Murder at The Washington Tribune (6 page)

“Aside from my partner and my boss? We interviewed some of the people from outside the
Trib
who'd signed in there that night.”

“And?”

“Some possibilities.”

“Enough to shift emphasis from somebody at the paper?”

“Could be. We're running background checks on them, which we should have done the first time around.”

“Why now?”

“Pressure to solve this thing.”

Wilcox smiled. “I'm under pressure, too,” he said. “Tell me more about these outside people.”

“Off the record?” she said.

“Absolutely.”

“Okay. We talked to—”

Her cell phone rang. She fished in her purse, retrieved it, opened the cover and announced, “Vargas-Swayze.”

Wilcox watched as she muttered responses to the caller. A few seconds later, she closed the phone and said, “Got to go, Joe. A female down in Franklin Park.”

“Not my night,” he said, pulling out his wallet.

“Stay,” she said, standing. “Finish your chops. Sorry.”

“Might as well tag along,” he said, also standing and waving for the waiter. “Be there in a few minutes.”

FIVE

While waiting for the waiter to return his credit card, Wilcox called the
Trib
's night Metro editor. “Joe Wilcox, Barry. I've got the Franklin Park call covered.”

“We just got it on the radio. What are you doing there?”

“Happened to be on the scene. I'll be back to you.”

He signed the charge slip, got in his car, and headed for Franklin Park, or Franklin Square, depending upon which tourist map you trusted. He drove faster than he usually did, and felt his adrenaline flowing faster, too. He hadn't raced to a crime scene in years, having learned over the years to pace himself. Five or ten minutes seldom made any difference; the bodies weren't getting up and going anywhere.

But this was different. Tonight was different. The pervasive blanket of self-pity and self-loathing had lifted, at least for the moment. He felt better than he had in months.

Vargas-Swayze was directing uniformed officers at the K Street entrance to the spacious downtown park when Wilcox pulled up. A half-dozen marked police cars, their red lights flashing, were parked haphazardly along the street. Wilcox started into the park but was stopped by an officer. “He's okay,” Vargas-Swayze said, waving him through.

He followed a sloping footpath leading toward the park's central fountain, passing a series of benches beneath tall trees that made it a favorite fair weather brownbag lunch spot for office workers. The cynosure was a bench not far from the fountain. On it was sprawled a woman's body, illuminated by the dancing beams of flashlights wielded by uniformed cops. A handbag that appeared to be made of straw or some other woven material was on the ground in front of the bench.

Wilcox attempted to get closer, displaying the press credential tethered to his neck, but was kept away by another uniform. He looked around for Vargas-Swayze, who was nowhere to be seen. As he squinted to get a better view of the body, additional uniformed police arrived, accompanied by a couple of EMTs.
Save your mouth-to-mouth for someone who can benefit from it,
Wilcox thought.

A young man and woman in white lab coats with
EVIDENCE TECHNICIAN
emblazoned on their backs and carrying crime-scene investigation kits joined the EMTs. Wilcox knew them from dozens of other homicides he'd covered in the District. Vargas-Swayze walked into the scene and came to Wilcox.

“Know anything yet?” Wilcox asked over the cacophony of walkie-talkie and cell phone chatter. Two cops unrolled yellow crime scene tape and began to cordon off the immediate area.

“No.”

“Who discovered the body?”

“Over there.” She pointed to a middle-aged man and younger looking woman sitting on a bench a dozen yards from the victim. A uniformed officer stood guard over them, arms folded across his chest.

Vargas-Swayze left Wilcox and went to where the crime scene investigators had begun scouring the ground surrounding the body. They were joined almost immediately by another face familiar to Wilcox, an assistant from the medical examiner's office. Wilcox had forged a friendship of sorts with this doctor, had done him a few favors over the past years, including securing a summer intern slot at the
Trib
for his teenage daughter. The ME waved to Wilcox before approaching the woman's lifeless body. He placed his hand on her neck and cheek, but withdrew it as though it had been hot to the touch. Holding a flashlight of his own, he more closely examined her face and neck. As he did, the techs began photographing the scene using digital still and video cameras.

