Murder at The Washington Tribune (7 page)

SIX

No one ever accused Paul Morehouse of having an upbeat personality. But this morning his growls seemed even more frequent and pronounced.

“Good morning,” said a young reporter who popped into his office moments after he'd arrived, his takeout coffee still uncapped.

Morehouse nodded and muttered, “How are you?”

“Couldn't be better,” she said happily.

“I doubt that,” he muttered. “What do you want?”

“I'm pissed about the edit you did on my story yesterday. I—”

“Yeah, I know, I messed with your precious prose. Talk to me later about it, after I've had coffee. Close the door behind you.” He watched with an admiring eye as she left, hips and buttocks moving nicely beneath the thin fabric of her skirt.

He'd spent the evening with an assortment of editors from the city's other news outlets at a dinner hosted by D.C.'s mayor, the purpose of which still escaped him. Did the mayor really think that by serving the press small drinks and a lousy big dinner, he'd buy their good graces when it came to covering his missteps? Maybe for some of the mayor's media lapdogs, but not for him, Paul Morehouse. Not only had the evening been a waste of time, the dinner had left him with a sour stomach; a fresh roll of Tums sat next to his Styrofoam coffee cup.

He looked through the glass separating him from the main newsroom and saw Joe Wilcox heading for his office.

“Yeah?” Morehouse said as Wilcox entered.

“I thought you'd want to see this,” Wilcox said, laying the article on the desk.

“What is it?”

“Read it.”

Morehouse removed the cover from his coffee and took a sip before picking up Wilcox's pages. He leaned back, half-glasses on the tip of his nose, a scowl on his face. “Interesting,” he said, dropping the article on the desk. “A serial killer? Based on two murders?”

“Two similar murders, Paul.”

“This one worked for a TV station?”

“Right. I'm nailing down which one.”

“Same cause of death.”

“Right.”

“Who's your source at MPD who says it's possibly a serial murder?”

“A good one.”

“Your—your Spanish buddy?”

“No. Someone higher up.”

“Can't get MPD to go on the record?”

“Not yet. They will. They'll have to when this runs.”

“He talked to you on background?”

“Yes.”

There was a difference, Wilcox knew, between having a public official speak “off the record” and “on background.” In its strictest interpretation, “off the record” meant that whatever was said could not be reported, even without attribution. But speaking “on background” meant the official's words could be reported without naming the source. Those distinctions had become blurred over the years. “Off the record” covered both situations in most journalists' minds, and Wilcox wasn't in the mood to honor such distinctions.

“Get the victim's name and where she worked. The L.A. bureau is interviewing Kaporis's ex out in California. Use what they come up with in the piece.”

“Shall do.”

As Wilcox turned to leave, Morehouse said, “What about the hooker angle?”

“What about it?”

“I want that run down.”

Wilcox nodded, but it didn't represent what he was thinking. He said, “This serial killer angle is front-page stuff, Paul.”

“We'll see. Nice work, Joe. By the way, how come you covered Franklin Park last night?”

“I was passing by.”

As Wilcox was about to leave, Morehouse said, “Joe, when you get something from MPD, see if you can get them to speculate that if a serial killer is loose, chances are Jean was murdered by somebody from outside the
Trib.
”

“That'll be tough. I—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but it would help take the spotlight off us, poke a hole in the notion that we might be covering up for one of our own.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

Wilcox spent the next few hours on the phone working his sources in D.C.'s broadcasting community. He struck oil with a friend at one of the TV stations, who told him the slain woman in the park had worked for a competitor. He called that station and received a reluctant confirmation that the victim had, indeed, worked there. He lied to the person on the phone: “We're going with her name,” he said. “MPD has notified her next of kin.”

“Really?” the person on the other end said. “The McNamara family must be devastated.”

“I'm sure they are,” Wilcox said, noting the name on a pad and injecting empathy into his voice. “How old was she? Twenty-six?”

“I don't know,” the TV station employee said. “Colleen never said, at least to me.”

“Yeah. Well, I'm sure you're all terribly upset losing a colleague in such a brutal way. Thanks for your time.”

