Murder at The Washington Tribune (9 page)

“Since when do brains matter with a hooker?” the male detective said, laughing.

“Let's stay on topic,” Evans said. “The IO told me he's gotten queries about whether the Kaporis and McNamara murders might be linked in some way.”

“Doesn't compute,” said another detective. “What's the press looking for, a sensational peg to hang their hat on?”

Evans looked to Vargas-Swayze for a response. She said, “Until proved otherwise, I'm still working on the assumption that Kaporis was killed by somebody at the
Tribune.
Nothing else makes sense to me.”

“But what if that killer at the
Trib
decided to go outside the paper and take another victim?” Evans asked.

Vargas-Swayze shrugged. “That's always a possibility,” she said. To the detectives working the McNamara case: “That play for you?”

“Who knows?” one of them replied. “The McNamara hit only happened last night. But we'll keep it in mind.”

After other unsolved cases were discussed, Evans implored everyone to not make public statements about any of them, especially the Kaporis murder. “And let's put the McNamara case in that same category,” he added, “in case some linkage does emerge. Talk to your dog or cat if you have to talk to anybody.”

Vargas-Swayze and Dungey spent a half hour after the meeting going over plans for the next day.

“Feel like a quick dinner?” she asked.

“Thanks, no. I've got a game tonight. Another time. But I'll give you a lift home. It's on my way.”

He said little during the drive to Adams Morgan. As she was about to get out of his green Ford Escort, he said, “You know what's bothering me?”

“That Mary Jane Pruit is dumb?”

“Besides that. You know that delivery man we interviewed, the one who was hauling office supplies to the
Trib
the night Kaporis got it?”

“Yeah. Michael—what's his last name?—Michael La Rue.”

“Right. La Rue.”

“What bothers you about him?”

“I don't know. Something is sending a signal up my spine.”

“Maybe you wrenched your back,” she said, lightly.

“Very funny. Let's talk to him again tomorrow.”

“Sure. Whatever you say. Hope you win tonight.”

“Thanks. I hope so, too. Good night, Edith.”

She put on the lights in her apartment, changed into white running shorts, an aquamarine Celia Cruz T-shirt, and sneakers, her standard-issue Glock nestled in a custom-made pouch in the front of the shorts, and went for a two-mile jog. Back in the apartment, showered and dressed in shorty pajamas and a robe, she heated leftover takeout in the microwave and ate without enthusiasm in front of the TV. She watched the ten o'clock news, on which Roberta Wilcox's six o'clock report was repeated, and thought of Joe Wilcox. How proud he must be to see his only child achieve success in his chosen profession. She was in the midst of that thought when the phone rang.

“Hello, Edith. It's Joe Wilcox.”

“I was just thinking of you,” she said.

“Positively, I hope.”

“Definitely positive. I was watching your kid on TV. She's good, to say nothing of lovely.”

She didn't say that she found the report to be lacking substance. Murders were not big news in D.C. those days. The only new thing Roberta had to report that night was that the latest victim was Colleen McNamara, who worked for a competing station.

“Yeah,” Joe said. “She's a winner. Look, Edith, I'm putting a story to bed about the Franklin Park thing, and thought I'd touch base with you one more time before I wrap it up.”

“Sorry, Joe, but there's nothing new on the case. Even if there were, I still couldn't talk about it. Bernie Evans came down hard on us today about leaks. The gag over the mouth is tight and secure.”

“I'm sure it is,” he said. “But I keep hearing stirrings about the possibility that Kaporis's and McNamara's murderers might be the same person.”

“Nothing to that, Joe. Hot air. Empty rumors, plain and simple. No evidence.”

“So, you've heard them, too?”

“What would a police force be without rumors, Joe? Evans said the IO received calls about a possible serial killer connection.”

“From the press?”

“Who else? Drop it, Joe. That's my advice.”

“I can't,” he said. “We're going with that slant tomorrow.”

She sighed and shifted in the recliner. “I wish you wouldn't,” she said. “Bernie Evans knows you and I are close. He'll accuse me of feeding you the rumor.”

“And I'll deny you did.”

“Because I didn't.”

“Exactly. I'm just giving you a heads-up.”

“Thanks—for nothing.”

“Edith?”

“Yes?”

“Muchas gracias.”

“De nada, amigo. Buenos noche.”

Her cordless phone went dead. She went to the kitchen, poured a glass of orange juice, and returned to the chair. Her thoughts wandered to the night she'd made love with Wilcox. Had she compromised her professional relationship with him when she stripped off her clothing in a fit of passion and sexually indulged herself? It wasn't the first time she'd wondered that, although it had never impacted how they dealt with each other on the job as cop and reporter. Was that about to change? She hoped not.

