Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [83]
“It’s okay, Michael. I think I understand.”
“Actually,” Michael said, “there are advantages to being held in an institution for forty years. I’ve found it difficult since being released.”
“Really? How so?”
“Little things that become big things. I never had to even think twice about what to wear each day. Like being in the army, I suppose. Two uniforms, summer and winter. I wore hospital pajamas most of the time. Not terribly stylish, but functional. I ate what they served me, except for those special nights when we were allowed to cook our own meals. Even then, we were told what ingredients to use.” He sighed deeply. “No decisions to be made, Joseph. I’m having trouble making them now that I’m a so-called free man.”
Joe placed his empty glass on the floor. “I’d really better be going.”
“If you must,” Michael said, standing. “I have a suggestion, Joseph.”
“Which is?”
“I suggest that the next time we meet, it be at your house.”
“No, Michael, I don’t think so. As I’ve said before, I—”
“If I didn’t know better, Joseph, I’d almost say you’re ashamed of me.”
“That’s not it and you know it,” Joe said. “Getting you together with Georgia and Roberta will be on my timetable, not yours.”
“You sound angry.”
“I’m under a lot of pressure at work.”
“Ah, yes. Of course. The serial killer. Anything new in that regard? Is my kid brother about to solve the case?”
“Thanks for the wine, Michael, and the concert. I’ll be in touch.”
“Joseph, if I’ve offended you, I—”
Joe went to the door, stopped, and turned. “You’ve done nicely, Michael. You’ve obviously put your life together and I commend you for that. But forty years is a lot of time, and I’m not sure it can ever be made up. Why don’t we stand back, take a deep breath, and maybe try it again some time in the future. This is not a good time. I wish you well.”
He wasn’t sure whether the expression on his brother’s face was anger or hurt. He didn’t care. He left the apartment and almost bumped into the man with the cane whom he’d met upon arriving.
“Is he in there?” the man asked.
“Yes, he’s in there,” Joe replied, and walked quickly out of the building, went to his car, started the engine, swore loudly, tuned the radio to a classical station, cranked up the music, and pulled away from the curb, almost sideswiping oncoming traffic.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When Wilcox arrived at the Trib the following morning, there was an e-mail message from Morehouse on his computer: Follow up on the escort service link. Check the agency to see whether Jean Kaporis had ever taken assignments from them.
Wilcox walked into his boss’s office. “I disagree,” he said flatly.
“With what?”
“Following up on the escort service. What are we trying to do, Paul, paint Jean as a hooker? She’s dead, for Christ’s sake. She was young but she was one of us. She was no hooker.”
“I’m not saying she was. Do you have a better angle to pursue for tomorrow’s edition?”
“As of this moment? No.”
“So develop the escort agency slant. It doesn’t have to focus on Jean. Check MPD and see whether women working for escort services have ever been murdered in the line of duty. Get Jillian and Lansden to interview some of those gals, find out how dangerous the work is. Get their views on the possibility that the serial killer might have met his victims through escort agencies. While you’re at it, see if the McNamara girl didn’t turn a few tricks in her spare time, too.”
Wilcox knew it was futile to argue. He returned to his cubicle and pretended to work the phone, looking busy, calling friends at other media outlets to ask what they planned to do as follow-ups to the serial killer story. At eleven, he called home and confirmed with Georgia that Roberta was coming for dinner, and that he would be home in time to join them. He’d just completed that call when one of the mailroom’s young employees arrived with the first of two mail deliveries for that day.
“Morning,