He inserted the victim's name and the TV station into the story, and ran a computer search on Colleen McNamara. There wasn't much, but there was just enough to help flesh out the piece. She'd come to Washington to take the job at the TV station. That was three years ago. Her name was mentioned in connection with a couple of investigative reports she'd produced for the station. Her address and telephone number were included in the computer-generated bio.

A man answered his call to her residence.

“Joe Wilcox from the
Tribune.
Is there someone I can speak with about Ms. McNamara?”

“You're a reporter?”

“Yes.
The Washington Tribune.
My condolences to the family. I know this is a tough time for you, but I'm working on a story that might help find out who killed her. You're—?”

“Colleen was my fiancée.”

“Oh. I'm sorry for your loss, sir. Your name is—?”

“That doesn't matter.”

“I just want to be accurate, that's all, and complete. I recognize this is an awkward time for you and the family, but I would really appreciate a chance to get together with you if only for a few minutes. Ms. McNamara, your fiancée, should be portrayed as the wonderful person she was, and should have her professional achievements pointed out.”

“Mr. Wilcox, I—” His voice became thick.

Wilcox changed his tone. “Look, there might be a serial killer out there who'll take another victim. I'm sure you want to see that that doesn't happen.”

“Of course.” Wilcox heard a buzzer in the background. “I have to go. Some other family members have arrived. Give me your number. I'll call you at a better time.”

“Sure.” He provided his direct line and cell numbers.

He decided to go to the address listed for Colleen McNamara in the hope of catching family members coming and going from the house. As he passed through the newsroom, he stopped to watch Roberta give a report on the Franklin Park killing. She wrapped it into a larger piece regarding the spate of murders that had taken place the night before, and presented no information about the victim other than that she was an apparent homicide, and that the case was in the preliminary stages of investigation: “Stay tuned for more information as we receive it. I'm Roberta Wilcox.”

He thought of calling her but didn't. Truth was, he wasn't anxious to have her ask what he knew about the murder in the park. Better to not speak than to lie outright. Once he had his article completed and it was ready to run—hopefully on page one of the Metro section—he'd tell her what he had. Of course, he silently admitted to himself that he had less than the article would indicate. But rationalization was in full gear for Joe at that moment. It was
possible
that the Jean Kaporis and Colleen McNamara murders had been committed by the same person, certainly more possible than some ridiculous connection between Kaporis and her roommate, Mary Jane Pruit. Edith Vargas-Swayze hadn't ruled it out when he'd proffered the notion to her. In addition, the article might prompt MPD to begin considering a serial killer scenario. He'd seen it happen before, the press taking the lead in establishing a working thesis for the police.

He left word that he'd be gone for the rest of the day, exited the building, got in his car, and drove to Colleen McNamara's address, only a few blocks from Franklin Park.

SEVEN

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, Roberta. How are you?”

“Okay. Busy. I saw Dad last night.”

“You did? He didn't mention it. Did you have dinner? He said he was working late.”

“No. I mean, he was—working late. I was covering a homicide in Franklin Park and he was there, too.”

“Another homicide? It seems that's all you read about these days.”

“Dad acted strange.”

“Strange? How so?”

“I don't know. He didn't seem happy to see me there, wanted to get away as fast as he could.”

Georgia laughed softly. “I doubt that, Robbie. He's always happy to see you. He must have been on deadline.”

“I suppose so. He didn't mention being at the park?”

“No. He got home very late, and was gone before I got up this morning.”

“Sorry about dinner last night.”

“That's okay. With neither of you here, I snacked and took advantage of the quiet. Got some serious reading done.”

“Glad to hear it. I'll try to come by in the next few days. I need a Georgia Wilcox fried-chicken fix.”

“Anytime. You know that. Take care, sweetheart.”

While Georgia Wilcox enjoyed a late lunch and went out to tend her garden, her husband was at Colleen McNamara's home, a taupe townhouse on an eclectic street of homes and small businesses. Colleen had shared the downstairs apartment with her fiancé, a serious young man (appropriate, considering what had happened), who'd reluctantly allowed Wilcox to come in—“But only for a few minutes.”—“Of course.”—“Her mother and sister are here.”—“I promise I won't intrude on their sorrow.”—“Okay then, but just a few minutes.” A tall, albeit pudgy young man, he wore chinos and a red and white striped shirt with an open collar. His glasses were large and black rimmed and had thick lenses.

