Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [25]
The kitchen was at the front of the flat. Colleen’s fiancé, whose name was Philip Connor, indicated that Wilcox should sit at a small table next to the window. He could see into the apartment’s next room where two women, one older, one younger, sat close together on a couch. There were others in that room, but he couldn’t see them, only heard their muted voices.
“The police just left,” Connor said, joining Wilcox at the table.
“Did they have anything to offer?” Wilcox asked.
Connor shrugged. “They asked a lot of questions. I know they think I did it.”
Wilcox’s eyebrows went up into question marks.
“I told them I didn’t do anything. I loved Colleen. We were going to be married.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. They always look first at a spouse or significant other. Statistics say that most murders are committed by… when were you planning to be married?”
“Next year. I’m getting my master’s degree at Catholic. We wanted to wait until I was settled in a good job.”
“That sounds sensible,” said Wilcox. “Did you see Colleen last night—before she was murdered?”
“No. She called and said she had to work late and was going to grab a bite with friends from the station.”
“Have you spoken with them?”
“No, but the police said they would—after I told them about it.”
“What were their names?”
“I don’t know. I’ve met some of her colleagues, but I don’t know which ones she was going out with.”
Wilcox took a moment to observe the kitchen. It was sunny and cheery and extremely neat, nothing out of place on the counters or in the glass-fronted cabinets. The backsplash was yellow tile, with a paler shade on the floor. Yellow and white curtains fluttered in a breeze through an open window.
He returned his attention to Connor. “Any idea what she was doing in the park?” he asked.
“She probably was walking through it on the way home. I always told her it wasn’t a safe place at night, but it didn’t seem to bother her.” He paused and swallowed hard. “I guess it should have.”
As Wilcox made notes in his reporter’s pad, Connor said, “You told me on the phone that Colleen might have been killed by a serial killer. Is that true?”
“It’s a good possibility. At least the police are considering it. Did they mention it to you?”
“No. That’s really scary, that there might be some nut running around killing young women.”
“It sure is, Philip. Any thoughts on who might have wanted Colleen dead? Did she have any enemies that you know of?”
“Colleen? Everybody loved her.” Tears running down the cheeks now accompanied the hard swallowing. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes, apologizing as he did.
“Hey,” Wilcox said, placing his hand on the young man’s arm, “I understand. I really do.” He hesitated before asking, “Do you have a photograph of Colleen? You know, one you really like?”
“Sure. I took a lot of pictures of her. I’m an amateur photographer.”
“I’d love to see them—if you wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t know. I—”
“If you’d rather not.”
“No, I guess you can see them. Excuse me.”
Connor left the kitchen, and Wilcox moved his chair in an attempt to see the people in the adjoining room. A middle-aged couple sat in chairs to one side of the couch. The man saw Wilcox and glared at him. Wilcox averted his eyes and shifted back to his original position as Connor returned and laid a large photo album on the table. Wilcox opened it, and a large color photograph of Colleen McNamara looked up at him. She was beautiful in an obvious Irish way, fair skinned with a few strategically placed freckles on her nose and cheeks, and large, sparkling, emerald-green eyes filled with life—and love. He looked at a few more pages. The kid’s a pretty good photographer, he thought. Then again, he had a good, accessible, photogenic subject.
“Did the police ask to see these?” Wilcox asked.