Murder at The Washington Tribune: A Capital Crimes Mystery

by Margaret Truman

  At five, Wilcox informed Morehouse that he was leaving.

  “It’s a great piece, Joe, but it needs some sharpening.”

  “You’ll have to get somebody else for rewrite,” Wilcox said. “I’ve got a command performance at home tonight.”

  “Okay. Nice work, buddy. Let me ask you something. How does it feel to have a maniac out there sending you love notes?”

  “Not good,” Wilcox said.

  “Well, get used to it, my friend. This won’t be the last letter you get from him. Count on it.”

  “I know,” Wilcox said. “I know.”

  He retrieved his car from the parking lot and headed home. He’d wondered all afternoon whether he could go through with this scheme that had been hatched on the spot at his brother’s apartment. He’d assumed he would have trouble doing it. But somehow, for some reason, it all seemed reasonable now. No debilitating bout of conscience, no second thoughts.

  Roberta’s silver Toyota was in the driveway when Wilcox pulled up, and he parked beside her. What’s on her mind that she’s called for a meeting? he wondered as he turned off the ignition and got out of the car. As he approached the front door, the sound of music stopped him. He cocked his head and tried to identify it. Georgia seldom played music while working in the kitchen, preferring talk radio to keep her company. When she did opt for music, it invariably was from their collection of classical CDs. This wasn’t classical music coming through the open front windows. It was guitar jazz.

  Strange, Wilcox thought as he opened the door and stepped into the foyer. He dropped his briefcase on the floor, opened the foyer’s second door, and walked into the living room. The music was louder now, a song written by somebody like Cole Porter or another composer of popular show music. As he approached the kitchen, Georgia came from it.

  “Hi,” he said, about to kiss her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

  “Tell you what?”

  “About Michael. Your brother, Michael.”

  “I—”

  “He’s here,” she said.

  Wilcox walked past her to the kitchen and looked out to the patio where Michael and Roberta sat at a green wrought-iron table, glasses in front of them.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Georgia repeated.

  “I was going to,” he said, “but it all happened so fast and—” His face turned hard. “How dare he just show up here?”

  “I didn’t know what to do when I answered the door,” she said. “I didn’t know who he was. When he said he was your brother, Michael, I almost passed out.”

  “I’ll get rid of him.”

  She grabbed his arm. “Please, Joe, don’t make a scene,” she said. “I’m not angry that he’s here. I just wish you had—”

  Wilcox entered the kitchen, crossed it, pulled open the sliding glass door to the patio, and stepped outside.

  Michael, who faced the door, jumped up and said, “Joseph. You’re home.”

  Roberta turned in her chair. “You didn’t tell us,” she said, not sounding very angry.

  “I decided to take the bull by the horns and just show up,” Michael said. “I’m glad I did. How wonderful to finally get to meet your lovely wife and daughter.” He indicated his outfit—a tan sport jacket worn over a black T-shirt and jeans. “I hope you don’t mind my informal attire,” he said. “I was confident you good folks didn’t stand on ceremony.”

  “You look fine,” Roberta said.

  Joe stood rigidly, glaring at his brother, who sported a wide, white smile.

  Georgia came up behind her husband and said, “Michael brought some wonderful wine, Joe, and the CD I put on. It’s by a famous guitar player.”

  “Joe Pass,” Joe said. “He spent many years in prison for drug offenses where he practiced playing his guitar every day and—” He returned to the kitchen and poured himself a large drink.

  “I know you’re upset, Joe,” Georgia said in a hushed voice, “but try not to be. Let’s just enjoy the evening. We can talk about it after he’s gone.”

  “Damn him!” Joe said.

  “Joe, please, for my sake. He’s your brother. Please.”

  “I don’t like him with Roberta.”

  “Why? Oh, because of—”

  “Yeah, because of that! What does Roberta want to talk to us about?”

  “I’ll fill you in later. It’s nothing serious. She came early and we talked. Everything is fine.” She went to the stove and picked up where she’d left off preparing dinner.

  Joe went to the living room and snapped the stereo into silence. The sudden hush was louder than the music had been. He returned to the kitchen and again looked out to the patio, where Roberta was laughing loudly at something Michael had said.

  “Enough!” Georgia said. “Either tell him to go, or pull yourself together and welcome him.” Her tone said she meant it.

  “All right,” Joe said. “We’ll get through the evening, but after that—”

  “Yes, Joe, after that we’ll talk. Now go out and join them and make him feel at home.”

  Her acceptance of Michael’s presence astounded Joe. It had been late into their courtship that he told her about his brother and what had happened to him. He’d done it with trepidation, certain that knowing he had a brother who’d murdered, and who’d been judged to be criminally insane, might sour her on the relationship with him. It didn’t, although she had, at times, demonstrated concern.