The kitchen was at the front of the flat. Colleen's fiancé, whose name was Philip Connor, indicated that Wilcox should sit at a small table next to the window. He could see into the apartment's next room where two women, one older, one younger, sat close together on a couch. There were others in that room, but he couldn't see them, only heard their muted voices.

“The police just left,” Connor said, joining Wilcox at the table.

“Did they have anything to offer?” Wilcox asked.

Connor shrugged. “They asked a lot of questions. I know they think I did it.”

Wilcox's eyebrows went up into question marks.

“I told them I didn't do anything. I loved Colleen. We were going to be married.”

“I wouldn't worry about it. They always look first at a spouse or significant other. Statistics say that most murders are committed by . . . when were you planning to be married?”

“Next year. I'm getting my master's degree at Catholic. We wanted to wait until I was settled in a good job.”

“That sounds sensible,” said Wilcox. “Did you see Colleen last night—before she was murdered?”

“No. She called and said she had to work late and was going to grab a bite with friends from the station.”

“Have you spoken with them?”

“No, but the police said they would—after I told them about it.”

“What were their names?”

“I don't know. I've met some of her colleagues, but I don't know which ones she was going out with.”

Wilcox took a moment to observe the kitchen. It was sunny and cheery and extremely neat, nothing out of place on the counters or in the glass-fronted cabinets. The backsplash was yellow tile, with a paler shade on the floor. Yellow and white curtains fluttered in a breeze through an open window.

He returned his attention to Connor. “Any idea what she was doing in the park?” he asked.

“She probably was walking through it on the way home. I always told her it wasn't a safe place at night, but it didn't seem to bother her.” He paused and swallowed hard. “I guess it should have.”

As Wilcox made notes in his reporter's pad, Connor said, “You told me on the phone that Colleen might have been killed by a serial killer. Is that true?”

“It's a good possibility. At least the police are considering it. Did they mention it to you?”

“No. That's really scary, that there might be some nut running around killing young women.”

“It sure is, Philip. Any thoughts on who might have wanted Colleen dead? Did she have any enemies that you know of?”

“Colleen? Everybody loved her.” Tears running down the cheeks now accompanied the hard swallowing. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes, apologizing as he did.

“Hey,” Wilcox said, placing his hand on the young man's arm, “I understand. I really do.” He hesitated before asking, “Do you have a photograph of Colleen? You know, one you really like?”

“Sure. I took a lot of pictures of her. I'm an amateur photographer.”

“I'd love to see them—if you wouldn't mind.”

“I don't know. I—”

“If you'd rather not.”

“No, I guess you can see them. Excuse me.”

Connor left the kitchen, and Wilcox moved his chair in an attempt to see the people in the adjoining room. A middle-aged couple sat in chairs to one side of the couch. The man saw Wilcox and glared at him. Wilcox averted his eyes and shifted back to his original position as Connor returned and laid a large photo album on the table. Wilcox opened it, and a large color photograph of Colleen McNamara looked up at him. She was beautiful in an obvious Irish way, fair skinned with a few strategically placed freckles on her nose and cheeks, and large, sparkling, emerald-green eyes filled with life—and love. He looked at a few more pages.
The kid's a pretty good photographer,
he thought. Then again, he had a good, accessible, photogenic subject.

“Did the police ask to see these?” Wilcox asked.

“No. They had a picture from the station, from her personnel files. They said they'd be back to talk to me again.”

“Did you get their names?”

He fished two business cards from his shirt pocket and handed them to Wilcox, who recognized the detectives' names.

“I'd like one of these pictures, Philip.”

“You would? Why?”

“Let me be candid with you. We'll be running a story about Colleen's murder—in the
Tribune
—and I'd hate to have to use some inferior photograph from her personnel file. It probably wasn't any better than pictures on driver's licenses and passports.”

“It wasn't very good,” he said.

“I'm sure it wasn't. I think she deserves to have a better picture used, like one of these great shots you took of her. It's only fair. It's only right. I'm sure you agree. You obviously took these pictures with love. It shows.”

He thought the young man would cry again, but he didn't. “Sure, go ahead and take one,” he said.

