Murder at The Washington Tribune (24 page)

“You act on everything you feel compelled to do?” Joe asked, not attempting to disguise his anger.

“Your meaning isn't lost on me, Joseph. No, I learned to control my urges during my years in the hospital. Tell me the truth, Joe. Do you view me as a potential threat to your wife and daughter?”

Joe guffawed. “Threat? Why would I think that?”

“Because of who I am, a sex-crazed murderer who was judged to have been insane.”

“Are you, Michael? Are you a threat to anyone?”

“Am I a serial killer, you mean? Did I write you, my brother, the journalist, in that capacity?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“I try not to be, Joseph. I'm sorry my unannounced presence caused you such grief. I'll call ahead in the future. Thank you for the evening, the dinner, the conversation, and for the ride home. Please stay in touch. Don't let your preconceived notions about me ruin what can be a joyous reunion between blood brothers. We are that, you know, whether you like it or not. Good night, Joseph. Thank you again.”

Joe watched his brother enter the building and shut the door behind him. He pulled away from the curb with uncharacteristic abandon, and drove too fast back to Rockville, desperately trying to sort out his feelings. It wasn't until he'd pulled into the driveway that the unpleasant, hurtful truth struck him with the force of an exploding airbag.

Michael Wilcox, aka Michael LaRue, had come farther in his life, despite forty years behind bars, than he, Joe Wilcox had. Michael was free, truly free from the sort of bars behind which he, Joe, had ended up. His brother was self-assured, musically talented, erudite, charming, well-read, and socially clever. His freedom hadn't been taken from him when he was incarcerated in that hospital. To the contrary, it had liberated him from the confines of the modern outside world, wrapped him in a protective blanket under which he could learn to play his guitar, read his books, indulge his fantasies, and think, thumbing his nose all the while at those on the other side of the locked gates.

His anger and sadness drained from him as he left the car and entered the house.

“Want to talk about it?” Georgia asked.

“No. I want to go to bed. I'm very tired.”

“Roberta and Tom Curtis are talking about becoming engaged.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Good night.”

TWENTY-TWO

Wilcox rolled out of bed at six the next morning. His mood had improved considerably. He turned on the mixture of regular and decaf coffee and went to the driveway for that day's
Tribune.
Back in the kitchen, he opened to the Metro section. A reproduction of the letter ran big in the center of the story.

Dear Mr. Wilcox:

I feel like we know each other. You've been writing about me in your newspaper even though we've never met. I want you to know that the young women who were killed were not worthy of being alive. They, and newspapers like the one you work for, corrupt everything decent and good. This is not the last time I will write to you, Mr. Wilcox. And don't let the police interfere with our communication. That would be unfortunate.

To his astonishment, a smaller photo of himself was included in the article, taken a few years ago by the paper's PR department while establishing a speakers' bureau.
Did I ever look that young?

Georgia joined him, and he showed her the piece.

“It gives me the chills,” she said, filling two coffee cups.

“I didn't know they'd run a picture,” he said.

“I almost wish they hadn't,” she said. “What do you think about Robbie's announcement that she and Tom are considering becoming engaged?”

“Oh, right. I'm sorry. I'm afraid I wasn't in a very good mood last night. They're serious? I mean, really serious?”

“Semiserious,” she said. “They're discussing it. She wanted us to know before they went any further.”

He said nothing, continuing to read his article, mindlessly unhappy over some editorial changes that had been made to his original copy. “No passion in the world is equal to the passion to alter someone else's draft.” H.G. Wells's comment came and went.

“Joe?”

“Huh?”

“Robbie and Tom, what do you think?”

“I think it's too soon for them to be talking about engagement and marriage. They haven't known each other long enough.”

“I suggested that, too, and she assured me they would take their time. It's important that she has our approval, Joe, particularly yours.”

“Sure. He seems like a nice enough fellow, but time will tell. I do think that—”

The ringing phone interrupted.

“Joe Wilcox,” he said into the mouthpiece.

“It's Edith, Joe.”

“Hi. I have a feeling I know why you're calling.”

“I'm sure you do. This letter, Joe. You should have reported it the minute you received it.”

“It wasn't my call, Edith. A corporate decision.”

“I'm on my way to the paper to pick it up. I need to talk with you.”

“Of course. I'll be there within the hour.”

“No,” she said. “Let's meet somewhere else first.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so. That coffee shop across the street from the
Trib.
”

“See you there.”

He left Georgia in the kitchen and took his cup with him to the bathroom where he showered and shaved. She was still reading the paper when he reappeared.