  It was early in their marriage. They’d gone out for a pizza and saw a movie. After the show let out, they’d stopped in a coffee shop for dessert; Georgia loved ice cream, especially coffee ice cream, and Joe was always happy to indulge her frequent yen for it. They’d recently begun discussing a family. He knew she wanted children, and like her yearning for coffee ice cream, he was happy to oblige. It wasn’t a deep-seated need for him. He simply assumed that children came with marriage, and he was willing to assume the responsibilities of fatherhood.

  “Want to start tonight?” he asked in the coffee shop, his hands on hers.

  “Start what tonight?”

  “Having a kid.” He gave his best leer, and winked.

  “Oh.” She blushed, and looked around to see whether others had overheard his proposition. She slid her hands from beneath his and resumed eating her ice cream.

  He tried to read her mood. Usually, she was ebullient, a glass-half-full person who seemed always to be smiling and never morose, never scowling. But it was a scowl on her pretty face that night.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, Georgia,” he said. “I know when something’s bothering you. What is it?”

  “Not here.”

  They drove home in silence. After they’d changed into pajamas and were ready to go to bed, she said, “I’m sorry, Joe. I know I’m not being fair. Something is bothering me.”

  “So, tell me. Have I done something wrong? Did I say something that upset you?”

  She slowly shook her head. They were in the bedroom, sitting side-by-side on the bed. A full moon visible through the room’s skylight cast uncertain light over the room. She turned, gripped his hands, and said, “Joe, I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid? Of what?”

  “Of having a child.”

  He laughed. “I think I know what you mean,” he said. “I’m not the one who’ll have to waddle around for nine months and give birth. But women do it every day and—”

  “It isn’t that, Joe. It’s—it’s Michael.”

  “My brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does he have to do with us having a child?”

  She didn’t respond, nor did she have to. He knew what she was thinking, that it was possible that madness was in the Wilcox genes, that any child they had might carry those genes.

  “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.”
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br />   Those words overheard from the churchgoing neighborhood woman were etched in his mind, and had been since she uttered them so many years ago.

  “Look,” he said, trying to mitigate the anger he felt, not at what she thought, but because he resented having been put in this position by a brother, “things like Michael’s problem aren’t carried in anyone’s genes.”

  “How do you know that?” she said.

  “I just know it, that’s all.”

  “You can’t be sure, Joe. My mother—”

  “What about your mother? Did you talk to her about this?”

  “Yes. She says—”

  “It’s none of your mother’s business, damn it!”

  “It isn’t? Our child will be her grandchild.”

  “What does she know about genes and heredity, Georgia?”

  “I’m not saying she knows anything about it, Joe. But she does have concerns, just as I do.”

  “Let’s talk about this another time,” he said.

  “All right.”

  A few minutes later, the lights out, everything silent and peaceful, she said, “Would you agree to talk to a doctor about it?”

  “What doctor?”

  “Someone with medical knowledge about such things. A pediatrician maybe, a psychiatrist?”

  His deep sigh said to her that he wouldn’t consider what she’d suggested. But to her surprise, he said, “Sure. You pick a doctor and we’ll go talk to him.”

  She kissed him lightly on the lips and turned over, her tears absorbed by her pillowcase. She desperately wanted a child.

  After considerable research, she found a female pediatrician who also boasted a doctorate in psychology, and they made an appointment for a consultation. It pained Wilcox to talk with a stranger about his family, particularly his brother’s past, but the doctor was a kindly older woman with gray hair pulled back into a tight bun, and whose glasses were large, round, and framed in red. She listened carefully and exuded warmth and nonjudgmental concern. After she’d heard Wilcox’s thumbnail sketch of his family and Michael’s incarceration as a mental patient, the doctor smiled, sat back in her chair and said, “You understand, of course, that it’s impossible for me to comment with any assuredness about your brother’s mental condition without having had the opportunity to examine him and review his records. Is it possible that he suffered a brain abnormality that was eventually overridden by therapy and counseling? Yes, that’s possible. And if that brain abnormality had a genetic component, is it likely that it would have been passed along to you, Mr. Wilcox? That’s highly unlikely—unless, of course, either of your parents suffered the same abnormal genetic makeup. You say your mother and father were very religious.”

  “My father especially,” Wilcox said, “although my mother was deeply religious, too. Is that significant?”

  “It could be. Your brother might have been deathly afraid of your father’s reaction if the young lady next door had accused him of sexually accosting her. He might have killed out of that fear. I find it interesting that your brother was declared not guilty by reason of insanity based almost entirely on his attorney’s pleading to the jury to find him insane.”

  “Are you saying that Michael might not have been insane?” Georgia asked.

  “No, I’m not saying that. I’m simply raising the possibility that legal considerations overrode medical ones. Your parents wanted his life spared, and his attorney achieved that. Again, as I said earlier, I’m in no position to judge Michael’s level of sanity or insanity. But I will say this.”

  Joe and Georgia leaned forward in their chairs.

  “My instincts tell me that for you to forgo the joy of having children because of a vague fear that your child might—and I emphasize might—inherit Michael’s mental problem would be a shame, in my opinion. My advice? Go home, screw your brains out, get pregnant, and enjoy your lives. Michael isn’t a part of it, literally and figuratively. He’s past tense. This is your life together in the here and now, and I remind you that this isn’t a dress rehearsal for life. This is it!”

