Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [91]
Edith was seated at an outdoor table when he arrived. Two Styrofoam cups sat on the table.
“Half-and-half, one sugar, right?” she said.
“Right. So, what do you think?”
“I think I don’t know you, Joe.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You get a letter from the serial killer—and I have to admit I was wrong and you were right about there even being one—and instead of turning it over to the police, you use it to generate a big story in the paper. That could be considered suppressing evidence.”
“Oh, come on, Edith. It isn’t that serious. I only received it yesterday. You’ll have it this morning. Less than twenty-four hours.”
“Enough time for the public to know it exists and for The Washington Tribune to have a major scoop. And for MPD to have to run from behind and maybe miss a shot at the killer. Local boy makes good, entices serial killer out of his lair, creates a splash with big newsstand sales, and advertisers clamor to buy space. The market economy at work—except that two women are dead, Joe—out of the market. Sorry, but that’s a different world from what this humble civil servant knows.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“Drink your coffee before it gets cold.”
He obeyed.
“Has he called you?” she asked.
“The killer? No.”
“He might.”
“He might.”
“I want a tap on your phones at the office and at home.”
“At home? Georgia won’t like that.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t like that her hubby is on a first name basis with a whacko killer, either.”
“She said something to that effect.”
The detective pointed an index finger at him. “Joe,” she said, “don’t play games with me. Okay? This is no longer just a story that sells newspapers. The letter is now a police matter.”
“Sure. I understand,” he said. “I’ll cooperate with you in any way I can.”
“Good. You saw your daughter’s piece on the letter, I assume.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said, finishing his coffee, which left a metallic taste in his mouth.
“This morning. She obviously got it from you.”
“She was at the house for dinner last night. I mentioned it.”
Edith sat back and smiled. “She was cute the way she couched it. She said that in the interest of full disclosure, the recipient of the letter was her father, a Trib cops reporter.”
“She’s okay,” he said, joining her in the smile. “You coming to the office?”
“Yup.”
The meeting was held in a conference room off the newsroom. Present were Vargas-Swayze, Wilcox, Morehouse, the paper’s legal counsel, the VP of public affairs, and the Trib’s executive vice president for administrative affairs.
“I’m outnumbered,” Edith said after she’d been introduced to everyone.
“But you carry the gun,” the public affairs head said.
“Shall I lay it on the table?” she asked.
“Please don’t,” the executive VP said, sounding as though he took her seriously.
“Let’s get down to why we’re here,” Morehouse said. He slid a manila envelope across the table to her. She slipped on a pair of latex gloves, opened the envelope, and removed a plastic baggie.
“Nice it’s in the plastic bag,” she said, “but I assume it’s been handled.”
“Sure,” Morehouse said. “Joe, me, others. Our prints are all over it. Sorry.”
“Our lab people will compare whatever’s on there with anyone who handled it here. Where’s the envelope it came in?’
“Oh, right,” Morehouse said, pushing a second envelope to her.
“Okay,” she said. “Now, let’s talk about how we cooperate in getting this guy off the street.”
The meeting lasted slightly less than an hour. Wilcox walked Edith to the elevators.
“You comfortable with what we came up with?” she asked.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Sure you do. But it’ll be easier if you aren’t fighting it.”
“No fear of that,” he said. “You’ll let me know what steps you take next, preliminary lab reports, all that good stuff.”
“To the extent I can, Joe. I’ll be back to you.”
He went to his cubicle where dozens of phone and e-mail messages awaited him, some from media outlets wanting interviews, others