She flipped through channels and settled on a Spanish-language movie on the local Hispanic outlet. She lasted a half hour, her head drooping to her chest during commercial breaks. The set was snapped off and she headed for the bedroom. The ringing phone stopped her.

“Hello?”

“Edith. It's Peter. I hope I didn't wake you.”

“Hello, Peter,” she said to her estranged husband. “No, but I was on my way to bed.”

“Good. I'm glad I didn't wake you. How are things?”

“Great, but they'd be better if your damn lawyer would send my damn lawyer the papers.”

“Can we get together and talk?”

“About what? You're not about to renege on what we decided, are you?”

“I wouldn't do that,” he said.

“The hell you wouldn't. When it comes to a buck, Peter, you'd kill to save one.”

“You know that's not true.”

“What do you want to talk about, Peter?”

“Us.”

“Forget it.”

“Please, Edith. All I want is the chance to tell you what's on my mind—and in my heart.”

She plopped in a chair and pulled her bare feet beneath her. “Peter,” she said softly, “there is nothing to talk about. Our marriage is over.”

She didn't want to believe what she now heard on the other end of the line. Was he weeping?

“Jesus,” she mumbled to herself. “Peter, stop it,” she said into the phone.

“I'll kill myself, Edith.”

She kicked her feet out from under her and sat up straight. “Stop talking nonsense!”

“I will, Edith. I swear I will. All I'm asking for is a few minutes with you. Please. I'm begging you.”

She tried to sort out her thoughts. She didn't believe his threat. It was a call for attention, that's all, a pathetic, stupid attention getter.

On the other hand . . .

“All right,” she said with a sigh. “When?”

“I can come there right now.”

“To my apartment? Absolutely not. A public place, somewhere quiet. Can you pull yourself together and behave?”

“Oh, yes, Edith. I promise. The Fairfax Bar, in the Westin Fairfax?”

“Oh, God,” she said. “How romantic.” They'd spent their wedding night at that hotel.

“It has those private little alcoves in the bar. Remember? A half hour?”

“Yes, I remember, Peter. But keep one thing in mind. I'm a cop. I have a gun. And if you try to play games with our financial settlement, try to weasel out of it, I'm liable to use it.”

NINE

PARK MURDER RAISES MPD CONCERN
Newspaper and Park Murders Linked?

That was the headline and subhead on the lead story of the
Trib
's Metro section front page the following morning. Accompanying the story were side-by-side headshots of Jean Kaporis and Colleen McNamara. The interview a reporter from the LA bureau had done with Kaporis's former boyfriend ran as a sidebar: “Jean was a really nice girl. I'm real upset about what happened to her.” He said they'd dated for only a few months shortly after she'd arrived in Washington, but decided to sever the relationship soon after: “It was an amicable breakup. We had different ambitions,” he said. “I'm an actor now, a movie actor.”

Joe and Georgia Wilcox sat at the kitchen table in their Rockville home, the paper open to his bylined article.

“Gives me the creeps,” she said.

“I know,” he said.

“Seems like the boyfriend in L.A. is more interested in plugging his acting career than grieving for his former girlfriend.”

“Oh. I wasn't thinking of that,” Joe said.

“I hope they don't just accept what he's said. Boyfriends are the first suspects in every murder. Aren't they?”

“What? Sure, that's right.”

“Do they really think there might be a serial killer loose?” she asked.

“They have to be open to any possibilities,” Joe said. “Nothing gets ruled out.”

“Joe, do you think Roberta is in danger if this madman is preying on young women who work in media?”

“No, but she should take precautions, like any young woman in the city. She's smart and can take care of herself. But nothing's lost by reminding her now and then—which you've been doing with regularity anyway.”

His words failed to comfort, judging from worry lines etched into her brow.

“More coffee?” she asked, picking up the carafe and pouring a second cup for herself.

“Thanks, no,” he said. “I've got to get downtown.”

“I'm glad you decided to sleep in this morning,” she said. “You looked exhausted when you came home last night.”

“Yeah, I guess I was dragging. Feeling better now though.” He got up, came around behind, leaned over and wrapped his arms around her. “Aside from what the story says, what do you think of the writing?” As many years as he'd been writing for a living, her opinion always mattered.

“Terrific,” she said. “You put your heart and soul into it, and it reads that way.”

“Maybe I haven't lost the touch altogether,” he said, smiling and going to the window that overlooked the garden, including his small vegetable patch relegated to a corner.

“Of course, you haven't,” she said, joining him.

