Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [107]
“Yes. They’ll fax you the results in the morning.”
“Well, great,” she said. “Have a nice night.”
“Jerk,” she muttered as she handed Dungey the report. As they discussed the lab’s findings, the surveillance team assigned to keep an eye on Wilcox and his house walked in after having parked the borrowed Verizon truck in the vehicle pen.
“Hey,” Edith called after them, “did either of you see anybody approach the Wilcox mailbox?”
“The mailman,” one of them answered.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Nobody went near that mailbox except the mailman. Oh, and the subject. He pulled up to it in his vehicle and took the mail from the box. Never got out of his car.”
“You guys were awake the whole time?” Dungey asked.
“Stuff it,” one of the surveillance team told the long, lanky detective, and walked away with his partner.
“Touchy,” Dungey muttered to Vargas-Swayze. “Let’s call it a night,” he said, stretching, yawning and wincing at the pain in his hamstring. “My leg’s killing me. Maybe I ought to go on disability.”
“Maybe you should,” she said, “but not now. I don’t need a new partner at this point. Besides, you got hurt playing basketball, not while you were on duty.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Suck it up, Wade. Play hurt. I have a feeling something’s about to pop.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know exactly. Maybe we’ll get an answer when they match the print that’s underneath the typing. In the meantime, there’s that murder in Franklin Park, the neighbor of our friend with the French name. I’ve got your vibes now about him, two murders and he’s close to both. Come to think of it, he doesn’t live far from Franklin Park and was at the Trib, which puts him in proximity to three killings.”
“Millius and Warrick were going back to check him out and requestion others,” Dungey said. “Let’s see what they got from him.”
“Right, and run that background check you keep putting off.”
“Shall do, boss.”
“Don’t be a wise guy,” she said. “I’ll be a little late tomorrow, probably nine-thirty. A meeting with my lawyer.”
“Ride home?”
“No, thanks. I’m going to hang here for a while, catch up on some things. Go on, get some sleep.”
She spent the next hour going over the Kaporis and McNamara files, not knowing what she was looking for but hoping something would shout out at her. Her thoughts drifted to Joe Wilcox and the letters he’d received from the serial killer and eventually wandered back to the first article he’d written alleging that someone at MPD had confirmed to him that the serial killer scenario was being seriously considered. He’d raised that possibility with her shortly before the article appeared. What had she said? Something vague, along the lines that it took more than two killings for them to be considered the work of the same person. But she’d also agreed with him that anything was possible. Had he used that conversation with her to justify his article? Had he lied about there being an unnamed MPD source who advanced that theory to him? Couldn’t be, she decided. Joe Wilcox was an experienced newsman who often decried the slippage of standards in his profession. As far as she was concerned, Wilcox would be the last reporter to fall into the trap of fabricating a story. That was for young hotshots impatient with the pace of their careers and yearning for instant recognition and gratification. Not old pros like Joe Wilcox.
She was about to call it a night when detectives Jack Millius and Ron Warwick entered the detectives’ room.
“How goes it, Edith?” Millius asked, slumping in his chair and rubbing his eyes.
“I’m packing,” she said. “Hey, did you two get back to the place on Connecticut to interview neighbors of the guy found in Franklin Park?”
“Yeah,” Warwick said. “Like we needed to catch another case. I might as well give up my apartment and move in here.”
“Did you talk to Mr. LaRue?”
“Yeah, we did,” Millius said. “Nice enough guy, although I have a certain distrust of men his age wearing a ponytail.”
“What did he have