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By Root 536 0

source bothered him less this morning than it had the previous day and night. The possibility of there being a serial killer was not far-fetched. Besides, without it, the article would never have run. Reporting that someone at MPD had floated the theory gave the story credence, enough to have satisfied Paul Morehouse. It hadn’t been easy sailing. Morehouse’s boss had been reluctant to run the piece without attributing the MPD source, and it took a heated half-hour meeting before the piece was given the green light. Wilcox was aware that his reputation had helped the cause, and he was gratified that Morehouse had gone to bat for him in a way he’d not done recently. He was also pleased that his suggestion to run the pictures of the two female victims side-by-side was accepted. The visual impact was strong: two attractive, talented young women possibly the victims of a depraved killer, their promising lives and careers snuffed out prematurely. He’d recounted in the article his interview with Colleen McNamara’s fiancé, Philip Connor, describing the apartment, and the young man’s tears as he spoke of his beloved fiancée. And he’d played heavily on the similarities in the murders: both lively young women, each working in media, and both strangled to death.

It wasn’t as though he’d fabricated the entire story, the way others had done in recent memory at other newspapers, plunging them and their employers into ignominy. He’d never stoop to that, he assured himself. The continuing story needed a slant, a provocative underpinning to give it wings. Morehouse hadn’t balked, in fact had championed his cause with higher-ups. If the article caused young women in the city to be more alert and self-protective, it would have served a positive purpose. And if it turned out that there was no serial killer, so be it. Who’d been hurt? No one. It was merely a theory.

He switched off the newscast along with his stream of rationalizations, parked the car, and waved his employee badge at the private security guard in the Trib’s lobby. As he walked through the newsroom on his way to his desk, a colleague looked up from his computer and said, “Hey, congrats, Joe. Nice piece.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m lockin’ up my daughter,” said another coworker with a laugh.

“Not a bad idea,” Wilcox said.

He felt buoyant, more alive than he’d felt in months. There were a dozen message slips on his desk, and he quickly rifled through them. He was about to return the more important ones when Morehouse came up behind him.

“Calls from your adoring fans?” Morehouse asked.

“I didn’t know I had any, Paul.”

“You sure as hell don’t over at MPD. Come on, I want to talk to you.”

Morehouse shut the door to his office, perched on the edge of his desk, and smiled. “You’ve got the boys and girls in blue up in arms, buddy.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I got a call this morning from an assistant commissioner. He started moaning about your article causing undue panic with the city’s citizenry. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Wilcox thought for a moment that Morehouse was serious. When he realized he wasn’t, he grinned and relaxed in his chair.

“What do you need, Joe?”

“For what?”

“Follow-ups. This is big, and it’ll get bigger. The commissioner told me he wanted the name of your MPD source. They’ll string him up if they find out who he is. Or she.” He gave Wilcox a knowing look. “Your Hispanic buddy?”

“No comment, Paul, except it wasn’t her. But they’ll be looking at her.”

“What else can you get from your source?”

“I don’t know.”

“Get everything you can for tomorrow. I want to go page one again. You won’t argue with that, right? What about the roommate, the hooker angle?”

“There’s nothing there, Paul. Let’s say she does work for an escort service. That’s not illegal.”

“Who’s she work for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out. See what they have to say. I liked the interview you did with McNamara’s fiancé. Her mother and sister are here?”

“Yeah. They were at the apartment but looked like they were in shock. I was uncomfortable talking to them.”

“Joe.” He said it like a teacher chiding