“I'm sure he knows where you live,” she said.

“Who? The nutjob? Probably.” He kissed her on the top of her head and headed for the front door. The phone rang. Georgia answered. “Joe, it's for you. The Fox news channel.”

He took the cordless phone from her and walked into the dining room. When he returned, he replaced the phone in its wall mount and said, “They want me on one of their news shows. I'll have to clear it with public affairs. Got to run, sweetie. I'll call you later.”

Edith was seated at an outdoor table when he arrived. Two Styrofoam cups sat on the table.

“Half-and-half, one sugar, right?” she said.

“Right. So, what do you think?”

“I think I don't know you, Joe.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You get a letter from the serial killer—and I have to admit I was wrong and you were right about there even being one—and instead of turning it over to the police, you use it to generate a big story in the paper. That could be considered suppressing evidence.”

“Oh, come on, Edith. It isn't
that
serious. I only received it yesterday. You'll have it this morning. Less than twenty-four hours.”

“Enough time for the public to know it exists and for
The Washington Tribune
to have a major scoop. And for MPD to have to run from behind and maybe miss a shot at the killer. Local boy makes good, entices serial killer out of his lair, creates a splash with big newsstand sales, and advertisers clamor to buy space. The market economy at work—except that two women are dead, Joe—out of the market. Sorry, but that's a different world from what this humble civil servant knows.”

“You're overreacting.”

“Drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

He obeyed.

“Has he called you?” she asked.

“The killer? No.”

“He might.”

“He might.”

“I want a tap on your phones at the office and at home.”

“At home? Georgia won't like that.”

“I'm sure she doesn't like that her hubby is on a first name basis with a whacko killer, either.”

“She said something to that effect.”

The detective pointed an index finger at him. “Joe,” she said, “don't play games with me. Okay? This is no longer just a story that sells newspapers. The letter is now a police matter.”

“Sure. I understand,” he said. “I'll cooperate with you in any way I can.”

“Good. You saw your daughter's piece on the letter, I assume.”

“No, I didn't,” he said, finishing his coffee, which left a metallic taste in his mouth.

“This morning. She obviously got it from you.”

“She was at the house for dinner last night. I mentioned it.”

Edith sat back and smiled. “She was cute the way she couched it. She said that in the interest of full disclosure, the recipient of the letter was her father, a
Trib
cops reporter.”

“She's okay,” he said, joining her in the smile. “You coming to the office?”

“Yup.”

The meeting was held in a conference room off the newsroom. Present were Vargas-Swayze, Wilcox, Morehouse, the paper's legal counsel, the VP of public affairs, and the
Trib
's executive vice president for administrative affairs.

“I'm outnumbered,” Edith said after she'd been introduced to everyone.

“But you carry the gun,” the public affairs head said.

“Shall I lay it on the table?” she asked.

“Please don't,” the executive VP said, sounding as though he took her seriously.

“Let's get down to why we're here,” Morehouse said. He slid a manila envelope across the table to her. She slipped on a pair of latex gloves, opened the envelope, and removed a plastic baggie.

“Nice it's in the plastic bag,” she said, “but I assume it's been handled.”

“Sure,” Morehouse said. “Joe, me, others. Our prints are all over it. Sorry.”

“Our lab people will compare whatever's on there with anyone who handled it here. Where's the envelope it came in?'

“Oh, right,” Morehouse said, pushing a second envelope to her.

“Okay,” she said. “Now, let's talk about how we cooperate in getting this guy off the street.”

The meeting lasted slightly less than an hour. Wilcox walked Edith to the elevators.

“You comfortable with what we came up with?” she asked.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Sure you do. But it'll be easier if you aren't fighting it.”

“No fear of that,” he said. “You'll let me know what steps you take next, preliminary lab reports, all that good stuff.”

“To the extent I can, Joe. I'll be back to you.”

He went to his cubicle where dozens of phone and e-mail messages awaited him, some from media outlets wanting interviews, others from colleagues around the city congratulating him, asking questions, or joking about his newfound role as father confessor to a serial killer.

“Nice catch, Joe,” Gene Hawthorne said.

Wilcox swung around in his chair. “Thanks.”

“If there's anything I can do, I'm—”

“Yeah, sure. I'll let you know,” Wilcox said, showing his back to the young reporter again.

He let his voice mail take his calls for the rest of the morning, choosing the few he wished to return. But he picked up a call that came a few minutes before noon.

“Joseph? It's Michael.”

“Oh, hello.”

“Joe, about last night, I realize how impetuous it was of me to simply show up at your home like that, especially after you'd asked that we go slow in melding me into your family's life.”

