Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [112]
She considered, but only for a minute, calling her father. After all, it was his brother whom she now thought had written the letter. But that option didn’t seem viable. Truth was, she was sitting on a potential major development. Sharing it at this stage with another, father or no father, would cause her to lose control of it.
What to do with this story she controlled? That was the real dilemma. Having seen the typed manuscript pages at Michael’s apartment, and connecting them in her mind with what she remembered the letter to have looked like, had prompted her second visit to the apartment. She hadn’t liked lying to Michael about why she wanted to interview him, but it seemed the most expedient way to get him to talk—and ultimately to get him on videotape.
There were two possibilities, she reasoned.
Her uncle Michael might be still be mentally unbalanced enough to have written to his brother pretending to be the serial killer, getting some sort of warped psychic payoff from the act.
Or—and she wasn’t sure how she would handle this prospect at the moment—was her uncle Michael… ?
Okay, she told herself as she sipped on the fresh coffee she’d carried back from Starbuck’s, either way—he’d written the letter as a sick joke, or had killed Jean Kaporis and Colleen McNamara—she had a hell of a scoop within her grasp, and now wanted him on tape more than ever to help illustrate it.
She was deep in these thoughts when her producer poked his head in. “Hey, another coup for your old man,” he said.
“What?”
“His story this morning in the Trib. The second letter he received from the nut.”
“Oh, right. Yes, it’s a real coup.”
She hadn’t even looked at the Tribune that morning, something she did religiously each day. She went into the main newsroom, picked up a copy from a pile on someone’s desk, and carried it back to her office. The article was splashed over the front page of the Metro section. There were three photos accompanying the piece—Jean Kaporis, Colleen McNamara, and Joe Wilcox. In the center of the page was a reproduction of the letter that had been photographed from the Xerox copy Wilcox had retained at the house.
“Damn!” she said aloud. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
She hadn’t answered messages left on her machine by her mother the previous night. Maybe she should have.
The reproduction in the Tribune looked exactly like the first one, matching the page she’d taken from Michael’s manuscript.
She started writing notes on a yellow legal pad: Two women in media murdered… Dad proffers serial killer theory in article… Michael arrives in D.C. (arrived before murders)… 40 yrs in nut house for murdering neighbor girl… Dad gets first letter from “serial killer”… looks as if matches pages in Michael’s manuscript (I discover)… Dad gets second letter… Both written by Michael (same typewriter)… Michael playing pranks with Dad? (Crazy thing to do)… OR Michael is the serial killer… God!!!
She called Michael.
“Ah, Roberta,” he said in what she now recognized was his expansive, somewhat theatrical style. “Am I ready for my close-up?” He laughed. “Good side only.”
“Hi, Michael. As a matter of fact, I am calling about the documentary. I was wondering if I could bring a camera crew to the apartment sometime today? I thought we could get some generic, establishing footage, you playing the guitar, fussing in the kitchen, that sort of thing.”
“Playing the guitar? I’m hardly ready to perform for the camera.”
“That’s silly,” she said. “You play exquisitely, as good as—”
“Joe Pass?”
“Yes. Joe Pass. Can I?”
“Only for you, dear niece. What time?”
“Noon?”
“All right. What shall I wear?”
“Why not wear what I’ve seen you in before, the black slacks and T-shirt.