Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [53]
“…and the assistant commissioner stated that based upon what evidence MPD currently has in the two murders, there is no reason to suspect that the same killer is behind the deaths. He went on to caution against panic and asked that citizens go about their daily lives as they normally would. But this reporter has learned from interviews with a number of men and women that while the official MPD stance dismisses the existence of one killer, tension is running high, particularly among the city’s vulnerable young women. As one told me, ‘I don’t care what the police say. I’m putting extra locks on my apartment and staying out of parks at night.’ Until the deaths of these two young women are solved, the city will undoubtedly remain on edge. I’ll be hosting a special series on the vulnerability of single women, especially careerists, of which this area has many. Stay tuned for times and dates. I’m Roberta Wilcox reporting from MPD headquarters.”
Wilcox winced as he turned off the TV and returned to his desk. Until hearing the comments from the press conference, and Roberta’s report, the potential ramifications of having launched the serial killer scenario seemed harmless enough. But it had developed legs almost overnight, and perhaps had led his daughter down a precarious path. Two phone calls reinforced that fear.
“Joe, it’s Ken Marsolais.” Marsolais was the Tribune’s editorial page editor. “We’re going with an editorial Sunday on the serial killer and how he’s paralyzing the city.”
“ ‘Paralyzing the city?’ That’s a little strong, isn’t it?”
“I think so, but it comes down from on high. Got a minute to get together? We’d like your input.”
“I can’t do it now,” Wilcox said. “I’m up against a deadline.”
“Sure. Give me a call whenever you get some breathing room. Nice work, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
The second call was from the paper’s public relations VP. “Hello there, media star,” she said.
“Not by choice,” he said.
“Well, Joe, you’d better get your tonsils in shape and get your best suit out of hock.”
“You make it sound like I’m choosing something to be buried in.”
“You don’t have my permission to die until this is over,” she said. “I’ve got three more requests from talk shows in addition to D.C. Digest: two radio, one TV.”
“Ah, come on,” he said. “I’m a writer, not a talking head.”
“I know you don’t have to make appearances, Joe. It’s not in your contract. But—”
Wilcox looked up as Hawthorne walked by, a smirk on his face.
“No, it’s okay,” Wilcox told the PR lady. “Set up whatever you want. I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks, Joe. You’re a trouper.”
He finished the next day’s article and delivered it to Morehouse.
“Nice,” Morehouse said, “but there’s not a hell of a lot of meat.”
“It’s the best I can do, Paul,” Wilcox said, annoyed.
“Nice the way you handled what came out of the press conference,” Morehouse said.
“Thanks. Well, good night. I have to get home. A family dinner.”
As Wilcox went to the door, Morehouse’s wife appeared. Mimi Morehouse was a petite, bubbly woman with short blonde hair and an almost perpetual smile.
“Hey, Joe,” she said, accepting his kiss on the cheek. “Paul says you guys are really onto a big story with the serial killer.”
“Looks that way,” Wilcox said. “How’ve you been?”
“Great, if I can ever get the old man here to take some time off. I’m determined to take an Alaskan cruise before I die.”
“It’s cold in Alaska,” Morehouse said, coming around his desk.
“Not