“That’s for the police,” Wilcox said, “but sometimes we get to help. Thanks again. Safe home.”
Back at the Trib, he called Roberta at the TV station and was told she was out on assignment. He had started writing the next article when he remembered the note from Fox TV. His call was answered by D.C. Digest’s producer.
“This is Joe Wilcox from the Trib. I understand you’d like me to appear on your show tomorrow night.”
“Yes, we would. Thanks for getting back to us. We plan to have you, one of our correspondents, and an MPD representative.”
“I really don’t know what I can offer,” Wilcox said. “Everything I know is in my articles.”
“That’s okay, Joe,” said the producer. “Looking forward to having you.” He gave Wilcox where and when he was expected to show up, and ended the call.
A call to Georgia found her busy in the kitchen preparing chicken for frying.
“I’m going to be on TV tomorrow night,” he said.
“You are? That’s wonderful. What show?”
He gave her the particulars, which she dutifully wrote down on a magnetic pad affixed to the refrigerator.
“Any calls?” he asked.
“Some,” she said. “There was—”
“Any for me?”
“No, I don’t think so. Are you expecting someone to call you here?”
“No, no one in particular. I’d better get back to work if I’m going to get out of here in time for dinner. Heard from Roberta?”
“No. She’s probably running around town taping her reports. Go on, Mr. TV Star, get your story written. And don’t be late!”
Kathleen Lansden and Rick Jillian had prepared a history of serial killers in the Washington area over the years and left it on Wilcox’s desk that morning in his absence. There hadn’t been many such criminals in D.C., at least not according to official police records, or accounts written in the press, the most recent exception the two snipers who’d gone on a killing rampage, choosing their victims at random. But the two young staffers had supplemented their research with stories from other cities, enough for Wilcox to more than flesh out his story.
As he wrote, he realized he needed something official from the police, or City Hall, to give the article more immediate substance. He called, and reached Edith Vargas-Swayze on her cell phone.
“Buenas tardes,” he said.
“Hello, Joe.”
“How goes it?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Ooh, doesn’t sound very good. Anything I can do?”
“Add my former husband to the list of the serial killer’s victims.”
“He doesn’t kill men.”
“Maybe he’d be willing to make an exception,” she said. Wilcox was pleased that she so easily referred to a serial killer. “What’s up?” she asked.
“I’m working on tomorrow’s piece. Anything new? Off the record, of course.”
“No.”
“You’re not alone.”
“Right.”
“Will you be alone in the next hour?”
“I, ah—probably. I’ll call you.”
“Fair enough.”
Wilcox ate lunch at his desk, worked on the story, and waited for her to call. Each time his phone rang, he jumped and hesitated picking up the receiver. None of the calls fulfilled his fear that it might be Michael, and as the afternoon wore on, his concerns lessened, faded like a bad dream that’s forgotten in the morning.
“Hi Joe, it’s Edith.”
“Hello. I just got a notice that you’re holding a press conference at four.”
“So I hear. We’re further debunking the serial killer angle.”
“Uh huh. Has anyone queried you about being my source?”
“No. What are you saying in tomorrow’s article?”
“Nothing new. I was hoping you could give me something. Will you be at the press conference?”
“I’ll be as far away as I can get. We talked to Jean Kaporis’s roommate again.”
“Mary Jane Pruit.”
“You were right, Joe. She works as a paid escort for the Starlight Escort Service.”
Wilcox wrote it down. “Did you come up with any connection to Kaporis?”
“That she worked as an escort, too? No. Pruit admits she tried to convince Kaporis to try her hand at it for the money, but Kaporis refused.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I’d hate to think that one of our staffers was involved in that kind of extracurricular activity. Are you still focusing on people who might have been a visitor here the night she died?”
“We’re reinterviewing everyone, but no progress. I’d tell you if there was.”
“I appreciate that. I owe you a dinner. The last one was a washout.”
“How about tonight? I’m free.”
“Love to, but Roberta’s coming for dinner with a new beau. If I don’t show, you’ll have my homicide to investigate. Tomorrow?”
“Looks good to me.”
“It’ll have to be after I do my TV thing.”
“What TV thing?”
“I’m going to be on D.C. Digest discussing the serial killer. One of your people will be on, too.”
“You may launch a whole new career, Joe. A serial success.”
“Never happen. I don’t have a good side. The show’s from six-thirty till seven. Meet you at seven-thirty?”
“You got it. I’ll check in tomorrow.”
He’d no sooner ended the call than Morehouse summoned him to his office.
“What’ve you got for tomorrow?” Morehouse asked.
“History, mostly. I’ll plug in whatever comes out of the MPD press conference this afternoon.”
“Get somebody to counter what they say.”
Wilcox’s expression was quizzical.
“Get one of the young women you interviewed. No, better yet, get back to somebody in Jean’s family, or the McNamara girl’s. MPD will debunk the serial killer idea, get somebody to answer that, say something like it’s okay for the cops to claim everybody’s safe, but ‘that doesn’t do my little girl any good.’ Something along those lines. I don’t want to lose the momentum on this. Newsstand sales were up yesterday. You’re striking a nerve, Joe. Don’t lose it.”