“Happens to the best of us,” he said. “You lose energy and drive. Lots of guys I know have. I see them down at the Press Club. The spirit is certainly willing but the flesh is weak, along with the mind.” He turned and placed his hand on her shoulders. “I was beginning to think I was losing it, Georgia.”

“And now you know you're not,” she said, perkily. “Who called when I was in the shower?”

“Paul.”

“I imagine he's happy that his best reporter came through.”

“Yeah, he's pleased. At least I think he is. You never really know with him. He wants a follow-up tomorrow. I don't have much to go on unless somebody at MPD decides to open up.”

“What about your sources? Edith?”

“She's under a gag order about the Kaporis murder. But I'll give her a try. Got to run.” He kissed her lightly on the lips, pulled back, then kissed her again, harder and longer this time.

“My,” she said when they'd disengaged. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“There's more where that came from, baby,” he said in his best Humphrey Bogart voice, lisp and all.

He was on his way out the door when she stopped him. “I forgot to tell you. Roberta wants to come by for dinner tomorrow night. She has a new beau and wants us to meet him.”

“Yeah, she mentioned him to me the other day—says he's like me.”

“Then you should approve of him.”

“Why? Lots of days I don't like myself.”

“Oh, stop it. You'll like him. Take my word for it. Our daughter has good common sense when it comes to the men in her life.”

“Really? What about that foul ball, Bobby whatever his name was?”

“That was an exception. Just be sure you're here tomorrow night.”

“I'll do my best.” She looked angrily at him. “I'll be here,” he said.

“Go on, go to work,” she said. “We need the money.”

Her comment about needing money resulted from an experience Joe had had years earlier. He'd nurtured a relationship with an enforcer for organized crime as a source for a story. The hit man, with the unlikely name of Maurice, had invited Wilcox to dinner at his house, which Wilcox reluctantly accepted. During dinner, Maurice went into the kitchen where his wife confronted him, screaming, “Goddamn it, Morrie, go out and kill somebody. We need the money.” Ever since, Wilcox went off to work with that order from Georgia to bring home the bacon. On a slab. A private little joke between them.

Although it was past normal morning rush, traffic was clotted. He tuned to all-news station WTOP where the news reader turned to the D.C. area; speculation about a serial killer on the prowl was the second story in the segment: “According to this morning's
Washington Tribune . . .
”

He turned the radio louder and took pleasure in hearing his article cited. That he'd manufactured the anonymous police source bothered him less this morning than it had the previous day and night. The possibility of there being a serial killer was not far-fetched. Besides, without it, the article would never have run. Reporting that someone at MPD had floated the theory gave the story credence, enough to have satisfied Paul Morehouse. It hadn't been easy sailing. Morehouse's boss had been reluctant to run the piece without attributing the MPD source, and it took a heated half-hour meeting before the piece was given the green light. Wilcox was aware that his reputation had helped the cause, and he was gratified that Morehouse had gone to bat for him in a way he'd not done recently. He was also pleased that his suggestion to run the pictures of the two female victims side-by-side was accepted. The visual impact was strong: two attractive, talented young women possibly the victims of a depraved killer, their promising lives and careers snuffed out prematurely. He'd recounted in the article his interview with Colleen McNamara's fiancé, Philip Connor, describing the apartment, and the young man's tears as he spoke of his beloved fiancée. And he'd played heavily on the similarities in the murders: both lively young women, each working in media, and both strangled to death.

It wasn't as though he'd fabricated the entire story, the way others had done in recent memory at other newspapers, plunging them and their employers into ignominy. He'd never stoop to that, he assured himself. The continuing story needed a slant, a provocative underpinning to give it wings. Morehouse hadn't balked, in fact had championed his cause with higher-ups. If the article caused young women in the city to be more alert and self-protective, it would have served a positive purpose. And if it turned out that there was no serial killer, so be it. Who'd been hurt? No one. It was merely a theory.

He switched off the newscast along with his stream of rationalizations, parked the car, and waved his employee badge at the private security guard in the
Trib
's lobby. As he walked through the newsroom on his way to his desk, a colleague looked up from his computer and said, “Hey, congrats, Joe. Nice piece.”

“Thanks.”

“I'm lockin' up my daughter,” said another coworker with a laugh.

“Not a bad idea,” Wilcox said.

He felt buoyant, more alive than he'd felt in months. There were a dozen message slips on his desk, and he quickly rifled through them. He was about to return the more important ones when Morehouse came up behind him.

“Calls from your adoring fans?” Morehouse asked.

“I didn't know I had any, Paul.”

“You sure as hell don't over at MPD. Come on, I want to talk to you.”

