“Good. Look, I’m working on a story about tonight’s Franklin Park murder and I need something more tangible about where the victim worked.”
“I can’t give you that, Joe.”
“It doesn’t have to be specific, Edith. A newspaper? Radio? TV?”
“She was a line producer for a TV station.”
“Oh. Which one?”
“Joe, that’s it until we decide to release more.”
“I understand. You know what I’m thinking?”
“What?”
“I’m thinking that there might be a serial killer loose in D.C.”
“A serial killer? Why?”
“Same MO as Jean Kaporis. Young, attractive woman. Works in media. Is strangled to death.”
“That’s a real stretch, Joe. It takes more than two to add up to serial killings.”
“But you can’t rule out the possibility.”
“No, I guess anything’s possible. I’m beat. Sorry about dinner being ruined. The crab cakes were good, at least what I tasted of them.”
“We’ll do it again soon.”
“That’s a deal. Good night.”
He’d brought with him the CD containing the story he’d written, and inserted it into the den computer. He worked the article over for an hour, adding new lines, cutting others, rearranging paragraphs and changing some key words many times. When he was finished, he went to the bedroom where Georgia slept. His undressing woke her.
“It’s real late,” she said, glancing at the lighted digital clock-radio. “After three.”
“I know,” he said. “I was working on a breaking story.” He leaned over and kissed her brow. “Go back to sleep, hon.”
“Uh-huh. Was it a good night?”
“Yeah, it was. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Have to be in early. No need to get up with me.”
“Okay. I’m having lunch with Mimi tomorrow.”
“Today. It’s today. That’s good.”
Georgia and Mimi Morehouse, Paul’s wife, had become friends over the years, and got together a few times each month for, as Georgia termed it, “Girl-talk. Compare notes on the men in our lives.” Joe and Georgia had decided after spending a number of evenings with the Morehouses that only someone with Mimi’s glass-half-full personality and ready laugh could put up with someone like her dour, abrasive husband. When the tenor of their relationship came up one day over lunch, Mimi said to Georgia with a chuckle, “Oh, Paul’s all right. His bark is worse than his bite.” To which Georgia responded, “You take the bitter with the sweet.” And they laughed their way through the rest of lunch.
One day, the two ladies at lunch got on the subject of their husbands’ fidelity.
“I’d really be shocked if Joe had an affair,” Georgia said. “He’s—he’s just not the type, if you know what I mean.”
“What type is that?” Mimi asked.
“You know, the sort who takes off his wedding ring when he goes out of town. A flirt. I’d really be shocked.”
“I’d just as soon not know,” Mimi offered. “I take the military’s approach: Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
“I’m afraid I could never be that worldly,” Georgia said.
“Worldly, hell! If I ever found out he was sleeping with some bimbo, I’d take a pair of pinking shears to his manhood.”
“Ouch,” Georgia said, making a face against that painful vision.
The subject never came up again.
Wilcox set the alarm to go off in three hours and slid into bed next to her. Lying on his back, he waited for sleep to come. But it evaded him for a half hour, during which time he thought of many things, particularly what had happened that evening to shake him out of his lethargy. He felt more alive than he had in months. A vision of a naked Edith Vargas-Swayze filled his thoughts, and he considered reaching for his wife. He fought that urge, and forced Edith from his thoughts, too. As sleep finally did arrive, he smiled at the contemplation of getting up and going to work, something he hadn’t experienced in far too long. His final waking thought, displayed in vivid Technicolor, was Roberta’s face, her beatific smile filling his screen. Then, whether he wanted it to happen or not, everything went to black.
SIX
No one ever accused Paul Morehouse of having an upbeat personality. But this morning his growls seemed even more frequent and pronounced.
“Good morning,” said a young reporter who popped into his office moments after he’d arrived, his takeout coffee still uncapped.
Morehouse nodded and muttered, “How are you?”
“Couldn’t be better,” she said happily.
“I doubt that,” he muttered. “What do you want?”
“I’m pissed about the edit you did on my story yesterday. I—”
“Yeah, I know, I messed with your precious prose. Talk to me later about it, after I’ve had coffee. Close the door behind you.” He watched with an admiring eye as she left, hips and buttocks moving nicely beneath the thin fabric of her skirt.
He’d spent the evening with an assortment of editors from the city’s other news outlets at a dinner hosted by D.C.’s mayor, the purpose of which still escaped him. Did the mayor really think that by serving the press small drinks and a lousy big dinner, he’d buy their good graces when it came to covering his missteps? Maybe for some of the mayor’s media lapdogs, but not for him, Paul Morehouse. Not only had the evening been a waste of time, the dinner had left him with a sour stomach; a fresh roll of Tums sat next to his Styrofoam coffee cup.
He looked through the glass separating him from the main newsroom and saw Joe Wilcox heading for his office.
“Yeah?” Morehouse said as Wilcox entered.
“I thought you’d want to see this,” Wilcox said, laying the article on the desk.
“What is it?”
“Read it.”
