Murder at The Washington Tribune (23 page)

“So, tell me. Have I done something wrong? Did I say something that upset you?”

She slowly shook her head. They were in the bedroom, sitting side-by-side on the bed. A full moon visible through the room's skylight cast uncertain light over the room. She turned, gripped his hands, and said, “Joe, I'm afraid.”

“Afraid? Of what?”

“Of having a child.”

He laughed. “I think I know what you mean,” he said. “I'm not the one who'll have to waddle around for nine months and give birth. But women do it every day and—”

“It isn't that, Joe. It's—it's Michael.”

“My brother?”

“Yes.”

“What does he have to do with us having a child?”

She didn't respond, nor did she have to. He knew what she was thinking, that it was possible that madness was in the Wilcox genes, that any child they had might carry those genes.

“That other Wilcox boy's the one I'd be worried about. Insanity is in the blood and genes, runs right through a family like any other disease.”

Those words overheard from the churchgoing neighborhood woman were etched in his mind, and had been since she uttered them so many years ago.

“Look,” he said, trying to mitigate the anger he felt, not at what she thought, but because he resented having been put in this position by a brother, “things like Michael's problem aren't carried in anyone's genes.”

“How do you know that?” she said.

“I just know it, that's all.”

“You can't be sure, Joe. My mother—”

“What about your mother? Did you talk to
her
about this?”

“Yes. She says—”

“It's none of your mother's business, damn it!”

“It isn't? Our child will be her grandchild.”

“What does she know about genes and heredity, Georgia?”

“I'm not saying she
knows
anything about it, Joe. But she does have concerns, just as I do.”

“Let's talk about this another time,” he said.

“All right.”

A few minutes later, the lights out, everything silent and peaceful, she said, “Would you agree to talk to a doctor about it?”

“What doctor?”

“Someone with medical knowledge about such things. A pediatrician maybe, a psychiatrist?”

His deep sigh said to her that he wouldn't consider what she'd suggested. But to her surprise, he said, “Sure. You pick a doctor and we'll go talk to him.”

She kissed him lightly on the lips and turned over, her tears absorbed by her pillowcase. She desperately wanted a child.

After considerable research, she found a female pediatrician who also boasted a doctorate in psychology, and they made an appointment for a consultation. It pained Wilcox to talk with a stranger about his family, particularly his brother's past, but the doctor was a kindly older woman with gray hair pulled back into a tight bun, and whose glasses were large, round, and framed in red. She listened carefully and exuded warmth and nonjudgmental concern. After she'd heard Wilcox's thumbnail sketch of his family and Michael's incarceration as a mental patient, the doctor smiled, sat back in her chair and said, “You understand, of course, that it's impossible for me to comment with any assuredness about your brother's mental condition without having had the opportunity to examine him and review his records. Is it possible that he suffered a brain abnormality that was eventually overridden by therapy and counseling? Yes, that's possible. And if that brain abnormality had a genetic component, is it likely that it would have been passed along to you, Mr. Wilcox? That's highly unlikely—unless, of course, either of your parents suffered the same abnormal genetic makeup. You say your mother and father were very religious.”

“My father especially,” Wilcox said, “although my mother was deeply religious, too. Is that significant?”

“It could be. Your brother might have been deathly afraid of your father's reaction if the young lady next door had accused him of sexually accosting her. He might have killed out of that fear. I find it interesting that your brother was declared not guilty by reason of insanity based almost entirely on his attorney's pleading to the jury to find him insane.”

“Are you saying that Michael might not have been insane?” Georgia asked.

“No, I'm not saying that. I'm simply raising the possibility that legal considerations overrode medical ones. Your parents wanted his life spared, and his attorney achieved that. Again, as I said earlier, I'm in no position to judge Michael's level of sanity or insanity. But I will say this.”

Joe and Georgia leaned forward in their chairs.

“My instincts tell me that for you to forgo the joy of having children because of a vague fear that your child might—and I emphasize
might
—inherit Michael's mental problem would be a shame, in my opinion. My advice? Go home, screw your brains out, get pregnant, and enjoy your lives. Michael isn't a part of it, literally and figuratively. He's past tense. This is your life together in the here and now, and I remind you that this isn't a dress rehearsal for life. This is it!”

They giggled on the way home over the older therapist's use of the vernacular but took her advice, spent that afternoon making love, and nine months and three days later, Georgia gave birth to a healthy baby girl they named Roberta.

Joe rejoined Michael and Roberta on the patio.

“Dad, Michael emulated the fellow playing the guitar, Joe—?”

“Joe Pass.”

“He learned to play the guitar while he was—while he was away, and—”

“I must interrupt,” Michael said. “I know how much you want to spare my feelings by using euphemisms for the past forty years of my life. I was not ‘away.' That sounds too much like an extended holiday. I was remanded to a mental institution because I killed an innocent young woman and was judged to be insane by a jury of my peers. If I don't accept the reality of that, I'll be violating a crucial tenet of my release and recovery. Facing it head-on is important to me, and I hope it will be for you, too.” He'd said it in a serious tone. Now, he brightened and added, “I believe I am now as sane as anyone else in this world, which maybe isn't saying a great deal, but—”

“I think it's wonderful the way you acknowledge what you did, Michael, and how you face that reality in your new life,” Roberta said, looking to her father for confirmation.

Joe nodded and left it at that.