  They giggled on the way home over the older therapist’s use of the vernacular but took her advice, spent that afternoon making love, and nine months and three days later, Georgia gave birth to a healthy baby girl they named Roberta.

  Joe rejoined Michael and Roberta on the patio.

  “Dad, Michael emulated the fellow playing the guitar, Joe—?”

  “Joe Pass.”

  “He learned to play the guitar while he was—while he was away, and—”

  “I must interrupt,” Michael said. “I know how much you want to spare my feelings by using euphemisms for the past forty years of my life. I was not ‘away.’ That sounds too much like an extended holiday. I was remanded to a mental institution because I killed an innocent young woman and was judged to be insane by a jury of my peers. If I don’t accept the reality of that, I’ll be violating a crucial tenet of my release and recovery. Facing it head-on is important to me, and I hope it will be for you, too.” He’d said it in a serious tone. Now, he brightened and added, “I believe I am now as sane as anyone else in this world, which maybe isn’t saying a great deal, but—”

  “I think it’s wonderful the way you acknowledge what you did, Michael, and how you face that reality in your new life,” Roberta said, looking to her father for confirmation.

  Joe nodded and left it at that.

  “Enough about me,” Michael said. He turned to Roberta, “I have been watching you on TV ever since I arrived in Washington,” he said, “and I am so impressed that I have such a talented niece. You’re better than Barbara Walters and Diane Sawyer and that lady on 60 Minutes, Leslie—?”

  “Leslie Stahl,” Roberta said. “And I’m not better than them, but thank you for the compliment.”

  “Don’t be modest, Robbie,” Michael said. “Allow me to be the proud, long-lost uncle.”

  His use of the familiar version of Roberta’s name pricked Joe.

  Georgia came from the kitchen and joined them at the table. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s not much, last minute and all, but—”

  “I have a feeling,” said Michael, “that even last-minute meals at the Wilcox house are gourmet.”

  “Michael’s writing a novel,” Roberta said.

  “Are you?” replied Georgia. “That’s wonderful. Joe has always intended to write a novel but—”

  “Writing for a newspaper is enough writing for me,” Joe said. “From what I’ve noticed, there are too many bad novels being published as it is.”

  Roberta frowned, and checked Michael for his reaction to her father’s pointed comment. He didn’t seem to be offended. His smile was as wide as always as he said, “Joe is right. Too many books, half of them not worthy of publication.”

  “What is your novel about?” Georgia asked.

  “Oh, it would take all night for me to explain that,” Michael said.

  “Publishers and novelists I know say that if you can’t sum up a novel in a few sentences, chances are no one will ever understand it,” Joe said.

  “How right they are,” Michael said.

  Georgia asked her husband to select a wine to go with dinner.

  “Anything I can do to help?” Michael asked, standing.

  “Not a thing,” Georgia said.

  Michael was a gregarious guest at the dinner table, telling tales from his years in the mental institution, many of them amusing, some heartwrenching. Georgia and Roberta seemed to hang on his every word, which annoyed Joe. He said little during the meal, his responses to questions terse and sometimes tinged with sarcasm. They’d almost finished when Michael asked, “Anything new on the killer, Joe? By the way, your articles are wonderful.”

  “As a matter of fact, there is something new.”

  “What is it?” Georgia asked. “Has there been a break in the case?”

  “In a sense,” Joe responded, looking at Roberta, whose expression said she was waiting f
or her father to elucidate.

  “Don’t keep us in suspense,” Michael said.

  “I received a letter today from the serial killer,” Joe said.

  “A letter?” Georgia and Roberta said in unison.

  “Yes. A short letter addressed to me arrived at the paper. Today.”

  Roberta’s interest was palpable. “What did it say?” she asked.

  Joe replied, “It said he was contacting me because of what I’ve been writing about him, and that he intends to stay in touch with me.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Roberta asked, exasperation in her voice.

  “I was too busy writing the story. It’ll run tomorrow.”

  “With the letter’s contents?” Roberta asked.

  “Right.”

  “Did you contact the police?” Georgia asked. Her tone was decidedly gloomy.

  “Not yet. We’ll bring them in on it tomorrow, as the story runs.”

  “Excuse me,” Roberta said, getting up from the table and going to the patio where she dialed a number on her cell phone. Georgia, too, left the table and went to the kitchen.

  “That’s quite some news,” Michael said to his brother.

  “Yeah. Excuse me.”

  Joe joined his wife in the kitchen. “You okay?” he asked.

  “I don’t like it, Joe,” she said.

  “Don’t like what?”

  “That the killer is corresponding with you. I don’t like it at all that a madman who kills young women knows who you are and is writing to you.”

  “I’m not worried about it,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. “They’ll catch him and it’ll be over.”

  “If he knows you, he knows who Robbie is, too.”

  “Of course he knows who she is. She’s on TV every night.”

  “This is different.”