Murder at The Washington Tribune (36 page)

THIRTY-FIVE

“. . . and what do you think will happen to your father?” Michael asked Roberta. They were the only customers on the restaurant's terrace. Darkness had begun to set in; a flickering candle on the table cast flattering light on her face.

“I don't know,” she said. “If it's true—and my God, I wish it weren't—he'll be disgraced as a journalist.”

He saw wetness form in her eyes and placed his hand on hers. “There, there,” he said. “Even if it is true, and it seems that it is—after all, he's admitted it—I'm sure time will heal the wounds. Of course, it's in his favor that he's coming to the end of what has been a rewarding career. It would be worse if he were young and starting out.”

“Maybe not,” she said. “At least he could claim youthful indiscretion.”

“You mustn't be hard on him, Robbie.”

“Another confession,” she said. “I keep worrying what impact it will have on me and my reputation.”

Espressos arrived at the table along with a slice of key lime pie to share. He raised his small porcelain cup. “To an evening of confessions,” he said.

She touched his cup with hers.

“May I make a suggestion?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“I suggest you use your cell phone now and place a call to your TV station.”

“Why?”

“To capture on videotape what I am about to say.”

Her stare was blank. “I don't understand.”

“Just do what I say, Robbie. Call your station and arrange for one of your crews to come here, just as you did at my apartment.”

Instead of asking more questions, she pulled her phone from her purse and pressed the number coinciding with the station's programmed number. An intern answered. Roberta asked to be put through to her boss, who came on the line.

“What's up, Robbie?” he asked. “It's your night off.”

“I need a crew,” she said.

“What for? What have you got?”

“I'm not sure,” she said, “but I have a feeling it's important.”

“Where are you?”

She placed her hand over the mouthpiece and asked Michael, who sat calmly across from her, a small smile on his lips, for the address. He answered by pushing a pack of matches to her on which the restaurant's address was printed. She read it into the phone.

“I hope this is worth it,” her boss said. “We're stretched thin tonight.”

“Just send somebody,” she said, and ended the conversation.

She said to Michael, “I wish you'd tell me what's going on.”

“In due time, when your friends arrive. In the meantime, let us enjoy the evening. I believe an after-dinner drink is in order.” He motioned for the waiter and ordered two of their best cognacs. As the waiter walked away, Michael stopped him with, “And please ask Tony to join us.”

“Excuse me,” he said to Roberta as he left the table and disappeared inside the restaurant. He returned to the terrace a minute later carrying his guitar case and amplifier, which had been in the car's small trunk.

Roberta's heart sunk. Had he asked for a camera crew to record him playing? If so, she would have a very angry boss.

He read her concern. “Not to fear, Robbie,” he said. “I assure you there's more to having your colleagues here with camera and microphone than music. However—”

The restaurant's owner appeared.

“Ah, Tony, thank you.”

“I thought you said you weren't playing,” Tony said.

“Only a song or two for my lovely niece, and for the cameras.”

“Cameras?”

“A crew from Ms. Wilcox's television station will be arriving shortly. The publicity for you and your fine establishment will be welcome, I'm sure.” He looked about. “Ah, an outlet. Perfect.” He plugged in the amplifier, used a patch cord to connect the guitar to the amp, adjusted the controls, and strummed a few chords.

Tony looked quizzically at Roberta, whose slight shrug of her shoulders indicated she knew as little as he did. The owner walked away, leaving Michael and Roberta alone. Their drinks were served.

“I know you're confused, dear,” Michael said, cupping the snifter in his hands to impart warmth to the drink, “but soon you'll know why I asked for this moment to be recorded for posterity. Did you enjoy the ride in my flashy little car?”

“I'm not sure enjoy is a word I'd use,” she said, pleasantly, her mind trying to make sense of everything that had occurred. “You drove too fast for me to have enjoyed it.”

“My apologies,” he said. “There were many things I yearned for during my forty years of captivity. One of them was to be behind the wheel of such a car.” He laughed. “Of course, I envisioned myself racing along a winding road through some bucolic countryside, the top down, the wind stinging my face, my cares lost in the exhaust. But as things developed this day, I thought I'd better experience my dream in less pastoral surroundings. Life is so fleeting, Robbie. One has to grab the moment or lose it forever.”

