Free Murder at The Washington Tribune by Margaret Truman Page B

that he had less than the article would indicate. But rationalization was in full gear for Joe at that moment. It was
possible
that the Jean Kaporis and Colleen McNamara murders had been committed by the same person, certainly more possible than some ridiculous connection between Kaporis and her roommate, Mary Jane Pruit. Edith Vargas-Swayze hadn’t ruled it out when he’d proffered the notion to her. In addition, the article might prompt MPD to begin considering a serial killer scenario. He’d seen it happen before, the press taking the lead in establishing a working thesis for the police.
    He left word that he’d be gone for the rest of the day, exited the building, got in his car, and drove to Colleen McNamara’s address, only a few blocks from Franklin Park.

SEVEN
    â€œHi, Mom.”
    â€œHi, Roberta. How are you?”
    â€œOkay. Busy. I saw Dad last night.”
    â€œYou did? He didn’t mention it. Did you have dinner? He said he was working late.”
    â€œNo. I mean, he was—working late. I was covering a homicide in Franklin Park and he was there, too.”
    â€œAnother homicide? It seems that’s all you read about these days.”
    â€œDad acted strange.”
    â€œStrange? How so?”
    â€œI don’t know. He didn’t seem happy to see me there, wanted to get away as fast as he could.”
    Georgia laughed softly. “I doubt that, Robbie. He’s always happy to see you. He must have been on deadline.”
    â€œI suppose so. He didn’t mention being at the park?”
    â€œNo. He got home very late, and was gone before I got up this morning.”
    â€œSorry about dinner last night.”
    â€œThat’s okay. With neither of you here, I snacked and took advantage of the quiet. Got some serious reading done.”
    â€œGlad to hear it. I’ll try to come by in the next few days. I need a Georgia Wilcox fried-chicken fix.”
    â€œAnytime. You know that. Take care, sweetheart.”
    While Georgia Wilcox enjoyed a late lunch and went out to tend her garden, her husband was at Colleen McNamara’s home, a taupe townhouse on an eclectic street of homes and small businesses. Colleen had shared the downstairs apartment with her fiancé, a serious young man (appropriate, considering what had happened), who’d reluctantly allowed Wilcox to come in—“But only for a few minutes.”—“Of course.”—“Her mother and sister are here.”—“I promise I won’t intrude on their sorrow.”—“Okay then, but just a few minutes.” A tall, albeit pudgy young man, he wore chinos and a red and white striped shirt with an open collar. His glasses were large and black rimmed and had thick lenses.
    The kitchen was at the front of the flat. Colleen’s fiancé, whose name was Philip Connor, indicated that Wilcox should sit at a small table next to the window. He could see into the apartment’s next room where two women, one older, one younger, sat close together on a couch. There were others in that room, but he couldn’t see them, only heard their muted voices.
    â€œThe police just left,” Connor said, joining Wilcox at the table.
    â€œDid they have anything to offer?” Wilcox asked.
    Connor shrugged. “They asked a lot of questions. I know they think I did it.”
    Wilcox’s eyebrows went up into question marks.
    â€œI told them I didn’t do anything. I loved Colleen. We were going to be married.”
    â€œI wouldn’t worry about it. They always look first at a spouse or significant other. Statistics say that most murders are committed by . . . when were you planning to be married?”
    â€œNext year. I’m getting my master’s degree at Catholic. We wanted to wait until I was settled in a good job.”
    â€œThat sounds sensible,” said Wilcox. “Did you see Colleen last night—before she was