The ME motioned for Vargas-Swayze to accompany him to a spot outside the roped-off area. Wilcox made his way in that direction, too, but kept a respectful distance until they'd finished their conversation. “Got a minute?” he asked, looking at Vargas-Swayze for a sign that she wouldn't prohibit him from questioning the ME. “Strictly off the record,” Wilcox added.

“Looks like a homicide,” the ME said, moving to where Wilcox stood, “unless she decided to hang herself from the nearest tree. Of course, she wouldn't have ended up on the bench if she had.”

“Hang herself? That's how she died?” Wilcox asked. “Asphyxiation?”

“That's my guess at this juncture,” said the ME. “The autopsy will be more specific, but judging from the fingernail marks on her throat, I'd say somebody choked her to death.”

“How long do you figure she's been dead?” Wilcox asked.

“Not long. An hour maybe. We'll know more after the autopsy. Speaking of that, I'd better get going.”

The ME joined the EMTs as they put the lifeless body into a body bag and removed it from the park.

“Any ID?” Wilcox asked Vargas-Swayze.

“Yeah, but not for you, Joe.”

“Forget the name for now,” he said. “I know the drill. I saw you talking with the cop who had her purse. Come on, Edith, give me something about her. I'll sit on it until you give the okay.”

“She had plenty of cash in her purse,” the detective said.

“No robbery.”

“Evidently. Twenty-seven years old, according to her driver's license. She's got a press pass.”

“A press pass?” he said incredulously. “Who'd she work for?”

Edith shook her head. “I've already said too much, Joe. Try me later.”

She turned to leave but he grabbed her arm. “What about the couple over there who discovered her?”

“Older guy, pretty young lady. He lives in the burbs. The way I figure it, he's married and in town for an evening with his young honey. But I don't know that.”

“I want to talk to them.”

“Be my guest, but you're wasting your time. The guy's panicked that his name will become public. She says he didn't want to get involved, but she insisted they call nine-one-one. Good luck.”

She was right. The man and woman refused to give him even their names, the man snarling, “Get the hell away from us!”

Wilcox was on his way back to the crime scene when a voice said, “Hey, Joe.” It was a cops reporter from a rival newspaper, who'd just arrived. “What've you got?” he asked.

“Not much,” Wilcox replied. “One dead female. That's all I know.”

“Homicide?”

“Probably. See you later.”

As he retraced his route up the path to K Street, Wilcox saw that two TV remote trucks, their antennas extended, had been positioned at the park's entrance. Coming down the path was Roberta, followed by a cameraman and sound technician.

“Hey,” Joe called to her, “fancy meeting you here.”

“Hi, Dad. Looks like we missed the action.”

“Yeah. It's been buttoned up.”

“What's the scoop? Another murder? Must be the full moon.”

“Apparent homicide. Female. That's all I know, hon.” He was surprised how easily he could lie to his own daughter.

“How come you were here?” she asked, that question suddenly crossing her mind.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he said.

She looked at him quizzically.

“Look, I'll give you a call tomorrow. Right now I'd better get back and file.”

“Based on what?” she asked.

“I'll make some calls, like you will.” He kissed her cheek and was gone.

His guilt kicked in the minute he was back in his car and on his way to the newspaper, but it didn't last long. He was too focused on the events of the evening and his need to write about it. He evaded questions by others in the newsroom as he went to his computer terminal and began the story. When he was finished and had printed it out, he walked into the night Metro editor's office and laid the draft on the desk in front of him.

“This is good stuff, Joe,” Barry said after reading it. “You can't nail down who she worked for?”

“I will,” Wilcox said.

“What about an MPD statement backing up the possibility that a serial killer is on the loose?”

“I'll get that, too.”

