They entered the building and flashed their IDs at the private security guard at the desk. “What floor is Paul Morehouse on?” she asked.

  He told her, adding, “I’ll call his extension and let him know you’re here.”

  “No you won’t,” she said, and asked one of the officers to remain at the desk. “We like surprises.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “. . . and what do you think will happen to your father?” Michael asked Roberta. They were the only customers on the restaurant’s terrace. Darkness had begun to set in; a flickering candle on the table cast flattering light on her face.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “If it’s true—and my God, I wish it weren’t—he’ll be disgraced as a journalist.”

  He saw wetness form in her eyes and placed his hand on hers. “There, there,” he said. “Even if it is true, and it seems that it is—after all, he’s admitted it—I’m sure time will heal the wounds. Of course, it’s in his favor that he’s coming to the end of what has been a rewarding career. It would be worse if he were young and starting out.”

  “Maybe not,” she said. “At least he could claim youthful indiscretion.”

  “You mustn’t be hard on him, Robbie.”

  “Another confession,” she said. “I keep worrying what impact it will have on me and my reputation.”

  Espressos arrived at the table along with a slice of key lime pie to share. He raised his small porcelain cup. “To an evening of confessions,” he said.

  She touched his cup with hers.

  “May I make a suggestion?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “I suggest you use your cell phone now and place a call to your TV station.”

  “Why?”

  “To capture on videotape what I am about to say.”

  Her stare was blank. “I don’t understand.”

  “Just do what I say, Robbie. Call your station and arrange for one of your crews to come here, just as you did at my apartment.”

  Instead of asking more questions, she pulled her phone from her purse and pressed the number coinciding with the station’s programmed number. An intern answered. Roberta asked to be put through to her boss, who came on the line.

  “What’s up, Robbie?” he asked. “It’s your night off.”

  “I need a crew,” she said.r />
  “What for? What have you got?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, “but I have a feeling it’s important.”

  “Where are you?”

  She placed her hand over the mouthpiece and asked Michael, who sat calmly across from her, a small smile on his lips, for the address. He answered by pushing a pack of matches to her on which the restaurant’s address was printed. She read it into the phone.

  “I hope this is worth it,” her boss said. “We’re stretched thin tonight.”

  “Just send somebody,” she said, and ended the conversation.

  She said to Michael, “I wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”

  “In due time, when your friends arrive. In the meantime, let us enjoy the evening. I believe an after-dinner drink is in order.” He motioned for the waiter and ordered two of their best cognacs. As the waiter walked away, Michael stopped him with, “And please ask Tony to join us.”

  “Excuse me,” he said to Roberta as he left the table and disappeared inside the restaurant. He returned to the terrace a minute later carrying his guitar case and amplifier, which had been in the car’s small trunk.

  Roberta’s heart sunk. Had he asked for a camera crew to record him playing? If so, she would have a very angry boss.

  He read her concern. “Not to fear, Robbie,” he said. “I assure you there’s more to having your colleagues here with camera and microphone than music. However—”

  The restaurant’s owner appeared.

  “Ah, Tony, thank you.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t playing,” Tony said.

  “Only a song or two for my lovely niece, and for the cameras.”

  “Cameras?”

  “A crew from Ms. Wilcox’s television station will be arriving shortly. The publicity for you and your fine establishment will be welcome, I’m sure.” He looked about. “Ah, an outlet. Perfect.” He plugged in the amplifier, used a patch cord to connect the guitar to the amp, adjusted the controls, and strummed a few chords.

  Tony looked quizzically at Roberta, whose slight shrug of her shoulders indicated she knew as little as he did. The owner walked away, leaving Michael and Roberta alone. Their drinks were served.

  “I know you’re confused, dear,” Michael said, cupping the snifter in his hands to impart warmth to the drink, “but soon you’ll know why I asked for this moment to be recorded for posterity. Did you enjoy the ride in my flashy little car?”

  “I’m not sure enjoy is a word I’d use,” she said, pleasantly, her mind trying to make sense of everything that had occurred. “You drove too fast for me to have enjoyed it.”

  “My apologies,” he said. “There were many things I yearned for during my forty years of captivity. One of them was to be behind the wheel of such a car.” He laughed. “Of course, I envisioned myself racing along a winding road through some bucolic countryside, the top down, the wind stinging my face, my cares lost in the exhaust. But as things developed this day, I thought I’d better experience my dream in less pastoral surroundings. Life is so fleeting, Robbie. One has to grab the moment or lose it forever.”

  As though not expecting a response, he began playing. “Let’s see,” he said, “what song would be appropriate to the moment? I know.” He launched into a melody. “ ‘You and the Night and the Music,’ ” he announced, “by Dietz and Schwartz. How appropriate.”

  Her cell phone on the table rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Roberta, it’s Mom. We’ve been trying to reach you. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “That music—where are you?”

  “Mom, I’m fine. I’ll call you back as soon as I’m finished.”

  Her father replaced Georgia on the phone. “Are you with Michael?” he demanded.

  “Yes. I have to go. I’ll—”

  “Roberta, listen to me. Michael is wanted for murder. He killed his neighbor in Franklin Park.”

  “I’ll call later,” Roberta said, shutting off the phone.

  The music had drawn diners to the terrace from inside the restaurant, joined by the owner and two waiters. By the time Michael had reached the song’s bridge, the two-person television crew arrived. Roberta motioned them to come to the table. As Michael continued playing, she got up and whispered into the cameraman’s ear, “Just start shooting.”