Morehouse removed the cover from his coffee and took a sip before picking up Wilcox’s pages. He leaned back, half-glasses on the tip of his nose, a scowl on his face. “Interesting,” he said, dropping the article on the desk. “A serial killer? Based on two murders?”
“Two similar murders, Paul.”
“This one worked for a TV station?”
“Right. I’m nailing down which one.”
“Same cause of death.”
“Right.”
“Who’s your source at MPD who says it’s possibly a serial murder?”
“A good one.”
“Your—your Spanish buddy?”
“No. Someone higher up.”
“Can’t get MPD to go on the record?”
“Not yet. They will. They’ll have to when this runs.”
“He talked to you on background?”
“Yes.”
There was a difference, Wilcox knew, between having a public official speak “off the record” and “on background.” In its strictest interpretation, “off the record” meant that whatever was said could not be reported, even without attribution. But speaking “on background” meant the official’s words could be reported without naming the source. Those distinctions had become blurred over the years. “Off the record” covered both situations in most journalists’ minds, and Wilcox wasn’t in the mood to honor such distinctions.
“Get the victim’s name and where she worked. The L.A. bureau is interviewing Kaporis’s ex out in California. Use what they come up with in the piece.”
“Shall do.”
As Wilcox turned to leave, Morehouse said, “What about the hooker angle?”
“What about it?”
“I want that run down.”
Wilcox nodded, but it didn’t represent what he was thinking. He said, “This serial killer angle is front-page stuff, Paul.”
“We’ll see. Nice work, Joe. By the way, how come you covered Franklin Park last night?”
“I was passing by.”
As Wilcox was about to leave, Morehouse said, “Joe, when you get something from MPD, see if you can get them to speculate that if
a serial killer is loose, chances are Jean was murdered by somebody from outside the Trib.”
“That’ll be tough. I—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but it would help take the spotlight off us, poke a hole in the notion that we might be covering up for one of our own.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Wilcox spent the next few hours on the phone working his sources in D.C.’s broadcasting community. He struck oil with a friend at one of the TV stations, who told him the slain woman in the park had worked for a competitor. He called that station and received a reluctant confirmation that the victim had, indeed, worked there. He lied to the person on the phone: “We’re going with her name,” he said. “MPD has notified her next of kin.”
“Really?” the person on the other end said. “The McNamara family must be devastated.”
“I’m sure they are,” Wilcox said, noting the name on a pad and injecting empathy into his voice. “How old was she? Twenty-six?”
“I don’t know,” the TV station employee said. “Colleen never said, at least to me.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m sure you’re all terribly upset losing a colleague in such a brutal way. Thanks for your time.”
He inserted the victim’s name and the TV station into the story, and ran a computer search on Colleen McNamara. There wasn’t much, but there was just enough to help flesh out the piece. She’d come to Washington to take the job at the TV station. That was three years ago. Her name was mentioned in connection with a couple of investigative reports she’d produced for the station. Her address and telephone number were included in the computer-generated bio.
A man answered his call to her residence.
“Joe Wilcox from the Tribune. Is there someone I can speak with about Ms. McNamara?”
“You’re a reporter?”
“Yes. The Washington Tribune. My condolences to the family. I know this is a tough time for you, but I’m working on a story that might help find out who killed her. You’re—?”
“Colleen was my fiancée.”
“Oh. I’m sorry for your loss, sir. Your name is—?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“I just want to be accurate, that’s all, and complete. I recognize this is an awkward time for you and the family, but I would really appreciate a chance to get together with you if only for a few minutes. Ms. McNamara, your fiancée, should be portrayed as the wonderful person she was, and should have her professional achievements pointed out.”
“Mr. Wilcox, I—” His voice became thick.
Wilcox changed his tone. “Look, there might be a serial killer out there who’ll take another victim. I’m sure you want to see that that doesn’t happen.”
“Of course.” Wilcox heard a buzzer in the background. “I have to go. Some other family members have arrived. Give me your number. I’ll call you at a better time.”
“Sure.” He provided his direct line and cell numbers.
He decided to go to the address listed for Colleen McNamara in the hope of catching family members coming and going from the house. As he passed through the newsroom, he stopped to watch Roberta give a report on the Franklin Park killing. She wrapped it into a larger piece regarding the spate of murders that had taken place the night before, and presented no information about the victim other than that she was an apparent homicide, and that the case was in the preliminary stages of investigation: “Stay tuned for more information as we receive it. I’m Roberta Wilcox.”
He thought of calling her but didn’t. Truth was, he wasn’t anxious to have her ask what he knew about the murder in the park. Better to not speak than to lie outright. Once he had his article completed and it was ready to run—hopefully on page one of the Metro section—he’d tell her what he had. Of course, he silently admitted to himself that he had less than the article would indicate. But rationalization was in full gear for Joe at that moment. It was possible that the Jean Kaporis and Colleen McNamara murders had been committed by the same person, certainly more possible than some ridiculous connection between Kaporis and her roommate, Mary Jane Pruit. Edith Vargas-Swayze hadn’t ruled it out when he’d proffered the notion to her. In addition, the article might prompt MPD to begin considering a serial killer scenario. He’d seen it happen before, the press taking the lead in establishing a working thesis for the police.
