Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [102]
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Morehouse called an editorial meeting soon after Wilcox arrived at the Trib. Lacking anything new on the killer, it was decided not to try and force another article on the subject, which was fine with Wilcox. He had other stories to write that day, including an article about the previous night’s spate of murders; the media appearance would take time, too.
He called MPD’s public affairs office to get a quote about the most recent killings in the District, dutifully took down what the officer said, which was not much, and began to work on the piece, which was not much, either. Once he had the details written, he would attempt to contact family members of the victims in the hope they would give him some quotable comments, the more anguished the better. It wasn’t long ago that the tabloid and TV practice of wringing quotes from grieving relatives of murder victims was anathema to him. He ran through imaginary dialogues.“What are you feeling at this moment?” “Oh, I’m just tickled to death that my son and husband were killed during the holdup.” “How did you feel… ?” But readers liked hearing about others’ pain. That’s what his chosen life’s work had come to, and it was either get with the program or take early retirement.
The last report he reviewed was on the knifing of one Mr. Rudolph Grau, found barely alive in Franklin Park, who’d expired in the rear of an ambulance between the park and the hospital. According to MPD, no immediate family members were known to exist, nor had the wielder of the knife been identified.
Wait a minute, Wilcox mused. Franklin Park. Two murders there within days of each other. He tried to recall other homicides in that particular park and came up empty. The victim’s name was Grau. Rudolph Grau. The shopping cart lady at Michael’s apartment building asked whether he knew that a resident named Grau had been killed. The inquisitive neighbor he’d bumped into at the apartment building during his second visit there said his name was Rudy. And there was Grau’s address on the police report—Michael’s address.
What kind of coincidences are these?
He put aside his jumbled thoughts about the Grau stabbing long enough to make calls to the homes of the other murder victims from last night. With any luck, he’d reach people willing to talk on the phone.
The mother of the teen slaughtered over a pair of sneakers and a jacket was so inconsolable that Wilcox could barely make out what she said, but he did decipher that her son was a good boy who never hurt anyone, and that if they weren’t forced to live in such a lousy neighborhood he would be alive today. No argument from Wilcox.
The sister of the man knifed to death over his alleged fling with the buxom neighbor said in a calm, steady voice that her brother was a fine, God-fearing man who suffered from a weakness of the flesh—didn’t everyone?—and did he deserve to die for his indiscretion?—and he was now in the hands of the good Lord, who would make the final judgment and forgive him his sins and—”
A spokesman for the Washington office of the German conglomerate referred Wilcox to its Munich headquarters. “Danke,” Wilcox said, the only German word he knew, and decided to not bother making the overseas call.
He ate lunch in the employee cafeteria, caught up on two months’ worth of expense accounts, was interviewed for three minutes on the local CNN channel, and headed home. He left the highway and wended his way into his subdivision. He’d lived there for so long that he seldom took note of what was going on, people walking their dogs or trimming shrubbery, or the stages of bloom on trees and bushes. But this day his antenna was up, and he took in his surroundings as though there for the first time, a potential homebuyer scouting the neighborhood.
He turned onto his