  The camera and microphone, which the sound tech dangled over Michael on the end of a boom, captured every note. A descending arpeggio, and a resounding chord, ended the performance. He looked up at the TV crew, smiled, and said, “I have something to say.”

  Roberta instructed the cameraman to come around behind her and to focus on Michael’s face. With the microphone dangling above his head, just out of frame, Roberta said, “What is it you want to say, Michael? Is it about the death of your neighbor, Mr. Grau?”

  His face lit up. “You know,” he said, “but why should I be surprised? You’re as bright as you are beautiful.”

  “Tell me about it,” she said in her best interviewing voice, soft and comforting, her you-can-trust-me-and-tell-me-everything voice.

  He started to say something but stopped, as though having been struck by an important afterthought. He looked into the camera and said, “We are sitting on the terrace of one of the loveliest restaurants in the Washington area, owned by the erudite Tony Whitaker. You must try it some time. The food is exquisite, the service impeccable.” He went on to give its address, and read the number for reservations off the matchbook cover.

  Roberta couldn’t help but smile, and made a mental note to try and retain the plug in the finished piece.

  “You were saying something about Mr. Grau’s death. He was your neighbor.”

  “Yes, he was, a belligerent sort, an alcoholic. I didn’t mind those things. But he became so abusive. When he found out that I’d been in a mental institution for forty years, the result of my having murdered a young girl when I was a teenager, he held it over my head, threatened to tell the world, the other neighbors—everyone. I was even willing to overlook those threats. But when he made sexual advances toward me, using his threats as blackmail, I wasn’t able to control my anger. I offer this not as an excuse for having killed him, but simply as an explanation for my actions.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Michael?” Roberta asked. “Why have you chosen to tell this on television?”

  “To ask for your forgiveness, Roberta. In the interest of full disclosure, I must tell your audience that I am your uncle, and that my brother, Joseph Wilcox, is an outstanding reporter on The Washington Tribune. Revelations will emerge about him and certain actions he chose to take which involved me, and the serial killer alleged to be roaming the streets of Washington, D.C., preying on young women. Forgive him, as I ask to be forgiven.”

  The camera and tape recorder rolled as Michael continued with his confession. Roberta said little, injecting only an occasional question when the his flow of words flagged. Everyone standing in the open French doors witnessed the bizarre interview being conducted on a lovely night on the terrace of a restaurant just across the Potomac from the nation’s capital, where young women had been installing extra locks on their apartment doors and windows, and every man was viewed with suspicion.

  When he was finished, and the camera and tape recorder had been shut off, he said to Roberta, “Don’t give me too much credit, Robbie, for having the courage to come forward like this. I would not have had I not known that the police wanted to question me again about the murder. Your father was to pick me up at my apartment and bring me to their headquarters. I would have confessed to them, I know, but decided that if my deed was to become public, the least I could do was to give my favorite and only niece the exclusive story.”

  His words reached one of Roberta’s ears. The other was pressed to her cell phone as she called her boss at the station to tell him she had a sensational story, every bit of it caught on tape, and that she would be there with the crew as soon as possible. She
was about to leave when Michael said, “What about the police, Robbie? Must I call them myself?”

  “No,” she said. “I will.”

  And she did.

  THIRTY-SIX

  In the Weeks that Followed

  No one in Kankakee, Illinois, would have believed a half-century ago that the Wilcox family would become famous. Of course, there had been the notoriety when Michael Wilcox, older of two sons, went on trial for having killed a neighbor girl and was found not guilty by reason of insanity. But that was a regional story and was quickly forgotten once Michael was put away in a mental institution, presumably for good, and the rest of the family had dispersed or died.

  But that quickly changed in 2005 when the first of many news reports reverberated around the nation. Washington Tribune reporter Gene Hawthorne wrote the lead story for his paper. It appeared not on the front page of the Metro section, but on page one of the paper itself. It was syndicated by the Trib to sister papers, and the wire services ran with it, too, as did cable news channels and network newscasts.

  Hollywood quickly took notice and a bidding war erupted for the screen rights. It had, as a Hollywood columnist wrote, “All the trappings of the ultimate family saga: sex, greed, betrayal, ambition, failure, and success.” All it lacked was drugs, which didn’t keep some tabloids from speculating that Michael Wilcox had been high when he knifed Rudolph Grau, his neighbor, to death in a Washington, D.C., park.

  The arrest of Tribune Metro editor Paul Morehouse for the murder of staffer Jean Kaporis was big news, too, but was nothing compared to the Wilcox chronicle. Hawthorne also wrote those stories, which had a ready and anxious readership in D.C. He duly reported that Morehouse pleaded not guilty at his arraignment, although he pointed out that the MPD had uncovered additional evidence to go with information provided by Morehouse’s estranged wife, Mimi Morehouse, who had sued for divorce citing multiple adulteries.

  The revelation that the letters allegedly written by Washington’s serial killer had been a hoax brought a collective sigh of relief to the city. TV and radio talk shows across the nation booked media pundits and college journalism professors, who decried what Joe Wilcox had done, condemning him for further eroding the public’s faith in its media. They frequently evoked the names of legendary figures in journalism as examples of integrity and independence, and portrayed sellouts like Joe Wilcox as a rare and warped aberration who gave the media an unwarranted black eye.