Morehouse shut the door to his office, perched on the edge of his desk, and smiled. “You've got the boys and girls in blue up in arms, buddy.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I got a call this morning from an assistant commissioner. He started moaning about your article causing undue panic with the city's citizenry. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Wilcox thought for a moment that Morehouse was serious. When he realized he wasn't, he grinned and relaxed in his chair.

“What do you need, Joe?”

“For what?”

“Follow-ups. This is big, and it'll get bigger. The commissioner told me he wanted the name of your MPD source. They'll string him up if they find out who he is. Or
she.
” He gave Wilcox a knowing look. “Your Hispanic buddy?”

“No comment, Paul, except it wasn't her. But they'll be looking at her.”

“What else can you get from your source?”

“I don't know.”

“Get everything you can for tomorrow. I want to go page one again. You won't argue with that, right? What about the roommate, the hooker angle?”

“There's nothing there, Paul. Let's say she does work for an escort service. That's not illegal.”

“Who's she work for?”

“I don't know.”

“Find out. See what they have to say. I liked the interview you did with McNamara's fiancé. Her mother and sister are here?”

“Yeah. They were at the apartment but looked like they were in shock. I was uncomfortable talking to them.”

“Joe.” He said it like a teacher chiding a child. “They should be over their shock by now. Get a statement from the ME supporting the same manner of death in both cases. And it wouldn't hurt to corral a half dozen or so pretty single women and get their reaction to a serial killer roaming the streets.”

Wilcox stood and made a move for the door.

“And Joe,” Morehouse said, “contact one of your shrink sources and get a profile of how a serial killer thinks, the kind of guy he might be, a loner probably who pulled wings off butterflies when he was a kid, the usual. Maybe a shrink at one of the hospitals to give it weight.”

Wilcox was glad to be out of Morehouse's office and in the semi-sanctity of his own cubicle. He couldn't seriously argue with the editor's thinking. His suggestions made sense for follow-ups to a story about a serial killer, whether it was a figment of the reporter's imagination or not. Actually, Morehouse's instructions made things easier. Wilcox hadn't been sure how to proceed with a second article, particularly whether or not to draw upon another fictitious quote from his alleged MPD source. He was glad he didn't have to, at least for that day.

Obtaining a quote from a mental health professional was easy. A clinical psychologist at Howard University Hospital had been only too happy to offer quotable insight for him to use in many of his articles over the years. She dropped what she was doing at the hospital to take his call.

“Read my piece this morning?” he asked.

“Sure I did. Let me guess. You want a profile of what kind of guy goes around killing pretty young women.”

“Something like that,” he said. “I know you'll be generalizing but—”

“Not a problem. First tell me, were either of the two victims sexually assaulted?”

“No report yet on the most recent. The autopsy on Jean Kaporis here at the
Trib
indicated she'd had intercourse within twenty-four hours of being murdered, but there didn't seem to be any sign of assault.”

“It would be unusual if sex wasn't involved. I've never known a serial killer who wasn't after sexual gratification, as perverse as it might be. Let me ask you something else. Why are the police considering this a serial killing? According to my textbook, it takes three related murders before that scenario comes up.”

Her question took him aback. She'd never challenged him before, probably, he'd surmised, because she didn't want to risk losing media exposure. She was a true media hound, always showing up on TV talk shows as the expert on myriad topics, most particularly sexual dysfunction. Her popular Sunday evening radio show was often devoted to that gritty subject.

“I don't have the answers for you,” he said. “Maybe the police know more than they're letting on.”

“There might be other murders with similar MOs?”

“Maybe. How about a brief overview of the typical serial killer, nothing too deep, a thumbnail sketch. If this isn't a good time for you, I can—”

“No problem, Joe. Always happy to help.”

Wilcox smiled. Of course she was willing to help, provided he spelled her name right.

“Okay, here's Serial Killer 101,” she said. “A nerd? No. Our fellow is probably intelligent, charismatic, charming, and/or good-looking. Of course, I'm, talking about serial killers who entice female victims with smooth talk. They're almost always good talkers. If this guy you're writing about isn't a sexual deviant, then the profile might not apply. Often, some form of childhood abuse is in their background.”

“Psychotic?”

“I doubt it. Serial killers are usually psychopaths. There's a difference. A psychotic killer would be out of touch with reality and have trouble eluding the police as a result. Chances are he's keenly aware of what he's doing, that it's criminal. Ultimately, it's a power thing. Determining life and death with the vulnerable gives him an inflated sense of power, something he needs because inside, he's pathetically insecure, maybe impotent. Chances are he's proud of what he's accomplished and keeps every newspaper account of the murders as trophies.”