“I was surprised, that was all,” Joe said. “No apology necessary.”

“You forgive me?”

“Look, Michael, I'm up to my neck here today.”

“I imagine you are, Joseph. That was a powerful piece in today's paper. Georgia seemed unhappy that the killer has chosen you as his conduit.”

“She'll be fine. It's natural that she'd be uneasy about it.”

“Of course. What a wonderful family, Joseph. Exemplary. I owe you a dinner. I owe everyone a dinner. Can we make a date?”

“Not at the moment, but I'll get back to you. What's your schedule the next few days?”

“Busy actually. Two job interviews tomorrow, morning and afternoon.”

“Nonprofits?”

“One is. The other isn't what I aspire to—it's more like the job I just left. But one has to be realistic, doesn't one? The money mother left me won't last forever.”

Joe had forgotten about that money; Michael's mention of it stabbed him in the stomach. He understood why their mother had taken steps to provide for Michael should he ever come out of the mental hospital. But the funds had sat there earning interest for almost forty years. His early years with Georgia and a baby had been lean ones. Having a nest egg would have helped, would have taken the strain off them. In a word, he resented what his mother had done, no matter how he might rationalize it. A victory for his brother, a slap in his face.

“Let's talk in a few days,” Joe said. “Good luck with your interviews.”

“Thank you, Joseph. I'll let you know how they go. Love to Georgia and Robbie.”

He got to Morehouse before leaving for lunch.

“I can't handle all the media calls, Paul, and write tomorrow's piece.”

“Let public affairs handle the media stuff, Joe. But make yourself as available as you can. What've you got for tomorrow?”

“A think piece,” he replied. “How it feels to be in contact with a serial killer.”

“You can't mention the phone taps, or the surveillance on the post office.”

“I know. I thought I'd call Jimmy Breslin in New York. The Son of Sam kept writing to Breslin. I've met Jimmy a few times. He's not doing his regular column any more, but he's still active. I can probably get some good quotes from him.”

“Good move. When do you think the killer will contact you again?”

“I don't know if he will.”

“Of course he will, Joe. He can't read your piece today and not write another letter, maybe call. By the way, your cop buddy is a knockout.”

“Edith? Yeah, she's an okay lady.”

“You, uh—?”

“No. I'm heading out for lunch. I'll get on tomorrow's piece when I get back.”

“You're tearin' 'em up, Joe. Hey. Human Resources called. How come you haven't talked to them about the buyout package?”

“Because I'm not interested in any buyout, at least not until this thing is over. I'll check back in later.”

A new call on his voice mail intrigued him enough to return it. The caller was an editor at a large book publisher in New York.

“Thanks so much, Mr. Wilcox, for getting back to me so soon,” she said “Do you have a book agent?”

“Book agent? No, I don't.”

“Good. I'd rather deal directly with you anyway. We might be interested in signing up a book by you about this serial killer series you're doing. He wrote you, I read this morning.”

“That's right.”

“True-crime books can be bestsellers. May I call you Joe?”

“Sure.”

“Good. I'm Melanie. Can you come up to New York?”

“When?”

“As soon as you can. I believe we can offer a contract that will make it worth your while.”

“Impossible now. I'm really busy.”

“I'll come to Washington. What's a good day for you? Tomorrow? The next day?”

“Ah, I'll have to get back to you.”

“Fine, but don't let too much time pass. I've already discussed this with our editorial and marketing people. We're serious.”

He took her number and left the building, stopping in at a florist on his way to the Press Club to arrange for flowers to be sent to Georgia. He'd paid and was leaving the shop when he had another thought. “I'd like to have flowers sent to my daughter, too,” he told the clerk. “At the TV station where she works. They go to Roberta Wilcox.”

“Roberta Wilcox?” the clerk said. “I watch her all the time. I knew the name was familiar. And you're the one who's been writing about the serial killer.”

“That's me,” he said.

“You've got me scared to death,” she said. “I keep the door locked most of the day.”

“I noticed I had to knock,” he said.

“You can't be too careful,” she said, “not with a fiend loose on our streets.”

“I couldn't agree more,” he said, signing the credit card slip and wishing her a pleasant day.

He was greeted when he entered the Press Club by a number of the guys, all of whom had something to say about his involvement with the serial killer. The attention was not unwelcome, and he found himself eagerly answering their questions, parrying their jibes, and enjoying the drink to which he was treated. Some well-wishers wanted to continue their conversation over lunch, and they settled at a large, round table where the drinks kept coming, and the conversation became more rambunctious.