Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [118]
He said nothing for what seemed an eternity. Finally, he looked at her, his lips tightly compressed, his eyes squeezed almost shut. “How did you learn about Michael?”
“The tap on your phone. The conversation you had with him this morning.”
He’d forgotten about the tap despite knowing from years of interacting with MPD that most people soon forget their phones are tapped, the way interview subjects forget a tape recorder is running even though it’s right in front of them.
“What’s this all about, Joe?”
“You already seem to have all the answers, Edith.”
She shook her head. “I want to hear them from you.”
He sat sullenly, although it didn’t represent what he was feeling. He didn’t know what to say, so said nothing. But he would have to say something, attempt to explain his actions, rationalize what he’d done. He forced himself to think more clearly. All she knew was that Michael was his brother. He couldn’t refute that. As for having written the letters, that was hardly her concern. It wasn’t a police matter—maybe. It was between him, his conscience, and whoever he might have to answer to at the Tribune.
“What if I did write those letters?” he asked, not combative, a sincere question. “Why should that concern you?”
“Did you? Are you saying you did?”
“I’m not admitting anything. But if I did write those letters, it’s hardly a police matter. Who’s hurt?”
The words exploded from her. “Who’s hurt?” she said. “Come on, you know better. Who’s hurt? Let’s start with you and your reputation. What about the integrity of the newspaper? What about all the young women in the city looking over their shoulders, adding locks to their doors, their worried parents, husbands, and boyfriends? Caramba, Joe, you can’t dismiss it as nothing more than a prank that doesn’t seriously impact others.”
She was right, of course, and he didn’t have a comeback. Had she stopped there, she’d have accomplished a lot, shaming him, making him feel like a naughty kid.But she didn’t stop.
“All that’s bad enough, Joe,” she said, her hand now back on his arm. “But it goes beyond those things. What you did was criminal, a criminal act. Hindering an investigation. Producing false evidence. Withholding evidence. Lying to authorities. Need I go on? A prosecutor could add a dozen other charges, anything that tickles their fancy.”
When he didn’t respond, she squeezed his arm as hard as she could. “Joe,” she said, “it’s me, Edith, your friend. I’m not out to hurt you. I want to help.”
“I know.”
“I have to ask you a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Did you write those letters in order to generate a sensational story for yourself, or—?”
“Or what?”
“Or did you write them in order to throw suspicion on someone else?”
“Why would I do that?”
“You’d do it if you were involved in the Jean Kaporis murder.”
“Oh, God, Edith. That’s absurd. Of course I didn’t have anything to do with that. I may have made a mistake with the letters, but I’m no murderer.”
“Why was Roberta at your brother’s apartment today with a camera crew?”
He was jolted into an upright position. “Roberta here with a camera crew? I have no idea.”
She placed her hands on the steering wheel and drummed her fingertips against it.
“Anything else?” Wilcox asked.
“A lot more, Joe. Tell me about your brother. My partner, Wade, failed to run a background check on Michael LaRue, but I initiated one today. He’s been on the list of possible suspects in the Kaporis case, same with the stabbing of his neighbor in Franklin Park. That’s where Colleen was killed, too.”
“Michael is—”
“Michael is what?”
“You don’t need to run a background on him, Edith. I’ll give you one.”
He told her about Michael’s past, the murder of the neighbor girl, being judged insane, and his forty