Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [69]
Mrs. Wilcox turned and saw that Joseph was taking it all in. She grabbed his ear and said angrily, “You obey me now, Joseph, and go downstairs. We’ve got big trouble here. Go on. Git!”
He did as he was told this time. He went outside to the elm tree where he’d joined his brother the night before and sat on the ground, his eyes on the door from the kitchen. As he waited, he heard the sound of his father’s car as it turned off the road and came up the dirt driveway. Michael Wilcox senior had left for work early that morning at a woodworking mill twenty minutes down the road from the house. He’d been employed at the mill for almost twenty years and had recently been promoted to foreman on the day shift. The family had celebrated that night with a fudge cake, Mr. Wilcox’s favorite, baked by Mrs. Wilcox, and a glass of nonalcoholic wine for the adults, soda for Michael and Joseph. Drinking alcoholic beverages was forbidden in the Wilcox home; mother and father were staunch churchgoers and active in church affairs and events.
Joseph ran to his father as he exited the car. “Something bad’s happening, Papa,” he said breathlessly.
“They inside?” his father asked. He was a tall, gaunt man with unruly gray hair, and wore coveralls over a white T-shirt with JESUS SAVES emblazoned on the front.
“Michael’s hidin’ in the closet,” Joseph said.
“Mama’s in there with them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The Jones girl’s dead?”
His father’s words shocked Joseph. “Marjorie’s dead?” he said weakly.
“You stay here and don’t talk to nobody. You got that?” his father said.
“Yes, sir.”
The senior Wilcox, who’d received a call from his wife the moment things had erupted next door, walked purposefully toward the house. Joseph felt a wave of relief sweep over him. His father would make everything right. He always did. Every time Michael had gotten into trouble at school, which was often, his father would go to the school and return bearing the news that Michael would not be expelled and would be given another chance.
Marjorie was dead?
What did that have to do with Michael?
He remembered the cuts and scratches on his brother, and his relief evaporated.
What had Michael done now?
Marjorie was dead?
Did Michael hurt her?
Sounds from the kitchen shut off his thinking. He watched as the kitchen door opened and the two uniformed officers brought Michael through it, one on each side of him. Michael was bent over, and Joseph saw that his hands were tied behind him. He stopped walking and dropped to his knees. The officers jerked him to his feet and continued toward their cars, which were still in front of the Jones house. Mrs. Wilcox stood at the kitchen door and cried. Joseph’s father was nowhere to be seen.
He watched them put Michael in the rear seat of one of the marked patrol cars. The door was slammed shut, and the officers got in the car and drove away, kicking up dust.
“Joseph!” his mother yelled.
He ran to the house and burst into the kitchen. His father was on his knees praying in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary that occupied a corner of the kitchen, beneath a picture of Christ on the cross. His mother took his hand, led him to his father, and the three of them said disparate prayers; Joseph didn’t know what to pray for but silently asked that whatever had happened that morning and the night before would go away. “Let Michael be okay, God. I love you, God. I love Michael.”
• • •
Michael Wilcox was charged in the murder of Marjorie Jones. The elected county prosecutor added rape to the initial charge, but an autopsy indicated intercourse had not taken place. Her hymen was intact. Attempted rape was a possibility, but it was decided that adding that charge would only muddle the case for murder in the first degree. A public defender was assigned to represent Michael, who’d confessed to the crime his first night in custody. His attorney came to the house shortly after being assigned and met with Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox. Joseph had been told to stay in his room, but he sneaked out and lay at the top of the stairs while they conferred downstairs.