Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [48]
Georgia had suggested early on that he seek counseling to help rid himself of any conflicts he might be harboring. He never followed through. He didn’t need to bring to life on some shrink’s couch what he’d decreed as dead, his only brother.
He dreaded going to his cubicle and checking voice messages. To his relief, Michael had not called again. Of course he hadn’t. Joe had said that he would call. The number left by Michael was still on his desk. He crumpled the paper into a ball and held it above the wastebasket but didn’t drop it. Better that he should dial the number rather than receive another call from Michael there at the office, or, God forbid, at home.
Michael said he would be away during the day. Did he have a job in Washington? Where did he live? He’d said he was calling from his apartment, not a hotel. That meant he intended to stay. The possibility was chilling.
Why had he come to Washington? Of all the places in the United States to which he could have relocated, why did it have to be here?
The answer was obvious. He’d chosen Washington because that was where his brother and his brother’s family lived. Another chill, another flip-flop of his stomach.
He dialed the number Michael had given him. A taped voice on a machine answered:
“Hello. You’ve reached Michael. I can’t take your call at the moment, but leave a message and your phone number after the beep—leave it v-e-r-y slowly, please, or repeat it—and I’ll get back to you in short order.”
The beep sounded as Joe lowered the receiver into its cradle. Michael had an answering machine, another indication that he wasn’t just passing through. As he stared at the phone, a comforting thought occurred. Maybe it had been a prank call by someone who’d learned that he had a brother he hadn’t seen in years, and decided to torment him, a crazy person with a grudge against him for something he’d written. Lord knows he’d had his share of nuts over the course of his career.
The voice on the answering machine echoed in his mind. Was it really Michael’s voice? He had no way of knowing. Michael was sixteen the last time Joe had seen him, or heard him speak.
The phone rang, causing him to flex in his chair. He picked up the receiver with trepidation.
“Joe, it’s Jeanette.” Jeanette Roos was the Trib’s ombudsman, gender aside. “I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About the serial killer series you’re doing.”
“What about it?”
“The unattributed MPD source you quoted.”
Wilcox’s stomach tightened.
“I’m doing my next column about how reporters use unattributed or anonymous sources at times for their stories. I have to cite our rules about it, Joe, and therefore explain why you were allowed to fall back on one.”
“Why me?” he said. “They do it all the time around here.”
“I know, I know, but there isn’t a choice lots of times, especially with politicians. I’ll level with you. Our leaders in the executive suite are evidently getting steam from MPD about the serial killer claim. MPD brass claims that no one in the department is floating that scenario. The pols are coming down hard on the cops to catch this so-called serial killer before he kills again. Our leaders, especially Harris and Wright, want me to defend our decision to go with your stories based upon an anonymous source. What can you give me?”
“Nothing, Jeanette. I do have a very good source over at MPD who says they’re working with the serial killer concept. I believe him.” She started to say something, but he interrupted. “And don’t ask whether I’d be willing to share my source with anyone here. Morehouse gave the piece the green flag, and so