“Paul will love it,” Barry said, laughing and handing the story back.

“He'd better,” Wilcox said.

He was tired as he drove home to Rockville. But once there, he got a second wind. He settled into his den and placed a call to Edith Vargas-Swayze's cell phone. “Sorry to bother you, Edith, but I figured you were still on duty.”

“Wrong, Joe. I just got home. You didn't wake me.”

“Good. Look, I'm working on a story about tonight's Franklin Park murder and I need something more tangible about where the victim worked.”

“I can't give you that, Joe.”

“It doesn't have to be specific, Edith. A newspaper? Radio? TV?”

“She was a line producer for a TV station.”

“Oh. Which one?”

“Joe, that's it until we decide to release more.”

“I understand. You know what I'm thinking?”

“What?”

“I'm thinking that there might be a serial killer loose in D.C.”

“A serial killer? Why?”

“Same MO as Jean Kaporis. Young, attractive woman. Works in media. Is strangled to death.”

“That's a real stretch, Joe. It takes more than two to add up to serial killings.”

“But you can't rule out the possibility.”

“No, I guess anything's possible. I'm beat. Sorry about dinner being ruined. The crab cakes were good, at least what I tasted of them.”

“We'll do it again soon.”

“That's a deal. Good night.”

He'd brought with him the CD containing the story he'd written, and inserted it into the den computer. He worked the article over for an hour, adding new lines, cutting others, rearranging paragraphs and changing some key words many times. When he was finished, he went to the bedroom where Georgia slept. His undressing woke her.

“It's real late,” she said, glancing at the lighted digital clock-radio. “After three.”

“I know,” he said. “I was working on a breaking story.” He leaned over and kissed her brow. “Go back to sleep, hon.”

“Uh-huh. Was it a good night?”

“Yeah, it was. I'll fill you in tomorrow. Have to be in early. No need to get up with me.”

“Okay. I'm having lunch with Mimi tomorrow.”

“Today. It's today. That's good.”

Georgia and Mimi Morehouse, Paul's wife, had become friends over the years, and got together a few times each month for, as Georgia termed it, “Girl-talk. Compare notes on the men in our lives.” Joe and Georgia had decided after spending a number of evenings with the Morehouses that only someone with Mimi's glass-half-full personality and ready laugh could put up with someone like her dour, abrasive husband. When the tenor of their relationship came up one day over lunch, Mimi said to Georgia with a chuckle, “Oh, Paul's all right. His bark is worse than his bite.” To which Georgia responded, “You take the bitter with the sweet.” And they laughed their way through the rest of lunch.

One day, the two ladies at lunch got on the subject of their husbands' fidelity.

“I'd really be shocked if Joe had an affair,” Georgia said. “He's—he's just not the type, if you know what I mean.”

“What type is that?” Mimi asked.

“You know, the sort who takes off his wedding ring when he goes out of town. A flirt. I'd really be shocked.”

“I'd just as soon not know,” Mimi offered. “I take the military's approach: Don't ask, don't tell.”

“I'm afraid I could never be that worldly,” Georgia said.

“Worldly, hell! If I ever found out he was sleeping with some bimbo, I'd take a pair of pinking shears to his manhood.”

“Ouch,” Georgia said, making a face against that painful vision.

The subject never came up again.

Wilcox set the alarm to go off in three hours and slid into bed next to her. Lying on his back, he waited for sleep to come. But it evaded him for a half hour, during which time he thought of many things, particularly what had happened that evening to shake him out of his lethargy. He felt more alive than he had in months. A vision of a naked Edith Vargas-Swayze filled his thoughts, and he considered reaching for his wife. He fought that urge, and forced Edith from his thoughts, too. As sleep finally did arrive, he smiled at the contemplation of getting up and going to work, something he hadn't experienced in far too long. His final waking thought, displayed in vivid Technicolor, was Roberta's face, her beatific smile filling his screen. Then, whether he wanted it to happen or not, everything went to black.