He left word that he’d be gone for the rest of the day, exited the building, got in his car, and drove to Colleen McNamara’s address, only a few blocks from Franklin Park.
SEVEN
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Roberta. How are you?”
“Okay. Busy. I saw Dad last night.”
“You did? He didn’t mention it. Did you have dinner? He said he was working late.”
“No. I mean, he was—working late. I was covering a homicide in Franklin Park and he was there, too.”
“Another homicide? It seems that’s all you read about these days.”
“Dad acted strange.”
“Strange? How so?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t seem happy to see me there, wanted to get away as fast as he could.”
Georgia laughed softly. “I doubt that, Robbie. He’s always happy to see you. He must have been on deadline.”
“I suppose so. He didn’t mention being at the park?”
“No. He got home very late, and was gone before I got up this morning.”
“Sorry about dinner last night.”
“That’s okay. With neither of you here, I snacked and took advantage of the quiet. Got some serious reading done.”
“Glad to hear it. I’ll try to come by in the next few days. I need a Georgia Wilcox fried-chicken fix.”
“Anytime. You know that. Take care, sweetheart.”
While Georgia Wilcox enjoyed a late lunch and went out to tend her garden, her husband was at Colleen McNamara’s home, a taupe townhouse on an eclectic street of homes and small businesses. Colleen had shared the downstairs apartment with her fiancé, a serious young man (appropriate, considering what had happened), who’d reluctantly allowed Wilcox to come in—“But only for a few minutes.”—“Of course.”—“Her mother and sister are here.”—“I promise I won’t intrude on their sorrow.”—“Okay then, but just a few minutes.” A tall, albeit pudgy young man, he wore chinos and a red and white striped shirt with an open collar. His glasses were large and black rimmed and had thick lenses.
The kitchen was at the front of the flat. Colleen’s fiancé, whose name was Philip Connor, indicated that Wilcox should sit at a small table next to the window. He could see into the apartment’s next room where two women, one older, one younger, sat close together on a couch. There were others in that room, but he couldn’t see them, only heard their muted voices.
“The police just left,” Connor said, joining Wilcox at the table.
“Did they have anything to offer?” Wilcox asked.
Connor shrugged. “They asked a lot of questions. I know they think I did it.”
Wilcox’s eyebrows went up into question marks.
“I told them I didn’t do anything. I loved Colleen. We were going to be married.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. They always look first at a spouse or significant other. Statistics say that most murders are committed by . . . when were you planning to be married?”
“Next year. I’m getting my master’s degree at Catholic. We wanted to wait until I was settled in a good job.”
“That sounds sensible,” said Wilcox. “Did you see Colleen last night—before she was murdered?”
“No. She called and said she had to work late and was going to grab a bite with friends from the station.”
“Have you spoken with them?”
“No, but the police said they would—after I told them about it.”
“What were their names?”
“I don’t know. I’ve met some of her colleagues, but I don’t know which ones she was going out with.”
Wilcox
took a moment to observe the kitchen. It was sunny and cheery and extremely neat, nothing out of place on the counters or in the glass-fronted cabinets. The backsplash was yellow tile, with a paler shade on the floor. Yellow and white curtains fluttered in a breeze through an open window.
He returned his attention to Connor. “Any idea what she was doing in the park?” he asked.
“She probably was walking through it on the way home. I always told her it wasn’t a safe place at night, but it didn’t seem to bother her.” He paused and swallowed hard. “I guess it should have.”
As Wilcox made notes in his reporter’s pad, Connor said, “You told me on the phone that Colleen might have been killed by a serial killer. Is that true?”
“It’s a good possibility. At least the police are considering it. Did they mention it to you?”
“No. That’s really scary, that there might be some nut running around killing young women.”
“It sure is, Philip. Any thoughts on who might have wanted Colleen dead? Did she have any enemies that you know of?”
“Colleen? Everybody loved her.” Tears running down the cheeks now accompanied the hard swallowing. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes, apologizing as he did.
“Hey,” Wilcox said, placing his hand on the young man’s arm, “I understand. I really do.” He hesitated before asking, “Do you have a photograph of Colleen? You know, one you really like?”
“Sure. I took a lot of pictures of her. I’m an amateur photographer.”
“I’d love to see them—if you wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t know. I—”
“If you’d rather not.”
“No, I guess you can see them. Excuse me.”
Connor left the kitchen, and Wilcox moved his chair in an attempt to see the people in the adjoining room. A middle-aged couple sat in chairs to one side of the couch. The man saw Wilcox and glared at him. Wilcox averted his eyes and shifted back to his original position as Connor returned and laid a large photo album on the table. Wilcox opened it, and a large color photograph of Colleen McNamara looked up at him. She was beautiful in an obvious Irish way, fair skinned with a few strategically placed freckles on her nose and cheeks, and large, sparkling, emerald-green eyes filled with life—and love. He looked at a few more pages. The kid’s a pretty good photographer, he thought. Then again, he had a good, accessible, photogenic subject.
Murder at The Washington Tribune Page 6