“Enough about me,” Michael said. He turned to Roberta, “I have been watching you on TV ever since I arrived in Washington,” he said, “and I am so impressed that I have such a talented niece. You're better than Barbara Walters and Diane Sawyer and that lady on
60 Minutes,
Leslie—?”

“Leslie Stahl,” Roberta said. “And I'm not better than them, but thank you for the compliment.”

“Don't be modest, Robbie,” Michael said. “Allow me to be the proud, long-lost uncle.”

His use of the familiar version of Roberta's name pricked Joe.

Georgia came from the kitchen and joined them at the table. “Dinner's almost ready,” she said. “I'm afraid it's not much, last minute and all, but—”

“I have a feeling,” said Michael, “that even last-minute meals at the Wilcox house are gourmet.”

“Michael's writing a novel,” Roberta said.

“Are you?” replied Georgia. “That's wonderful. Joe has always intended to write a novel but—”

“Writing for a newspaper is enough writing for me,” Joe said. “From what I've noticed, there are too many bad novels being published as it is.”

Roberta frowned, and checked Michael for his reaction to her father's pointed comment. He didn't seem to be offended. His smile was as wide as always as he said, “Joe is right. Too many books, half of them not worthy of publication.”

“What is your novel about?” Georgia asked.

“Oh, it would take all night for me to explain that,” Michael said.

“Publishers and novelists I know say that if you can't sum up a novel in a few sentences, chances are no one will ever understand it,” Joe said.

“How right they are,” Michael said.

Georgia asked her husband to select a wine to go with dinner.

“Anything I can do to help?” Michael asked, standing.

“Not a thing,” Georgia said.

Michael was a gregarious guest at the dinner table, telling tales from his years in the mental institution, many of them amusing, some heartwrenching. Georgia and Roberta seemed to hang on his every word, which annoyed Joe. He said little during the meal, his responses to questions terse and sometimes tinged with sarcasm. They'd almost finished when Michael asked, “Anything new on the killer, Joe? By the way, your articles are wonderful.”

“As a matter of fact, there is something new.”

“What is it?” Georgia asked. “Has there been a break in the case?”

“In a sense,” Joe responded, looking at Roberta, whose expression said she was waiting for her father to elucidate.

“Don't keep us in suspense,” Michael said.

“I received a letter today from the serial killer,” Joe said.

“A letter?” Georgia and Roberta said in unison.

“Yes. A short letter addressed to me arrived at the paper. Today.”

Roberta's interest was palpable. “What did it say?” she asked.

Joe replied, “It said he was contacting me because of what I've been writing about him, and that he intends to stay in touch with me.”

“Why didn't you call me?” Roberta asked, exasperation in her voice.

“I was too busy writing the story. It'll run tomorrow.”

“With the letter's contents?” Roberta asked.

“Right.”

“Did you contact the police?” Georgia asked. Her tone was decidedly gloomy.

“Not yet. We'll bring them in on it tomorrow, as the story runs.”

“Excuse me,” Roberta said, getting up from the table and going to the patio where she dialed a number on her cell phone. Georgia, too, left the table and went to the kitchen.

“That's quite some news,” Michael said to his brother.

“Yeah. Excuse me.”

Joe joined his wife in the kitchen. “You okay?” he asked.

“I don't like it, Joe,” she said.

“Don't like what?”

“That the killer is corresponding with you. I don't like it at all that a madman who kills young women knows who you are and is writing to you.”

“I'm not worried about it,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. “They'll catch him and it'll be over.”

“If he knows you, he knows who Robbie is, too.”

“Of course he knows who she is. She's on TV every night.”

“This is different.”

“I suppose it is, hon, but there's not a lot I can do about it.”

“You could stop writing about him.”

“I don't think Paul would appreciate that. Besides, I've finally latched on to a story that I can call my own. Look, let's talk about this another time.” He lowered his voice. “I'm trying to do what you wanted, play the gracious host to Michael.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze and returned to the dining room where Roberta was preparing to leave.

“I have to run,” she said. “Something's come up at the station and—”

“Whoa,” Joe said. “You aren't going to try and scoop me, are you?”

“Not if you have anything to say about it,” she replied tartly. “I can't believe you didn't share this with me before tonight.”

“I told you, Robbie, I was busy all afternoon writing the story and trying to free myself up to be here tonight.”

Michael and Roberta faced each other. She extended her hand and said, “I have to admit, Uncle Michael, that meeting you has been one of the biggest shocks of my life. I never even knew you existed. But now that I do, I hope we see lots of you, and I mean lots.” She planted a kiss on Michael's cheek, gave her father a cursory peck on his, was more demonstrative with her mother in the kitchen, and was gone.

“I suppose I should be on my way, too,” Michael said.

“You drove?” Joe asked.

“I don't have a car. I took a cab. It cost a fortune from downtown.”

“I'll drive you,” Joe said.

“I don't want to put you out, Joseph.”

“You won't be. Give me a few minutes.”

“I'm driving Michael home,” he told Georgia, who came from the kitchen and extended her hand to Michael.

He kissed it and said, “To a wonderful chef, hostess, and sister-in-law. I am in your debt.”

She couldn't suppress a small smile. “Come back soon,” she told Michael. “I mean that.”

“Oh, I shall,” he said. “Wild horses won't be able to keep me away.”

Michael prattled on during the ride back into the District, and Joe silently wished he would shut up, say nothing, not remind him that he was even in the car. When they pulled up in front of the apartment building, Michael said, “I know you're angry with me, Joseph, for showing up at the house as I did, but I felt compelled to do it.”