Murder at The Washington Tribune Read Free

was a distinct possibility.
    That changed one day over lunch. Tom Melito, a newly minted friend from
The Washington Tribune
’s recently opened the Detroit bureau, mentioned to Wilcox that the
Trib
was beefing up its Metro staff in Washington, and thought Wilcox should consider applying.
    â€œDamn,” Wilcox said as a drop of soup landed on his tie. “I’m not a D.C. kind of guy,” he said, dabbing at his tie with a napkin. “Can’t take me anywhere. Never get invited to the White House with soup stains on my tie.”
    â€œHey, presidents spill soup, too,” said Melito. “Besides, have you ever known reporters who don’t have stains on their ties?”
    â€œAnd on their reputations,” Wilcox said.
    â€œDon’t play cynic. Doesn’t become you. Look, Joe, I’m serious. You’re a helluva fine reporter, and the
Trib
is a hell of a paper, big and getting bigger and more influential every day and giving the hallowed
New York Times
a run for its money. The brain trust has decided to really ratchet up local coverage, and they’re committing big bucks to it. Metro’s already the biggest staff on the paper, and getting bigger. I don’t know what you’re making here but—”
    â€œNo,” Wilcox said, shaking his head and inserting his napkin between buttons on his shirt. “I’d never get it past Georgia. She’s happy with her job at the library, and Roberta’s doing well in school. Besides, my boss winks that he’s grooming me for an assistant editor job down the road. But thanks for suggesting it, Tommy.”
    They spoke about other things during lunch, but Joe’s thoughts weren’t entirely on those topics.
The New York Times
and
The Washington Tribune
had been in competition for as long as he could remember, vying for the biggest stories with the most impact on the body politic and the nation’s conscience. Like every youngster with Yankee pinstripes or Dodger blue in their fanciful futures,
The Times
and the
Trib
represented the big leagues to journalism students across the country, and he was no exception. Sure, there were plenty of jobs in the reporting business that were meaningful and fulfilling. But those two competing newspaper giants in New York and Washington represented “making it,” whatever that meant. The
Trib,
he knew, tended to be more sensational than
The Times
in its news coverage, and had its share of critics because of that. But it was no tabloid. It had broadsheet clout, and anyone working for it did, too.
    â€œJoseph Carlton Wilcox at the esteemed
Washington Trib,
huh?” he said to Melito over dessert, laughing at the very notion of it.
    â€œSuit yourself, Joe, but they’re looking for Young Turks like you. I don’t qualify.”
    â€œWhat are you, over the hill?”
    â€œI am as far as they’re concerned back in D.C. They sent me out here to wind down, go peacefully into the night, cover the latest car models, and make it sound like I care. Maybe you’re right. It is intense in D.C. Cutthroat, like politics today. Get the story at all costs. Publish or perish ain’t only for academics. Used to be fun. No more, and I can’t say I’m unhappy being further away from it. But you? You’re exactly what they’re looking for. You could really make your name there, pal.”
    Wilcox grunted and dug into his apple pie. The topic didn’t come up again until they had split the bill and were standing on the sidewalk.
    â€œSure you don’t at least want to explore the
Trib
thing?” Melito asked. “I can give somebody a call.”
    â€œNo, I. . . . Sure, Tommy, call somebody. It’s not for me. But it’d be interesting to see what golden opportunity I’m passing up.”

    Wilcox spent the afternoon interviewing two witnesses to a shooting at a downtown public housing complex and filed his story before leaving