Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [21]
“She had plenty of cash in her purse,” the detective said.
“No robbery.”
“Evidently. Twenty-seven years old, according to her driver’s license. She’s got a press pass.”
“A press pass?” he said incredulously. “Who’d she work for?”
Edith shook her head. “I’ve already said too much, Joe. Try me later.”
She turned to leave but he grabbed her arm. “What about the couple over there who discovered her?”
“Older guy, pretty young lady. He lives in the burbs. The way I figure it, he’s married and in town for an evening with his young honey. But I don’t know that.”
“I want to talk to them.”
“Be my guest, but you’re wasting your time. The guy’s panicked that his name will become public. She says he didn’t want to get involved, but she insisted they call nine-one-one. Good luck.”
She was right. The man and woman refused to give him even their names, the man snarling, “Get the hell away from us!”
Wilcox was on his way back to the crime scene when a voice said, “Hey, Joe.” It was a cops reporter from a rival newspaper, who’d just arrived. “What’ve you got?” he asked.
“Not much,” Wilcox replied. “One dead female. That’s all I know.”
“Homicide?”
“Probably. See you later.”
As he retraced his route up the path to K Street, Wilcox saw that two TV remote trucks, their antennas extended, had been positioned at the park’s entrance. Coming down the path was Roberta, followed by a cameraman and sound technician.
“Hey,” Joe called to her, “fancy meeting you here.”
“Hi, Dad. Looks like we missed the action.”
“Yeah. It’s been buttoned up.”
“What’s the scoop? Another murder? Must be the full moon.”
“Apparent homicide. Female. That’s all I know, hon.” He was surprised how easily he could lie to his own daughter.
“How come you were here?” she asked, that question suddenly crossing her mind.
“I was in the neighborhood,” he said.
She looked at him quizzically.
“Look, I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Right now I’d better get back and file.”
“Based on what?” she asked.
“I’ll make some calls, like you will.” He kissed her cheek and was gone.
His guilt kicked in the minute he was back in his car and on his way to the newspaper, but it didn’t last long. He was too focused on the events of the evening and his need to write about it. He evaded questions by others in the newsroom as he went to his computer terminal and began the story. When he was finished and had printed it out, he walked into the night Metro editor’s office and laid the draft on the desk in front of him.
“This is good stuff, Joe,” Barry said after reading it. “You can’t nail down who she worked for?”
“I will,” Wilcox said.
“What about an MPD statement backing up the possibility that a serial killer is on the loose?”
“I’ll get that, too.”
“Paul will love it,” Barry said, laughing and handing the story back.
“He’d better,” Wilcox said.
He was tired as he drove home to Rockville. But once there, he got a second wind. He settled into his den and placed a call to Edith Vargas-Swayze’s cell phone. “Sorry to bother you, Edith, but I figured you were still on duty.”
“Wrong, Joe. I just got home. You didn’t wake me.”
“Good. Look, I’m working on a story about tonight’s Franklin Park murder and I need something more tangible about where the victim worked.”
“I can’t give you that, Joe.”
“It doesn’t have to be specific, Edith. A newspaper? Radio? TV?”
“She was a line producer for a TV station.”
“Oh. Which one?”
“Joe, that’s it until we decide to release more.”
“I understand. You know what I’m thinking?”
“What?”
“I’m thinking that there might be a serial killer loose in D.C.”
“A serial killer? Why?”
“Same MO as Jean Kaporis. Young, attractive woman. Works in media. Is strangled to death.”
“That’s a real stretch, Joe. It takes more than two to add up to serial killings.”
“But you can’t rule out the possibility.”
“No, I guess anything’s possible. I’m beat. Sorry about dinner being ruined. The crab cakes were good, at least what I tasted of them.”
“We’ll do it again soon.”
“That’s a deal. Good night.”
He’d brought with him the CD containing