As Wilcox started to leave, Morehouse asked, “Anything new on the escort service connection?”
Wilcox hesitated. “No. I had Kathleen check every escort service in the city. She came up with a cropper.”
He didn’t enjoy lying to his boss, but felt justified in this case. It was bad enough that he’d fabricated an MPD source to give the story a necessary peg, but he wasn’t about to sully the reputation of Jean Kaporis. It would be easy to link her to prostitution by innuendo through her roommate’s way of making a living. It wouldn’t matter that the roommate denied Jean had taken her up on her suggestion that she become a paid escort. The simple fact that they lived together would be enough to plant that unsavory seed.
He sat at his desk and pondered what to do with Morehouse’s suggestion—no, order—that he come up with someone to counteract what the MPD was likely to say at their press conference, that no serial killer was being sought in D.C. He decided his best source would be Colleen McNamara’s fiancé, Philip Connor.
“Hello, Mr. Wilcox,” Connor said.
“Hello, Philip.” Wilcox said. “How is everyone holding up?”
“Pretty good. Colleen’s mother really liked your story this morning.”
“I’m happy to hear that. Tell you why I’m calling. The police are holding a press conference this afternoon to debunk the theory that a serial killer might be loose in the city, and might have killed your fiancé.”
“I didn’t know that,” Connor said. “I thought they told you they believed it.”
“One of my sources did. You see, Philip, the problem is that the police and the politicians in this city don’t want to lo
ok as though they’re not doing their job in keeping citizens safe. They way they figure it, the less the citizens know, the better. But think of the ramifications of that. People let their guard down and it creates a much better opportunity for the killer to strike again, to kill another young woman like Colleen. Pretty scary, huh?”
“It sure is.”
“I just thought you’d want to know about this, and give you a chance to make a comment.”
“Gee, I—”
“Having the police take this unsubstantiated stand sure doesn’t do you or Colleen’s family any good, does it?”
“No.”
“And it certainly doesn’t do Colleen any good. The point, Philip, is that it would provide a valuable public service for you to let the citizens know of the pain you and Colleen’s family have suffered. That way, maybe Colleen’s death won’t be in vain if you point out how important it is for the city’s young women to be vigilant, to look over their shoulder, take some extra precautions. I admire the police as much as anyone, maybe more. I work with them every day. But they aren’t always right. Does what I’ve said make sense?”
“Sure it does. If people don’t stand up for what’s right, then—”
“Exactly. I knew you’d see it that way. What statement do you want to make?”
“I don’t know, I—”
“You said that even though the police aren’t calling it a serial killing, you feel every young woman in the city should be aware and concerned until the killer is caught.”
“I—”
“Which is so true, Philip. So true.”
“That’s the way I feel.”
“And so do I. I appreciate the chance to speak with you again. I’ll stay in touch.”
Wilcox plugged in the quote he’d created for Connor, and added additional information on the American history of serial killers. At a few minutes before four, he went to a small lunchroom off the newsroom, turned on the TV, and waited for the press conference to begin. He probably should have been there, he knew, but he didn’t have any questions to ask, the only reason for showing up in person. The DC cable news channel carried the conference live and in its entirety. The official statement delivered by the assistant police commissioner lasted less than ten minutes, and Wilcox jotted a few notes. The assistant commissioner took only a handful of questions from reporters before leaving the podium. A press conference to announce a negative was not exactly prime-time material. Wilcox switched to Roberta’s station where his daughter had just begun a live report from the scene of the conference.
“. . . and the assistant commissioner stated that based upon what evidence MPD currently has in the two murders, there is no reason to suspect that the same killer is behind the deaths. He went on to caution against panic and asked that citizens go about their daily lives as they normally would. But this reporter has learned from interviews with a number of men and women that while the official MPD stance dismisses the existence of one killer, tension is running high, particularly among the city’s vulnerable young women. As one told me, ‘I don’t care what the police say. I’m putting extra locks on my apartment and staying out of parks at night.’ Until the deaths of these two young women are solved, the city will undoubtedly remain on edge. I’ll be hosting a special series on the vulnerability of single women, especially careerists, of which this area has many. Stay tuned for times and dates. I’m Roberta Wilcox reporting from MPD headquarters.”
Wilcox winced as he turned off the TV and returned to his desk. Until hearing the comments from the press conference, and Roberta’s report, the potential ramifications of having launched the serial killer scenario seemed harmless enough. But it had developed legs almost overnight, and perhaps had led his daughter down a precarious path. Two phone calls reinforced that fear.
“Joe, it’s Ken Marsolais.” Marsolais was the Tribune’s editorial page editor. “We’re going with an editorial Sunday on the serial killer and how he’s paralyzing the city.”
“ ‘Paralyzing the city?’ That’s a little strong, isn’t it?”
“I think so, but it comes down from on high. Got a minute to get together? We’d like your input.”
“I can’t do it now,” Wilcox said. “I’m up against a deadline.”