As though not expecting a response, he began playing. “Let's see,” he said, “what song would be appropriate to the moment? I know.” He launched into a melody. “ ‘You and the Night and the Music,' ” he announced, “by Dietz and Schwartz. How appropriate.”

Her cell phone on the table rang.

“Hello?”

“Roberta, it's Mom. We've been trying to reach you. Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.”

“That music—where are you?”

“Mom, I'm fine. I'll call you back as soon as I'm finished.”

Her father replaced Georgia on the phone. “Are you with Michael?” he demanded.

“Yes. I have to go. I'll—”

“Roberta, listen to me. Michael is wanted for murder. He killed his neighbor in Franklin Park.”

“I'll call later,” Roberta said, shutting off the phone.

The music had drawn diners to the terrace from inside the restaurant, joined by the owner and two waiters. By the time Michael had reached the song's bridge, the two-person television crew arrived. Roberta motioned them to come to the table. As Michael continued playing, she got up and whispered into the cameraman's ear, “Just start shooting.”

The camera and microphone, which the sound tech dangled over Michael on the end of a boom, captured every note. A descending arpeggio, and a resounding chord, ended the performance. He looked up at the TV crew, smiled, and said, “I have something to say.”

Roberta instructed the cameraman to come around behind her and to focus on Michael's face. With the microphone dangling above his head, just out of frame, Roberta said, “What is it you want to say, Michael? Is it about the death of your neighbor, Mr. Grau?”

His face lit up. “You know,” he said, “but why should I be surprised? You're as bright as you are beautiful.”

“Tell me about it,” she said in her best interviewing voice, soft and comforting, her you-can-trust-me-and-tell-me-everything voice.

He started to say something but stopped, as though having been struck by an important afterthought. He looked into the camera and said, “We are sitting on the terrace of one of the loveliest restaurants in the Washington area, owned by the erudite Tony Whitaker. You must try it some time. The food is exquisite, the service impeccable.” He went on to give its address, and read the number for reservations off the matchbook cover.

Roberta couldn't help but smile, and made a mental note to try and retain the plug in the finished piece.

“You were saying something about Mr. Grau's death. He was your neighbor.”

“Yes, he was, a belligerent sort, an alcoholic. I didn't mind those things. But he became so abusive. When he found out that I'd been in a mental institution for forty years, the result of my having murdered a young girl when I was a teenager, he held it over my head, threatened to tell the world, the other neighbors—everyone. I was even willing to overlook those threats. But when he made sexual advances toward me, using his threats as blackmail, I wasn't able to control my anger. I offer this not as an excuse for having killed him, but simply as an explanation for my actions.”

“Why are you telling me this, Michael?” Roberta asked. “Why have you chosen to tell this on television?”

“To ask for your forgiveness, Roberta. In the interest of full disclosure, I must tell your audience that I am your uncle, and that my brother, Joseph Wilcox, is an outstanding reporter on
The Washington Tribune.
Revelations will emerge about him and certain actions he chose to take which involved me, and the serial killer alleged to be roaming the streets of Washington, D.C., preying on young women. Forgive him, as I ask to be forgiven.”

The camera and tape recorder rolled as Michael continued with his confession. Roberta said little, injecting only an occasional question when the his flow of words flagged. Everyone standing in the open French doors witnessed the bizarre interview being conducted on a lovely night on the terrace of a restaurant just across the Potomac from the nation's capital, where young women had been installing extra locks on their apartment doors and windows, and every man was viewed with suspicion.

When he was finished, and the camera and tape recorder had been shut off, he said to Roberta, “Don't give me too much credit, Robbie, for having the courage to come forward like this. I would not have had I not known that the police wanted to question me again about the murder. Your father was to pick me up at my apartment and bring me to their headquarters. I would have confessed to them, I know, but decided that if my deed was to become public, the least I could do was to give my favorite and only niece the exclusive story.”

