Murder at The Washington Tribune (16 page)

FIFTEEN

Washington, D.C., is not prime territory for single women seeking a mate. There are a lot more single females than eligible single males there than in most cities. Bright, healthy women gravitate to the nation's capital in search of the sort of adventure that the intriguing world of government and politics can provide. Working in the city's major industry may not rival mountain climbing or skydiving for sheer thrills, but the pervasive pull of power, and rubbing elbows with it, can be intoxicating, stimulating, as well as on more than one occasion, an aphrodisiac.

The news business, too, exerts a grip on ambitious young people looking for challenge and public recognition. Like other so-called magnetic professions, journalism jobs generally pay less than other professional pursuits and the hours are long. But that's a small price to pay for escaping the more mundane pursuits of, say, banking, accounting, or teaching. Are most single young women in Washington biding time until the elusive “Mr. Right” comes along? Hardly. That was
then.
Many of today's well-educated, savvy, and sexually aware women, using their smarts, education, and ideas in every corner of the former swamp now known as the nation's capital, have relegated Mr. Right to the era when flight attendants were called stewardesses, a steno pad was a primary career asset, and only men dared rent porn videos. It isn't that should a real Mr. Right come along, they wouldn't sign on to becoming Mrs. Right. But rather than waste time with the Mr. Wrongs—of which there are plenty in D.C.—they prefer their own company, thank you, marching to the beat of their own drummers and enjoying the rhythm.

Roberta Wilcox was a good example.

She and Tom Curtis had, as her parents suspected, met up again after dinner at the Eighteenth Street Lounge (known to regulars as ESL) above a mattress shop south of Dupont Circle. The restored mansion was once the home of Teddy Roosevelt, who robust as he was, might not have enjoyed the mix of acid rock, hip-hop, and reggae emanating from the elaborate deejay's booth. After passing muster by a burly, dour bouncer, the couple entered the club, one of the hottest venues in the city. They skirted the dance floor and made their way to an outdoor deck at the rear of the club where they found the last two vacant chairs at a tiny table. They ordered drinks—a Cosmopolitan for her, Scotch and soda for him—and smiled at each other.

“Your folks are nice,” he said over the din.

“I know,” she said. “I'm lucky to have them, to have been brought up by them.”

“Did you plan to follow in your dad's footsteps, getting into journalism?”

“I guess so. He likes to think I did.”

“I was talking to him about the stories he's been writing. He's funny. He asked me whether tips have fallen off from single women at the bar because they're uptight.”

“He asked you
that
?”

Was he going to quote what Tom had said in his next article?
she wondered. She hoped not.

They hadn't been dating long and spent the next half hour getting to know each other a little better, telling tales about their lives, their growing up, school experiences, especially mortifying ones, and discussing what they currently did for a living.

“You're an only child, huh?” he said. “No brothers or sisters?”

“None that I know of,” she replied with a chuckle. “We have a very small family, a couple of cousins somewhere in the country, but just the three of us here. Actually, I'm happy it's this way. All attention is focused on me—ta da!”

He laughed. “I come from a big family,” he said, “three brothers and two sisters. All attention definitely wasn't focused on me. Dance?”

“Sure.”

After fifteen minutes of sweaty gyrating on the hardwood dance floor with less space in which to maneuver than a Tokyo subway car, they headed for the club's exit, knowing that they would continue the evening in bed. The only decision left to be made was whether it would be her bed or his. They chose Roberta's because she had to be up early, while he didn't go on duty until four in the afternoon. It was the third time they'd slept together. As on the previous two occasions, their lovemaking was unsure but generally satisfying. As they sat up in bed leaning against the headboard, she realized she was conflicted. It would be nice to wake up next to him in the morning. On the other hand, she wanted him to leave. He solved her dilemma when he said, “I think I'd better be going, Robbie. I'd love to stay, but you've got an early start tomorrow. Frankly, if I stay, I'll want to repeat this and spend the morning doing it. Or the week. Okay?”

Her expression of disappointment was genuine, if not slightly exaggerated. She kissed him good-bye at the door, latched it behind him, and sat at her window overlooking the quiet street. She couldn't put her finger on it and was unable to codify her feelings at that moment, but they weren't about Tom Curtis. She was thinking of her father.

He'd changed, no doubt about that. Was it simply a matter of growing older, of facing mortality, of losing physical strength and mental acumen? That would be normal. She'd seen it in many senior citizens, their gait less steady than in their youth, their minds not quite as sharp. If so, she could readily accept it.

But there was another dimension to the change in her father, one less predictable and easily explained. She knew he was disappointed in his career now that it was winding down. Her mother had spoken to her about it, mentioning more frequent bouts of depression over the past year, and outright expressions of failure. He was wrong to feel this way, of course. He'd had a good career. How many reporters got to work for such a newspaper as
The Washington Tribune
? He'd been there how many years, twenty-four, twenty-five? He'd covered many of the city's most infamous criminal cases, murder, rape, arson, crimes involving elected officials, the whole spectrum of society's underbelly. He'd done it with aplomb, his interviews skillfully conducted, his research meticulously mounted, the pieces written with style and concision, not a word wasted, everything tracking so that the reader was never left in the dark. He was the consummate pro. On top of that, he'd been a wonderful father and husband, always there for her and her mother, even-tempered, witty, a joking but caring man who truly honored the human condition.

A failure? Hardly.

