Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [84]
“Good morning. All well with you?”
“Doin’ okay. You have yourself a good day, Mr. Wilcox.”
He started opening his mail. There were letters from readers of the newspaper either chastising him for unduly frightening the public with his articles (he silently agreed), or praising his courage, insight, and dedication to keeping the public informed. He saved one envelope for last. After taking pains to satisfy himself that his actions were unobserved, he used a letter opener made by Roberta in grade school in the shape of a bird’s head and beak to slit open the envelope. He removed the single sheet of paper, unfolded it, and stared at the typewritten words.
“Jesus!” he said, loud enough for a reporter in the next cubicle to hear.
“What’s up, Joe?” the reporter asked.
Wilcox handed over the page from the envelope to his colleague.
“Wow!” was the reaction.
The reporter stepped into Wilcox’s cubicle and handed back the letter. “What are you going to do?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It could be a joke, some clown playing games. Then again—”
“You have to treat it as legit, Joe.”
“I know, I know. I’ll run it by Paul.”
“What’s the postmark on the envelope?” the reporter asked.
Wilcox picked up the envelope and examined the printing surrounding the thirty-seven-cent stamp. “The post office right down the block,” he said.
“He’s a real nutcase,” said the reporter.
“Looks like it. Excuse me.”
Morehouse was in conference with a couple of Tribune executives when Wilcox approached his door. The Metro editor waved him away. Wilcox held up the letter and fluttered it in front of the glass. Morehouse, annoyed at the intrusion, got up from behind his desk and came to the door. “I’m in a meeting,” he said.
“I know. Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you should see this right away. It arrived in today’s first mail.”
Morehouse took the letter, put on half-glasses tethered by a multicolored ribbon, and read. When he was finished, he handed it back to Wilcox and chewed his cheek. “It just arrived?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Let me finish up in here. Don’t show it to anybody. Got that?”
“Of course.”
“We’ll meet in a half hour.” He started to return to his office, stopped, looked at Wilcox, and said, “This is good, Joe. This is really good.”
Wilcox bided his time in his cubicle. The reporter in the adjacent space asked what Morehouse had said, but Wilcox deflected his questions. Ten minutes later, Morehouse called him to return to his office.
“You think this is legit?” Morehouse asked after Wilcox had settled in a chair behind the closed door.
“I have no idea,” he replied. “But I think we have to treat it as though it is.”
“What does the guy want?”
“What he says in the letter. Don’t give it to the police, he says. Don’t try to trace it. He says he’ll be in contact with me again.”
Morehouse thought for a moment before saying, “He doesn’t say we can’t publish it in the paper.”
“Not specifically, but I’m not sure how he’ll react if it does appear. He might break off contact if we run it.”
“Not likely,” proclaimed the editor. “This fruitcake wants the attention and notoriety. He’ll be disappointed if we don’t run it. “
“I don’t know, Paul.”
“Yeah, well, you know how these guys think. Make the accompanying article personal, Joe. Play on how the serial killer has chosen you as his conduit to the world. Respond to him in the piece. Encourage him to stay in touch. Promise you’ll respect his needs and wishes. Set up a running dialogue. You’re his buddy, his confidant. This is big stuff, Joe, not only for the paper, but for you, too.”
“I’ll get on it right away, Paul. We’ll drop the escort angle?”
“For now. Good work, Joe. Very good work.”
Wilcox ordered in Chinese and spent the rest of the day writing the article to accompany the letter. Another meeting took place later that afternoon between him, Morehouse, and the Trib’s chief legal counsel, who’d been brought into the situation by Morehouse. The debate involved whether the paper should show the letter to the police prior to publishing