Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [116]
It was his turn to ponder. After a long pause, he said, “Perhaps I do, Robbie. Killing someone is anathema to those who’ve never done it. But once you’ve killed, that act no longer seems so heinous. It’s like breaking through a barrier, I suppose. Kill someone? Inconceivable! But it becomes conceivable once you’ve broken through that barrier.” He held up his hand, and a pained expression crossed his tan, chiseled face. “I am not saying, of course, that I consider myself as having crossed that barrier and would now find killing someone easier. I’m speaking conceptually, and—”
He continued with his stipulation, and Roberta allowed him to talk. She didn’t care what he said at this point. She had on tape his provocative statement about crossing barriers to edit and use as she saw fit.
Sensing she might have pushed this line of discussion as far as she could, she shifted gears and got Michael to speak of his childhood, his family and friends, the impact of his parents’ deep religious faith on his life, and his relationship with his brother.
“Joseph was such good boy,” he said, smiling, “always eager to please Mother and Father. He looked up to me as his big brother, which is understandable. But I’m afraid I ended up not being a sterling role model.”
“What happened with Marjorie Jones?”
He sighed, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.
“Would you tell me about it, how it happened, what you were thinking, and the aftermath?”
He spoke without interruption for twenty minutes. It was a wrenching tale that focused on the act of murder itself and the subsequent trial. At one point, Roberta thought she might become ill, and considered pausing the interview, but she didn’t want him to lose his train of thought and fought through her nausea.
“Whew!” he said when Roberta told Carlos and Margo that they were breaking.
“That was—it was powerful,” she said. “A remarkable story.”
“Not so remarkable, I’m afraid,” he said. “More tragic than anything.”
“I think we’ve done enough for today,” she said. “Next time, I’d like to have you talk about your stay in the hospital, how you put that time to good use, and the way you’ve reinvented your life since coming to Washington. Believe me, Michael, your story, properly told, will be an inspiration to everyone.”
“If you say so,” he said. “I do have a concern, however,” he added.
“What’s that?” she replied.
“I wouldn’t want this documentary to lead people to speculate that I might have had something to do with the terrible thing that happened to those two young women, the one who worked with your father, and the girl in the park.”
“Of course it won’t,” she said, pleased that the lights were still on and that Carlos had started the camera again, and that the mike was live. “I’ll make sure that it reflects the exemplary life you’ve led since leaving the hospital.”
“I know you will,” he said, getting up and leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. “More chicken?” he asked.
“We have to get back,” Roberta told him. “The lunch was wonderful.”
He walked them from the building to the small van with the station’s call letters emblazoned on the side.
“This most recent letter to your father must have your dear mother frantic with worry,” he told her as Carlos and Margo carefully packed their equipment into the rear of the van.
“She’s a pretty strong person,” Roberta responded. “I’m not worried about her.”
He looked back at the building. “I miss my friend Rudy,” he said.
“Yes, I’m so sorry about that. Any leads that you know of?”
“No. Funny. He was an irascible sort, drinking too much to alleviate the physical pain of his war wounds—and I’m sure the mental pain that accompanied it—but there was a side of him that was likable and decent. I liked him. We used to play chess, you know, and checkers. He wasn’t very good, but he tried hard. What sort of world do we live in, Robbie?”
“The only world we have,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Thank you so much for your honesty, and for allowing me to capture