But there was more, she knew, and it was that intangible something that eluded her. She shouldn't have criticized his writing, calling it “tabloidy,” correct word or not. But it was. She'd read everything he'd written since she was deemed old enough to be exposed to the dark side of the city. He didn't keep copies of his stories, a testament to his basic humility. But she remembered many of the articles, especially the more recent ones leading up to the serial killer series. His tone and approach was markedly different from everything else she recalled reading.

He'd said his boss, Paul Morehouse, had pressured him into taking the tack he had. She'd met Morehouse on many occasions; he and his wife, Mimi, had been dinner guests at the house on a number of occasions. She liked him and his gruff, no-nonsense demeanor, and knew he ran a tight ship. If he had pressed her dad to take a more sensational approach, she understood. Her boss at the TV station was somewhat like Morehouse, under pressure from above to do whatever it took to boost ratings, and by extension increase advertising revenues. Sure, the basic rules of credible journalism were bandied about, and there were attempts to honor them. But things had changed dramatically in even the short time she'd been at the station. The 24/7 cable news channels were setting the pace and agenda, recycling the day's most startling stories over and over, the most titillating murder trials, the bloodiest family slayings, the most salacious scandals, and the juiciest sexual escapades, preferably involving a politician or movie star.

That editorial philosophy had been driven home to her during her first year on the job. She'd had the makings of a provocative story in which a city official might be accused of sexual harassment. Her boss told her to run with it. She replied that she thought it needed additional checking, a second corroboration, perhaps even a third.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she was told by the producer, “this story is too good to check. Run with it.”

Before now, her father had often expressed scorn at what he considered to be the demise of responsible journalism. He'd been decidedly old school and she'd admired him for that, even though he failed, in her estimation, to take into account the realities of the situation. Times had changed; journalism had changed. Whether its evolution was good or bad seemed irrelevant to her. Technology had transformed the news business. There had long been competition to get the story, then to get it first, and the advent of the telegraph, and telephone, the radio, and now TV and the Internet had made it a race to get and spread the news in real time, preferably while it was happening—car chases, robberies caught on surveillance cameras, fires, and, of course, trials. You had to move fast or be trampled by the competition.

She had little patience for those who labeled the media left-leaning. Right-wingers owned the nation's media. What was more important, the decisions behind what stories to cover and how to cover them had little to do with politics. Ratings and ad revenue weren't Democratic or Republican. You ran with what would pull in the most viewers. That simple. End of story. Case closed.

She decided before returning to her rumpled bed that she would raise her concerns directly with her father at the first opportune moment. In the meantime, she needed sleep to be ready for what the next day would bring. Whether journalism had lost some of its honor and luster or not, she was a journalist and would do what was expected of her.

Joe Wilcox needed sleep, too, but didn't get much that night. He lay in bed and felt his heart race and could feel the throb of his pulse. He dozed off a few times, but each time he looked at the glow of a digital clock at bedside, time had advanced only a few minutes. He gave it up at five, quietly slipped out of bed, and showered. Dressed in his robe and slippers, he went downstairs and, despite knowing it was too early for delivery, looked down the driveway for that morning's
Tribune.
He went to the foot of the stairs and listened to hear if Georgia was awake. Confident she wasn't, he walked into the den, opened one of three closets, got down on his knees and rummaged through a series of square boxes until finding the one he wanted. He withdrew it, took it to a game table covered with green felt, switched on a lamp hanging over the table, pulled up a chair, and removed the box's cover. Layers of white tissue paper were neatly layered on top. He removed the paper and dug down deeper, his fingers coming to rest on a manila envelope whose flap was secured with a strand of red string wrapped around a plastic button. He laid the envelope on the table, undid the string, folded back the flap, withdrew the envelope's contents, and placed them in the harsh, direct light from above. There were yellowed newspaper clippings in which photos were embedded, and a half dozen faded snapshots of Michael as a teenager. Wilcox went to his desk, took a magnifying glass from a drawer, returned to the table, and closely examined what was in the envelope, spending more time on the pictures than the clippings. Finished, he sat back, closed his eyes, and exhaled a sustained, loud breath. He was drained; it was the first time that night he felt sleep would come easily. He cocked his head. Georgia was stirring upstairs. He reversed his procedure, returning the box to the closet, and went into the kitchen to turn on the coffee that had been set up the previous night.

“Good morning,” Georgia said through a yawn.

“Good morning, hon. Sleep well?”

“Yes. You?”

“Afraid not.”

“I've never known you to be an insomniac,” she said pleasantly, pulling a package of English muffins from the refrigerator.

“Yeah, it is new for me. Too much on my mind, I guess,” he said, sitting at the table.

“Want to talk about it?”

“About
it
? What's
it
?”

“What's keeping you awake these nights.”

“Nothing specific, Georgia. Just a lot of pressure at work and—”

“Joe,” she said, joining him at the table, “you've been under pressure at work hundreds of times and you never lost a minute's sleep. I don't want to probe into your personal life, but if there's something you want to get off your chest, I'd love to hear it.”

He forced lightness into his voice: “My personal life? Like what, confessing I've been having an affair?”

“I sometimes think that,” she said. “I wondered whether the hang ups last night were from a girlfriend.”

“Oh, come on, Georgia, that's—”

“Just a fleeting fancy,” she said, taking one of his hands in hers. “I know you don't have a girlfriend on the side, Joe. I told Mimi that.”