Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [36]
“Gotcha.”
“Get going, both of you. I’ll be out of the office most of the day. We’ll meet here at six.”
He was about to call Jean Kaporis’s parents in Delaware when an incoming call took precedence.
“Dad, it’s Roberta.”
She had something serious on her mind, he knew, from her tone, and from using her full first name. Happy calls came from Robbie.
“Hi, hon. I understand we’re getting together for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Right, but—”
“So tell me about this new boyfriend. Will I like him?”
“I hope so. Dad, I read the article this morning. Big space—nice placement. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“Who gave you the serial killer quote at MPD?”
“Oh, come on, Robbie, you know I can’t reveal that, even to my favorite daughter. And don’t say it. You’re my only daughter.”
“Was it Edith?”
“No, it was not.”
“I’m disappointed, Dad. You promised you’d never stonewall me.”
“I haven’t.”
“Knowing the cops are working a serial killer angle is pretty big stuff. It got you page one.”
He held his anger in check. Although she was his daughter, someone for whom he’d throw himself in front of a truck, he didn’t appreciate being chastised by her.
“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry you think I stonewalled you. I was working against a hell of a deadline Paul Morehouse imposed. I—”
“What about the boyfriend in L.A.?”
“Him? I knew nothing about him. They inserted that sidebar without telling me. Besides, he had nothing to say except that he’s an aspiring Brad Pitt.”
“Anything else you haven’t told me?” she asked, her tone cold.
“No. How about you? Anything to pass on to me?”
“No.”
“See you tomorrow night at dinner,” he said. “Let’s find some time and talk about this. Now’s not a good time.”
“Fine. Have a good day.”
Click.
Philip Connor answered Wilcox’s call.
“Mr. Connor, it’s Joe Wilcox at the Tribune.”
“Hello, Mr. Wilcox. I read your story in the paper this morning. Colleen’s picture looked nice, really nice.”
“Yes, it did. Mr. Connor, I—”
“Will they find the bastard who killed Colleen and the other girl?”
“I’m sure they will, as long as people like you continue to speak out. Are Ms. McNamara’s mother and sister still there?”
“Yes.”
“I was hoping they could find time for me today.”
“They’re still pretty upset, Mr. Wilcox.”
“Of course they are, but I’m sure the police interviewed them.”
“They did.”
“It’s important that their voices be heard. If the citizens of this city become outraged enough, that puts the pressure on the police to add additional resources and manpower to the hunt for the killer.”
“I see.”
“Would you be good enough to ask them if they’ll spare me a few minutes? I’ll make myself available any time that’s convenient for them.”
“Hold on.”
He came back on the line. “They said they would, Mr. Wilcox. Her mom’s not that keen on it, but she agreed. Her sister, too. They said it would be best for them later in the afternoon.”
“Four?”
“That will be fine, I guess.”
“Good. I’d like to talk to you again. See you at four.”
Wilcox enjoyed interviewing people, and knew he was good at it, as good as any cop. Of course, they had the advantage of being authority figures capable of tossing you in jail, and could play out the good cop–bad cop scenario. But he had power, too. He could take what you said and slant it any way he wished, turning the most innocuous statement into a damaging one. He didn’t do that like bottom-feeder reporters often did, but men and women on the other end of his pen knew he could, and perhaps would.
He especially liked second interviews because he had the advantage of what had been said during the initial one. Amazing, he thought, how versions of an event could vary from one interview to another, details altered, new recollections surfacing, attempts to correct or change the record.
He made some notes in preparation for the interviews and was about to call Jean Kaporis’s parents in Delaware when Gene Hawthorne stopped by the cubicle.
“Good morning, Gene,” Wilcox said, pleasantly.
“Hey, Joe. Nice play on the serial killer story. Really nice.