His words reached one of Roberta's ears. The other was pressed to her cell phone as she called her boss at the station to tell him she had a sensational story, every bit of it caught on tape, and that she would be there with the crew as soon as possible. She was about to leave when Michael said, “What about the police, Robbie? Must I call them myself?”

“No,” she said. “I will.”

And she did.

THIRTY-SIX

In the Weeks that Followed

No one in Kankakee, Illinois, would have believed a half-century ago that the Wilcox family would become famous. Of course, there had been the notoriety when Michael Wilcox, older of two sons, went on trial for having killed a neighbor girl and was found not guilty by reason of insanity. But that was a regional story and was quickly forgotten once Michael was put away in a mental institution, presumably for good, and the rest of the family had dispersed or died.

But that quickly changed in 2005 when the first of many news reports reverberated around the nation.
Washington Tribune
reporter Gene Hawthorne wrote the lead story for his paper. It appeared not on the front page of the Metro section, but on page one of the paper itself. It was syndicated by the
Trib
to sister papers, and the wire services ran with it, too, as did cable news channels and network newscasts.

Hollywood quickly took notice and a bidding war erupted for the screen rights. It had, as a Hollywood columnist wrote, “All the trappings of the ultimate family saga: sex, greed, betrayal, ambition, failure, and success.” All it lacked was drugs, which didn't keep some tabloids from speculating that Michael Wilcox had been high when he knifed Rudolph Grau, his neighbor, to death in a Washington, D.C., park.

The arrest of
Tribune
Metro editor Paul Morehouse for the murder of staffer Jean Kaporis was big news, too, but was nothing compared to the Wilcox chronicle. Hawthorne also wrote those stories, which had a ready and anxious readership in D.C. He duly reported that Morehouse pleaded not guilty at his arraignment, although he pointed out that the MPD had uncovered additional evidence to go with information provided by Morehouse's estranged wife, Mimi Morehouse, who had sued for divorce citing multiple adulteries.

The revelation that the letters allegedly written by Washington's serial killer had been a hoax brought a collective sigh of relief to the city. TV and radio talk shows across the nation booked media pundits and college journalism professors, who decried what Joe Wilcox had done, condemning him for further eroding the public's faith in its media. They frequently evoked the names of legendary figures in journalism as examples of integrity and independence, and portrayed sellouts like Joe Wilcox as a rare and warped aberration who gave the media an unwarranted black eye.

The Washington Tribune
took a double hit. One of its top editors was a murderer, and its best cops reporter was a liar and forger. Management did everything possible to put a positive spin on things, citing the paper's long and distinguished history as a first-class newspaper whose corporate motto, Ethics First, would never be compromised by the wayward acts of a few.

While Hawthorne's stories captivated those who still got their news from the printed page, Roberta Wilcox almost instantly became the most talked about broadcaster in Washington. There it was, a murder confession on tape, told exclusively to her by this madman, who was her uncle to boot, who obviously should never have been released from custody, another example of dismal failure on the part of mental health professionals and state legislatures. Members of congress seeking an issue called for new, tougher legislation to keep “the nuts” where they belonged, off the streets and safely behind bars.

Roberta Wilcox's star became brighter and farther-reaching. She was booked on myriad talk shows where she deflected questions about her father by pointing to his notable and long career as a journalist, and tearfully saying that he was a wonderful, loving father who would always have her unyielding love and respect. Her father rarely watched his daughter on those shows. He went into seclusion at the house, seldom venturing out and taking only selected phone calls. His attorney, Frank Moss, negotiated on his behalf with the
Tribune
and managed to preserve his client's pension. Together with his vested 401K and eventual Social Security, money would not be a pressing problem for Joe and Georgia, provided they didn't decide to live the high life. Criminal charges against Wilcox were never brought, which Moss proudly pointed to as an example of his lawyering skills, not aware that the district attorney hadn't planned to file charges anyway after pressure from MPD's Bernard Evans on behalf of Detective Edith Vargas, formerly Edith Vargas-Swayze.