“I like this one,” Wilcox said, carefully removing the photo from the first page. “It's beautiful,” he said. “She's beautiful.”

Wilcox stood and extended his hand. “I'd better be going,” he said. “You've been very generous with your time, Philip, and I don't want to wear out my welcome. May I call you again if I have further questions?”

“That'll be okay. Do you have any idea when we'll be able to have a funeral for Colleen? Her mom and sister keep asking about that.”

“It'll be a while, I'm afraid,” Wilcox replied. “When a death is the result of a homicide, the police need to keep the body for a period of time. Here's my card, Philip. Call any time. I'd like to help.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that, Mr. Wilcox.”

“And please express my condolences to Colleen's mother and sister and other family members. I may try and talk with them in a day or two, once the shock is past.”

Wilcox went to his car and dropped down into the driver's seat. While talking with Connor, he'd suffered the same mild lightheadedness and vague nausea he'd experienced when interviewing Jean Kaporis's roommate, Mary Jane Pruit. He rested his head against the seat's back and closed his eyes until the feeling passed, and spent the next few minutes making descriptive notes about the apartment to use in the article.

He knew he'd taken advantage of Connor's vulnerability. The young man was obviously a naÏf, his lack of worldliness evident. There had been instances in Wilcox's journalistic career when he'd backed off in deference to the grieving, and had paid the price for that sensitivity by losing some of the emotionally charged aspects of those stories. But he'd operated under his own set of values, and hadn't regretted it.

Tabloid journalism had always been anathema to him, and he'd promised himself that if he couldn't work for a mainstream paper, a newspaper respected for its integrity, he'd find another line of work. He'd held true to that pledge. The problem was, he felt, journalism had violated
his
principles.

He'd seen it happen at the
Tribune.
As circulation dropped off, along with advertising revenues, standards had slipped, too. The almighty bottom line became increasingly powerful; the choice of stories, and the way they were treated, mirrored what had become an almost insatiable drive to return profits to the paper's shareholders. Yes,
The Washington Tribune
had retained respectability through its coverage of national and world events, particularly politics. The
Trib,
along with
The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune, Wall Street Journal, Boston Globe,
Cleveland
Plain Dealer,
his former employer, the
Detroit Free Press,
and others, had managed to avoid all but a trace of overt capitulation to base public tastes, which seemed to prefer daily doses of dirt from the celebrity murder trial du jour, the sexual escapades of elected officials, and titillating tales of show-business debauchery.

But his level of disdain for tabloid journalism had slowly but surely begun to evaporate—or wasn't there to begin with—along with Underwood typewriters, green eyeshades, and gruff, hard-nosed reporters yelling, “Copy boy!” and “Stop the presses!” New blood at the
Trib,
like the bumptious Hawthorne, carried with them their shallow, one-dimensional view of the world. He knew how they viewed him—an anachronism, a square, over-the-hill hack who'd lost touch with their sadly depleted, morally bankrupt world. Were he writing editorials for the paper, he would write about that reality as he saw it.

He became tense, physically angry, as such thoughts came and went: He'd forgotten more about reporting than they'd ever know.

The ringing of his cell phone startled him.

“Hello?”

“Dad, it's Roberta.”

“Oh, hi. I—”

“Where are you?”

“I just came from—I'm in the car.”

“I'd thought I'd check in with my best source.”

Wilcox forced a laugh. “That's a switch,” he said. “I always figure you've got the ins these days.”

“I wish. What do you have on the Franklin Park murder, the McNamara woman?”

“You got her name.”

“Next of kin has been notified. I'm doing a piece on the six o'clock news tonight.”

The immediacy of TV,
he thought. She'd have the name out before his article would run. But she didn't have the serial killer slant.

“What've you gotten from MPD besides her name?”

“Hey, I was the one looking for leads.”

“Wish I could be more helpful, sweetheart. I, ah—I interviewed the victim's fiancé.”

“Damn!” she said. “I called the house but he stiffed me. How did you get him to sit?”

“It wasn't easy. He didn't have much to offer. Nice kid. Broken up, of course.”

“Connor. Philip Connor.”

“Right. That's his name.”

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“You wouldn't hold out on me, would you? You wouldn't stonewall your own hardworking daughter?”