Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [24]
“Colleen was my fiancée.”
“Oh. I’m sorry for your loss, sir. Your name is—?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“I just want to be accurate, that’s all, and complete. I recognize this is an awkward time for you and the family, but I would really appreciate a chance to get together with you if only for a few minutes. Ms. McNamara, your fiancée, should be portrayed as the wonderful person she was, and should have her professional achievements pointed out.”
“Mr. Wilcox, I—” His voice became thick.
Wilcox changed his tone. “Look, there might be a serial killer out there who’ll take another victim. I’m sure you want to see that that doesn’t happen.”
“Of course.” Wilcox heard a buzzer in the background. “I have to go. Some other family members have arrived. Give me your number. I’ll call you at a better time.”
“Sure.” He provided his direct line and cell numbers.
He decided to go to the address listed for Colleen McNamara in the hope of catching family members coming and going from the house. As he passed through the newsroom, he stopped to watch Roberta give a report on the Franklin Park killing. She wrapped it into a larger piece regarding the spate of murders that had taken place the night before, and presented no information about the victim other than that she was an apparent homicide, and that the case was in the preliminary stages of investigation: “Stay tuned for more information as we receive it. I’m Roberta Wilcox.”
He thought of calling her but didn’t. Truth was, he wasn’t anxious to have her ask what he knew about the murder in the park. Better to not speak than to lie outright. Once he had his article completed and it was ready to run—hopefully on page one of the Metro section—he’d tell her what he had. Of course, he silently admitted to himself that he had less than the article would indicate. But rationalization was in full gear for Joe at that moment. It was possible that the Jean Kaporis and Colleen McNamara murders had been committed by the same person, certainly more possible than some ridiculous connection between Kaporis and her roommate, Mary Jane Pruit. Edith Vargas-Swayze hadn’t ruled it out when he’d proffered the notion to her. In addition, the article might prompt MPD to begin considering a serial killer scenario. He’d seen it happen before, the press taking the lead in establishing a working thesis for the police.
He left word that he’d be gone for the rest of the day, exited the building, got in his car, and drove to Colleen McNamara’s address, only a few blocks from Franklin Park.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Roberta. How are you?”
“Okay. Busy. I saw Dad last night.”
“You did? He didn’t mention it. Did you have dinner? He said he was working late.”
“No. I mean, he was—working late. I was covering a homicide in Franklin Park and he was there, too.”
“Another homicide? It seems that’s all you read about these days.”
“Dad acted strange.”
“Strange? How so?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t seem happy to see me there, wanted to get away as fast as he could.”
Georgia laughed softly. “I doubt that, Robbie. He’s always happy to see you. He must have been on deadline.”
“I suppose so. He didn’t mention being at the park?”
“No. He got home very late, and was gone before I got up this morning.”
“Sorry about dinner last night.”
“That’s okay. With neither of you here, I snacked and took advantage of the quiet. Got some serious reading done.”
“Glad to hear it. I’ll try to come by in the next few days. I need a Georgia Wilcox fried-chicken fix.”
“Anytime. You know that. Take care, sweetheart.”
While Georgia Wilcox enjoyed a late lunch and went out to tend her garden, her husband was at Colleen McNamara’s home, a taupe townhouse on an eclectic street of homes and small businesses. Colleen had shared the downstairs apartment with her fiancé, a serious young man (appropriate, considering what had happened), who’d reluctantly allowed Wilcox to come in—“But only for a few minutes.”—“Of course.”—“Her mother and sister