Murder at The Washington Tribune: A Capital Crimes Mystery

by Margaret Truman

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” she said, sipping as he went to the kitchen.

  When he returned to the couch, he offered his glass in a toast, and said, “Here’s to better days ahead.”

  She followed the ritual of touching rims but didn’t drink. “Michael,” she said, “I feel terrible for what you’ve gone through, not only here in Washington, but early in your life. Frankly, that’s why I called and asked to see you tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  She started to continue but he cut her off. “I sense a modicum of pity in your voice, Robbie. I don’t deserve pity, nor do I want it.”

  “It’s not pity I’m feeling, Michael, it’s admiration.”

  “For me? There’s nothing to admire in me, Robbie. I’m a murderer who spent forty years in a hospital for the criminally insane. Admiration? That should be reserved for astronauts and missionaries.”

  “I disagree,” she said. She tasted her wine, placed the glass on the coffee table, turned, and spoke with animation. “I’ve always felt that anyone who overcomes great adversity is to be admired. I have tremendous respect for alcoholics who get sober and drug addicts who get straight. There are people born into poverty who rise above it through sheer will and determination to become successful citizens. People conquer illness, including mental illness, to live healthy, productive lives. That sounds like you, Michael, doesn’t it?”

  A melancholic expression crossed his handsome face; she wondered whether he might shed tears.

  “I’ll get right to the point,” she said. “I’d like to do a documentary about you.”

  His plaintive expression broke, and he smiled. “I don’t know what to say,” he said. “Am I flattered that you would view me in that light? Of course. Am I somewhat shocked that you would even consider such a thing? Very much so. But my initial reaction aside, I want to hear more. I need to hear more.”

  She spent the next fifteen minutes outlining her proposal for him—that she would write, produce, and direct a multipart documentary about how he rose above his childhood and subsequent incarceration to become a productive, law-abiding citizen. It would focus on the positive use to which he had put his forty years in the institution—becoming a skilled musician, a first-rate cook, a man whose intellectual curiosity led him to become a voracious reader, and who was working on a novel of his own.

  He said nothing. He leaned back, flipping his ponytail over the back of the couch, and closed his eyes, the wineglass cupped in both hands. She took the moment to take note of his lean, conditioned body beneath his tight black T-shirt, the tan face, the serene expression on his chiseled face. Her eyes strayed across the room to where the initial pages of his novel sat on the desk.

  The sudden feel of his hand on hers was startling, but she didn’t remove it. He squeezed harder, opened his eyes, turned to her and said, “I am extremely touched, Robbie, that you perceive me in such a positive way. I would be honored to be the subject of your documentary.”

  She stood, went to the center of the room, and said, “Then let’s get started. I have an hour before I have to be back at the station. We can begin the interviewing process now. Game?”

  He leaped from the couch, put his right hand on her waist, took her right hand in his left, and waltzed her around the room, humming “All The Things You Are” in her ear in three-quarter time. Their dance lasted a minute. He released her and said, “I hope my favorite and only niece isn’t offended at my impetuousness.”

  She shook her head and smiled. “Not at all,” she said. “Now, can we begin?”

  “By all means. Consider me yours.”

  She left the apartment an hour later, a yellow legal pad filled with notes. And in the black vinyl folder containing the pad was a page from his novel, which she’d taken during his bathroom break.

  Vargas-Swayze and Dungey returned to the precinct after their visit to the Wilcox home, and handed the letter they’d been given by Wilcox to an evidence technician on duty.

  “The report came back on the first letter,” the tech told them. “It’s on your desk, Edith.”

  There were no surprises. The letter had been filled with fingerprints, many of them smudged. But the final item piqued her curiosity, and she called the lab. “What does this note on the bottom of the report mean?” she asked a senior lab manager, who was working late that night. He was one of the least favorite people with whom she had to deal on a regular basis, a genetically nasty little man with a wicked eye twitch and a perpetual curl to his mouth.

  “Well, what does it say?” he asked in a nasal, condescending voice.

  “It says,” she said, successfully stifling her annoyance, “that one print, which matches others on the letter, seems to have been placed on the paper before the letter was typed. Before is underlined.”

  “Yessss?”

  “I don’t have time to play games,” she said. “I’m just a cop, you’re the expert. Just tell me what it means.”

  His sigh was long and loud. “It means, detective, that somebody touched the paper when it was blank. The print is beneath the typed letters.”

  “I see,” she said. “Which further means that this particular print could belong to the person who actually wrote the letter.”

  “Very good, detective. Anything else I can do for you?”

  Drop dead, she thought. “No, but thanks for the explanation. Have you matched that set of prints through the Bureau with other known prints?”

  “Yes. They’ll fax you the results in the morning.”

  “Well, great,” she said. “Have a nice night.”

  “Jerk,” she muttered as she handed Dungey the report. As they discussed the lab’s findings, the surveillance team assigned to keep an eye on Wilcox and his house walked in after having parked the borrowed Verizon truck in the vehicle pen.

  “Hey,” Edith called after them, “did either of you see anybody approach the Wilcox mailbox?”