“Sure. Give me a call whenever you get some breathing room. Nice work, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
The second call was from the paper’s public relations VP. “Hello there, media star,” she said.
“Not by choice,” he said.
“Well, Joe, you’d better get your tonsils in shape and get your best suit out of hock.”
“You make it sound like I’m choosing something to be buried in.”
“You don’t have my permission to die until this is over,” she said. “I’ve got three more requests from talk shows in addition to D.C. Digest: two radio, one TV.”
“Ah, come on,” he said. “I’m a writer, not a talking head.”
“I know you don’t have to make appearances, Joe. It’s not in your contract. But—”
Wilcox looked up as Hawthorne walked by, a smirk on his face.
“No, it’s okay,” Wilcox told the PR lady. “Set up whatever you want. I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks, Joe. You’re a trouper.”
He finished the next day’s article and delivered it to Morehouse.
“Nice,” Morehouse said, “but there’s not a hell of a lot of meat.”
“It’s the best I can do, Paul,” Wilcox said, annoyed.
“Nice the way you handled what came out of the press conference,” Morehouse said.
“Thanks. Well, good night. I have to get home. A family dinner.”
As Wilcox went to the door, Morehouse’s wife appeared. Mimi Morehouse was a petite, bubbly woman with short blonde hair and an almost perpetual smile.
“Hey, Joe,” she said, accepting his kiss on the cheek. “Paul says you guys are really onto a big story with the serial killer.”
“Looks that way,” Wilcox said. “How’ve you been?”
“Great, if I can ever get the old man here to take some time off. I’m determined to take an Alaskan cruise before I die.”
“It’s cold in Alaska,” Morehouse said, coming around his desk.
“Not in the summer,” she said.
“Big mosquitoes in the summer,” he said. “They carry tourists away.”
“Well, hope you get to take your cruise,” Wilcox said. “Got to be going. Roberta is bringing her latest boy toy to the house for dinner tonight.”
“I watch her all the time,” Mimi said. “You must be a very proud poppa.”
“I certainly am,” Wilcox said. “Have a good evening.”
“You, too. Now to collect Paul.”
The phone on his desk rang as he was about to leave. Pick it up? He did. It was Georgia, calling to remind him about their plans that evening.
“On my way out the door,” he said.
He’d no sooner set the receiver down, relieved, when the phone sounded again.
“Joe? It’s Michael.”
“Oh, hello, Michael. You caught me on my way out the door.”
“A nice evening at home with the family?”
“That’s right, I—look, Michael, I told you I’d call when I got a chance. I will, but right now I—”
“Family is so important, Joseph, more important than anything in life. You’re my family. You, and your wonderful wife and beautiful daughter, too, of course.”
Joe couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice. “I told you I’d call, Michael. Let’s leave it at that.”
Michael’s voice was smooth and even, deep and without any overt hint of emotion. “When will you call, Joseph?”
“Tomorrow. I have to leave.”
“I’m off tomorrow,” Michael said.
He’s off, Joe thought. He has a job in Washington, which means he intends to stay.
“I’d like to see you tomorrow. Can we arrange that?”
“Maybe I should set up something through Georgia. You know how women are, more social than men. Perhaps we could get together at your house and—”
“I’ll try to free up some time tomorrow, Michael.”
“Four o’clock? At my apartment? I’ll put out some goodies and—”
“Yeah, fine. Four o’clock at your apartment. Where is it?”
He wrote down the address Michael gave him.
“I’m looking forward so to seeing you, Joseph,” Michael said. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to reestablish ties with my family. You go on, Joseph, and enjoy your evening. Good night now.”
FOURTEEN
Tom Curtis was first to arrive at the Wilcox home. Roberta had called to say she was running late, and that Tom would drive himself. Joe Wilcox called from the highway. There had been an accident involving a tractor trailer and a minivan that had blocked traffic for miles. Altogether an average night on roads leading in and out of D.C.
Curtis was in his thirties. He worked as a bartender and had an ambition, he told Georgia, to one day open his own restaurant and bar. He was tall, good-looking, and personable, cast in the bartender role. He offered to help Georgia in the kitchen, but she told him he was a guest, not hired to work the party, but invited him to make the drinks: “I’m sure you can make a better drink than I can.”
“What’s your pleasure?” he asked.
“Nothing for me—yet. Take care of yourself.”
He poured two fingers of Scotch over ice and wandered out on to the patio. It was a pristine early fall night. The recent inclement weather had blown to the east, leaving clear skies and a cool breeze from the northwest.
Joe arrived next.
“Sorry I’m late,” he told Georgia, kissing her on the cheek and looking through the window at where Curtis stood at the edge of the garden. “That’s him?”
“Yes. His name is Tom. He’s a bartender.”
“Great.”
“And very nice.”
“That’s good to hear. Back in a minute.”
He ran upstairs and changed into more casual clothing, returned to the kitchen, poured himself a drink, and joined Curtis on the patio.
Murder at The Washington Tribune: A Capital Crimes Mystery Page 13
