Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [75]
“Thank you, Michael. I appreciate that. Look, I started thinking after leaving your apartment yesterday that you’re right about how important it is for us to reestablish a relationship after all these years. I’m sure you understand how shocked I was to hear from you and to know you were no longer at the hospital.”
“Of course I understand, Joseph, and I told you that. I am willing to go at whatever pace is comfortable for you and your family.” His exaggerated diction annoyed Joe.
“The family. Well, I do want to go slowly there, Michael. Let’s spend whatever time together is necessary for us to forge a new bond. Once that happens, I would love to introduce you to Georgia and Roberta. Tell you what. I know you’re working but—”
“Wrong, Joseph,” Michael said in a scolding way, a teacher chiding a student who’d given the wrong answer to a quiz question. “I’ve been doing some serious thinking, too.”
Joe filled the ensuing pause with, “And?”
“I called in this morning and gave them my resignation, effective today.”
This time, Joe initiated the pause. His immediate reaction was fear that Michael would seek financial support from him. “How are you going to support yourself, Michael?”
“You sound worried, Joseph.”
“Worried? About what?”
“About money. Was I looking for money from you?”
“Michael, I—”
“I wouldn’t blame you for worrying about that. After all, you’re not a Bob Woodward or some other reporter who’s gone on to write bestselling books. I’m sure you’ve made a decent living and all that. Does Georgia work?”
“No. Not any more. I’d like to get together again today, Michael.”
“That sounds splendid. Dinner?”
“I’ll have to play that by ear.”
“Come to the apartment first. Drinks are so expensive in restaurants. We can have one here and then decide whether to go on to dinner.”
“That would be fine, Michael. Fiveish?”
“I have an appointment at five, but—”
“We’ll make it later,” Joe said.
“No, come at five,” said Michael. “I will leave a small envelope containing a key to the building’s front door, and one to my apartment, beneath the faux planter to the right of the front door.”
“Michael, I really don’t—”
“Joseph, we are brothers. Aha! I’ll have duplicate keys made for you and they will be in the envelope. Yours to keep.”
“All right,” Joe said. “What time will you be back from your appointment?”
“Six, six-thirty at the latest.”
After hanging up, Wilcox made a routine call to MPD’s office of public affairs and spoke with a deputy there. “Hear that you’re setting up a task force to focus on the serial killer possibility.”
The cop on the other end of the phone laughed. “No comment,” he said.
“I’ll take that to mean I’m right,” Wilcox said.
“Jesus, Joe, now that you’re a talking head, don’t let it swell up.”
“No fear of that,” Joe said. “I’ll dutifully report your lack of comment.”
He read comments made by single women to Rick Jillian, one of which caused him to laugh out loud: “I had a dream last night and saw the serial killer in it,” one woman told Jillian.” She went on to describe him as being unusually tall—“at least six-six,” she’d said—with a greenish complexion and a patch over one eye. “He spoke in tongues,” she added.
Armed with more rational quotes generated by Jillian’s interviews, and with some additional psychological material from researcher Kathleen Lansden, Wilcox spent the rest of the morning writing the next edition’s feature piece.
Georgia called at eleven: “Joe, Roberta wants to talk with us about something.”
“Talk about what? Is she all right?”
“I don’t know. She sounded serious. She’s working tonight,