  “The mailman,” one of them answered.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Nobody went near that mailbox except the mailman. Oh, and the subject. He pulled up to it in his vehicle and took the mail from the box. Never got out of his car.”

  “You guys were awake the whole time?” Dungey asked.

  “Stuff it,” one of the surveillance team told the long, lanky detective, and walked away with his partner.

  “Touchy,” Dungey muttered to Vargas-Swayze. “Let’s call it a night,” he said, stretching, yawning and wincing at the pain in his hamstring. “My leg’s killing me. Maybe I ought to go on disability.”

  “Maybe you should,” she said, “but not now. I don’t need a new partner at this point. Besides, you got hurt playing basketball, not while you were on duty.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Suck it up, Wade. Play hurt. I have a feeling something’s about to pop.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Maybe we’ll get an answer when they match the print that’s underneath the typing. In the meantime, there’s that murder in Franklin Park, the neighbor of our friend with the French name. I’ve got your vibes now about him, two murders and he’s close to both. Come to think of it, he doesn’t live far from Franklin Park and was at the Trib, which puts him in proximity to three killings.”

  “Millius and Warrick were going back to check him out and requestion others,” Dungey said. “Let’s see what they got from him.”

  “Right, and run that background check you keep putting off.”

  “Shall do, boss.”

  “Don’t be a wise guy,” she said. “I’ll be a little late tomorrow, probably nine-thirty. A meeting with my lawyer.”

  “Ride home?”

  “No, thanks. I’m going to hang here for a while, catch up on some things. Go on, get some sleep.”

  She spent the next hour going over the Kaporis and McNamara files, not knowing what she was looking for but hoping something would shout out at her. Her thoughts drifted to Joe Wilcox and the letters he’d rece
ived from the serial killer and eventually wandered back to the first article he’d written alleging that someone at MPD had confirmed to him that the serial killer scenario was being seriously considered. He’d raised that possibility with her shortly before the article appeared. What had she said? Something vague, along the lines that it took more than two killings for them to be considered the work of the same person. But she’d also agreed with him that anything was possible. Had he used that conversation with her to justify his article? Had he lied about there being an unnamed MPD source who advanced that theory to him? Couldn’t be, she decided. Joe Wilcox was an experienced newsman who often decried the slippage of standards in his profession. As far as she was concerned, Wilcox would be the last reporter to fall into the trap of fabricating a story. That was for young hotshots impatient with the pace of their careers and yearning for instant recognition and gratification. Not old pros like Joe Wilcox.

  She was about to call it a night when detectives Jack Millius and Ron Warwick entered the detectives’ room.

  “How goes it, Edith?” Millius asked, slumping in his chair and rubbing his eyes.

  “I’m packing,” she said. “Hey, did you two get back to the place on Connecticut to interview neighbors of the guy found in Franklin Park?”

  “Yeah,” Warwick said. “Like we needed to catch another case. I might as well give up my apartment and move in here.”

  “Did you talk to Mr. LaRue?”

  “Yeah, we did,” Millius said. “Nice enough guy, although I have a certain distrust of men his age wearing a ponytail.”

  “What did he have to say?” she asked.

  “Was home all night—”

  “Practicing his guitar,” Warwick added. “I don’t trust guys his age with ponytails who also play the guitar. Nothing sadder than an old rock-star wannabe.”

  “A neighbor confirms he was there,” Millius said. “An older woman who says Mr. LaRue and his guitar sometimes keep her awake at night. Says she heard him playing until midnight.”

  Vargas-Swayze nodded.

  “What’s your interest in him?”

  “Just curious. Wade and I spoke with him a couple of times earlier about the Kaporis murder. He delivered office supplies to the paper the night she got it.”

  “Any breaks?” Millius asked.

  “Nada,” she said. “Mañana.”

  Joe and Georgia Wilcox watched their daughter on the eleven o’clock news. The phone rang minutes after she’d gone off the air. Joe answered.

  “Hi sweetheart,” he said. “Mom and I watched. Nice job.”

  “Thanks. Everybody good there?”

  “I think so. How about you? Got anything earth-shattering on my favorite story?”

  “As a matter of fact, there are some things brewing, Dad.”

  “Oh? Like what?”

  “I can’t get into it,” she said. “You understand. I’m working a source, a good one. Once I break it, I’ll lay it all out for you.”

  “That’ll be a little late, won’t it?” he said, the edge to his voice not lost on her.

  “Can’t help it, Dad. Anything new on your end?”

  He considered telling her about the letter.

  “Not a thing, sweetheart. I’ll put Mom on.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Let’s get out of here,” he shouted at the young woman next to him at the bar. “I can’t hear myself think.”

  “One more dance?”

  “Hell, no. Come on. The music’s rattling my teeth.”

  She was an inch taller than he was. She had very white skin, very red hair, very large, round, powder-blue eyes, and a figure that confirmed that she was one of the two major sexes. She wore a white and brown scoopneck peasant blouse that exposed freckled cleavage, and a tight pair of tan slacks. Her name was Kelly. Last name, Ames.

  Morehouse paid cash at the bar and propelled her toward the door, aware as he’d been all evening that he was the oldest human being in the dance club. He’d felt acutely uncomfortable during the one time he’d ventured onto the dance floor with her, attempting to appear at home but knowing he looked like an elephant plopped into the middle of a ballet.

