Murder at The Washington Tribune Read Free Page A

the office. He’d had trouble pushing aside the conversation with Melito, and thought of little else as he drove to the house he’d called home for the past couple of years. He decided not to even mention it to Georgia. No sense upsetting her with thoughts of another move. The
Detroit Free Press
was his third job since graduating from Northwestern seven years ago with a degree in journalism and marrying his college sweetheart. She’d been a good soldier about it, encouraging him as he moved from a weekly paper to a daily, and then to the larger daily where he now worked, each move advancing his career and bettering his salary. But he knew she considered the
Free Press
the culmination of that career, a major daily in a large city, with room for advancement. For her, this
was
the big time, and he sometimes agreed with her.
    Still, there were those youthful visions of one day becoming, say, a foreign correspondent, trench coat and all, his generation’s Edward R. Murrow, meeting with shadowy figures in exotic foreign cities while bombs burst around you, scooping others who were after the same story, front-page bylines on a paper like
The New York Times
or
The Washington Tribune
and the resulting notoriety, including prizes—
a Pulitzer for little Joey Wilcox from Kankakee
? Maybe he’d start smoking a pipe.
    A pipe
dream,
he knew, like envisioning himself hitting the home run that would lead his favorite baseball team, the Chicago Cubs, into the World Series—finally! He was a beat reporter, covering the city of Detroit the way Hamill and Breslin did in New York, and Kupcinet did in Chicago.
A foreign correspondent?
You’ve been watching too many movies, he told himself. Be happy with who you are and what you’ve got.
    He eagerly took Melito’s call the next day.
    â€œHey, Joe, just wanted you to know that I got through to my guy in D.C.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œTalked to Paul Morehouse. He’s assistant managing editor of the Metro section, part of the new regime, a no-nonsense guy but okay. Rough cob. Came over from
The Baltimore Sun.
I told him all about you, in glowing terms, of course, and he said he’d be interested in getting a call.”
    â€œI really appreciate it, Tom, but—”
    Melito rattled off Morehouse’s phone number. “Got it?”
    â€œNo, give it to me again.”
    This time, Wilcox wrote it down.
    â€œIt’s his private line. Call him.” Melito said. “You’ve got nothing to lose, maybe lots to gain.”
    Wilcox left the paper that afternoon to make the call from a gas station phone booth. Morehouse answered. He sounded gruff and distracted and squeezed a series of rapid-fire questions into a few minutes. When it was obvious to Wilcox that the conversation was about to end, Morehouse asked, “You as good as Tommy Melito says?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Wilcox replied. “What did he say?”
    â€œSend me a resume and some clips. If I like what I see, I’ll pass it on to Human Resources.” He laughed, a bark. “Christ, it used to be Personnel. I’ll get back to you.”
    Wilcox decided to follow through on Morehouse’s request without informing Georgia. He’d come to the conclusion that it was a wasted exercise; nothing would come of it. Five days after sending the material by priority mail, he received a call at the
Free Press
from Morehouse. “Can you talk?” the editor asked.
    Wilcox looked around the newsroom. “No,” he said.
    â€œCall me back.”
    That night, after dinner had been cleared and Roberta was in her room, Wilcox told his wife of his flirtation with
The Washington Tribune.
    â€œThey want you to go to Washington for an interview?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd you want to do it?”
    â€œI think so. It could be a wonderful opportunity for me.”
    â€œFor
you.
What about us, me and Roberta?”
    â€œI think