In the Years that Followed

Michael Wilcox's confession of having murdered Rudy Grau saved the cost of a trial. Because the District of Columbia does not have a death sentence, he was sentenced to life without parole, and seemed almost happy at the contemplation of again having nothing but time in which to practice his guitar and write his novel. Roberta Wilcox and Gene Hawthorne were at the sentencing. She declined Hawthorne's offer to go out for dinner, knowing of her father's intense dislike of the young reporter. Still, she found him appealing. But romance was the last thing on her agenda. She was about to move to New York to become a correspondent on
20/20.

A jury found Paul Morehouse guilty of the second-degree murder of Jean Kaporis and sentenced him to forty years behind bars. His attorneys successfully made the point during the trial that their client, a good family man with a solid record of service to his community, had acted out of passion, nothing premeditated about the crime. Appeals were planned.

Joe and Georgia Wilcox sold their home in Rockville and moved to New Mexico, where she landed a part-time job in a library, leaving Joe at home to work on his nonfiction book about the events leading to his professional downfall. Georgia read his pages each night and thought they were wonderful. So did his editor at a New York publishing house. The book was scheduled for publication the following year.

Edith Vargas received a promotion, and took her first vacation in a year, visiting New Mexico where she dropped in on the Wilcoxes.

“You look very happy,” Edith told the couple when they'd settled on the expansive veranda after dinner, the mountains providing a stunning backdrop.

“All things considered,” Joe said, “things are pretty good. I want to run my manuscript past you when it's finished to make sure I've got the police angles and nomenclature right. It's been a while since I've written about them.”

“Happy to,” she said.

“What ever happened with the McNamara case?” he asked.

“Unsolved,” Edith replied. “In the cold file. Do you ever hear from your brother?”

“Yeah, I do as a matter of fact. He writes, and he sent us this tape of him playing the guitar. He's really good.”

Vargas smiled and handed the cassette back. “And how about Roberta?”

“We speak with her often,” Joe said. “It took a while for her to come to grips with what her old man did, but she has. We're closer than ever.”

“She's doing fine,” Georgia said. “We watch her on
20/20.
I wish she'd meet some nice guy and settle down, though, give me a grandchild or two.”

“Too busy, I guess,” Edith said.

“How about you, Edith?” Joe asked. “Any new men in your life?”

“I've been seeing a really nice guy, a detective from the Crimes Against Property unit. Hispanic. Puerto Rican.”

“And?” Joe and Georgia said in unison.

“Just dating,” said the detective, standing and stretching. “This has been lovely. It's great seeing you two again.”

“I'm glad you feel that way,” Joe said, “after what I pulled.”

She playfully punched his arm. “Hey,” she said, “we all make mistakes. I dumped mine in divorce court.” She took in the veranda and mountains with a sweep of her hand. “And it looks like you're doing a pretty good job of dumping yours.”

Georgia walked Edith to her rental car while Joe cleared a final few things from the table.

“I know about you and Joe,” Georgia said flatly as the two women stood next to Edith's rental car.

“Oh? Georgia, I—”

“It's okay, Edith. He said he wanted to clear the decks. I'm glad he did. It hurt at first, but I'm beyond that now.”

Edith sighed, and nodded. “No secrets, huh? That's always the better way to go. Look, I'm sorry, Georgia. You know it was only an impetuous, one-time thing. He's suffered guilt ever since. I suppose I have, too. I'm glad it's out in the open.”

“He offered to give me a divorce,” Georgia said. “I told him I didn't want that. And I want you to know that I don't have any ill feelings toward you, Edith. Things happen, that's all. I'm at peace with it, and with you.”

Joe joined them at the curb. He kissed Edith on the cheek and said, “Say hello to anyone you run across back in D.C. who might remember me.”

“Come back and do it yourself,” Edith said. “No need to keep your head buried in the sand, Joe. Some of them do the same thing you did. The only difference is they haven't gotten caught.” She smiled at Georgia and said to Joe, “And treat this lady right, my friend. She's a keeper.”

“Buenos noches, amiga,”
Joe said as Edith got behind the wheel and started the car.

“Yeah,” she said,
“buenos noches.”

They watched Edith drive away, her taillights disappearing over a crest in the road.

“Feel like some ice cream?” he asked as they returned to the house, his arm draped loosely over her shoulder.

“That sounds nice,” she said. “Yes, some ice cream sounds very good.”