  They left Club Heaven and Hell on Eighteenth Street in Adams Morgan and stood on the sidewalk where he mopped his brow with a handkerchief and sucked in fresh air.

  “The night is young,” she said happily.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got a bitch of a day tomorrow. Where’s your roommate?”

  “Home visiting her folks in West Virginia. What are you suggesting, sir?”

  She knew precisely what he was suggesting because he’d suggested it two or three times before since they’d started seeing each other. Her answer was always to lead him back to her apartment in Crystal City, on the Virginia side of the Potomac. She and her roommate had an understanding. If either of them were about to bring a man to the apartment, the other would vacate unless the notice was too short, or there was a compelling reason for the homebound roommate to stay put. No problem this night.

  They’d met at Georgetown University when he’d given a lecture to graduate journalism students on the changing role of local news coverage. She’d asked a couple of intelligent questions following his talk, and approached him at the lectern as he gathered up his notes. He realized she was being flirtatious, and happily played the game.

  “I had another question to ask,” she said, “but it would have been awkward in front of everyone.”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She looked around before saying, “Can I buy you a drink or a cup of coffee, Mr. Morehouse? It would be my pleasure.”

  He checked his watch. “Sure,” he said, not sure where this was leading but willing to find out. She wasn’t the first young and attractive aspiring female journalist who’d made such an approach over the years. He didn’t have any illusions as to why they did. He was on the wrong side of fifty; it wasn’t his body they coveted. It was his position at the paper that drew certain outgoing young women looking for a mentor—and a break—to him. So be it.

  The question she’d said she wanted to ask was more a statement of her goals in life, including, of course, the sort of journalism job she sought. In a sense, she’d managed to choreograph a job interview when none had been offered. Good for you, he thought. Good reporters weren’t shy, nor were they necessarily honest when going after a story. He liked her spunk and directness. He also liked the smell of her when they sat next to each other in a booth in a dark bar not far from campus, and the press of her thigh against his.

  “Where are you going now?” he’d asked, feeling the two bourbons he’d consumed. She’d nursed a frozen peach margarita. It was four in the afternoon; he’d promised Mimi he would take her to the movies that night.

  “Home, I guess, unless you have a better suggestion.”

  “I’d suggest we have dinner together but I’ve already made other plans.”

  “Maybe another time,” she said.

  “Yeah. That would be great. Let me have your number.”

  He drove her to Crystal City. They pulled into the circular driveway in front of the building. He put the car in park. “I’ve really enjoyed meeting you,” he said, “and—”

  She interrupted with a long, wet, open-mouthed kiss, her tongue finding his. His hand found a breast through her blouse.

  “Please call me,” she said, moving his hand away. “You’re a very nice man, and I really feel we have something in common.”

  With that she exited the car and trotted to the building’s entrance, where the doorman opened the door for her. She paused, turned, threw Paul a kiss, and was gone.

  They’d begun this particular evening with dinner at the tony Citronelle, in the Latham Hotel in Georgetown. Kelly had commented on how expensive every item on the menu was, which he dismissed with a cavalier sweep of his hand. Truth was, he wasn’t happy at how much the evening was costing but chalked it up to the cost of doing business—monkey business to be sure. A Tribune colleag
ue from the international desk was having dinner there with his wife, and stopped by Morehouse’s table. His slightly raised eyebrows and sly smile told Morehouse what he was thinking.

  “Meet Kelly Ames,” Morehouse said casually, “soon to join my staff.”

  “A pleasure,” the foreign editor said, shaking her hand. “Good luck. He’ll work you to death.”

  When he’d gone to rejoin his wife at a table on the other side of the room, Kelly said to Morehouse, “Were you serious?”

  He shrugged, picked up the menu, and said, “Let’s order.”

  Morehouse enjoyed not having to keep track of time this particular evening. Mimi was away visiting her aged mother in Des Moines and wouldn’t be back for another two days.

  “You’re amazing,” Kelly said after they’d gone to her apartment. She propped herself on an elbow and looked down at him in bed.

  “How so?”

  “You’re such a wonderful lover, like you were a lot younger.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that. Some of the younger guys I’ve been with aren’t nearly as good as you. You’re—well, you’re experienced, I guess.”

  “Got anything to drink?” he asked, sitting up. Uncomfortable with his nakedness, he reached down, grabbed his boxer shorts where he’d dropped them next to the bed, and put them on.

  “There’s some beer in the fridge, I think,” she said, not at all self-conscious about her nudity as she went with him to the kitchen where he pulled two bottles from the refrigerator. He sat at a small table wedged into a corner. “Put something on,” he said.

  She giggled. “Getting all hot and bothered again?” she asked.

  “Go on,” he said, “get a robe or something.”

  She returned wearing an aqua sweatsuit and joined him at the table.

  “Did you mean what you said to the man in the restaurant, about me being on the Metro staff?” she asked.

  “I don’t have any openings at the moment,” he said.

  “Did you talk to anyone else at the paper about me?” she asked after taking a swill of beer from the bottle.