Death of an Intern by Keith M. Donaldson Page A

shelters.”
    â€œOkay, so I went off. I'm sorry.” I gave him my best woeful look. “Anybody talk to people at the nonprofit, the shelters?”
    â€œYes. Her employer gave her a glowing report. We haven't interviewed anyone at the shelters,” he said quietly, but firmly.
    â€œBut with Janet, we don't know anything about the paternity—”
    â€œAnd we may never know. All we have on her is this.” He handed me a two-page report. “Her bio, compliments of the White House. Be my guest.”
    I scanned it. “May I have a copy?”
    Walsh walked around his desk and pushed a button on his phone. “Delia.”
    I felt suddenly weary and plopped into one of his big soft chairs. Delia entered.
    â€œPlease make a copy of this for Ms. Wolfe,” he asked the policewoman, pointing to what I was holding.
    Delia gave me a serious look as she took the papers. “Girl, you all right?”
    I sat up. “What? Oh, I'm fine, just a little weary.”
    â€œYou got a blood sugar problem?”
    â€œNot that I know of. I've been running hard—the serial killings. A good night's sleep, I'll be fine.”
    â€œIf you say so.”
    Delia didn't sound convinced, but went off to make the copies. I reached into my briefcase, took out the bag of chips, and began munching one after the other.
    Max sat behind his desk, looking at me and shaking his head. “Lunch?”
    â€œThis? Oh. No. Just a snack.”
    â€œUnhuh.”
    I munched as he went over some papers on his desk. Delia returned with my copy. “Thanks, Delia. By the way, how's your family?” I asked, hoping to distract any more questions about my health.
    â€œAs much trouble as ever. Here's the bio,” she said separating it from some other papers she was carrying. She handed the second batch to her captain. “Here's the report on the 2nd Street sweep.”
    On her way out, Delia gave me another look, like what are you hiding?
    She's too perceptive for my own good, I thought.
    Max was scanning the papers Delia gave him. “We waited until dawn this morning, after staking out a two-square-block area overnight, to walk the area.”
    I put away my chips and took out my tape recorder, punching record.
    â€œThey found Rausch's car a block south from the clinic, unlocked and parked at the curb. Her purse was under the car. Its keys were on the driver's side floor. She was apparently assaulted getting in. They found a broken umbrella and clinic brochures.”
    He saw the recorder. “Be careful what you do with that.”
    â€œIt will self-destruct if I don't use it properly, you know that,” I teased.
    â€œThey've towed Rausch's car to our garage. Forensics has it.”
    â€œFrom what state are the license plates?”
    Max looked over the papers. “Doesn't say.”
    â€œYet we're sure it's her car?” I wondered why that had been overlooked.
    â€œThere were pictures of her with others in her wallet. A Virginia driver's license with her name, photo, and social security number that is being verified.”
    â€œSo this guy sits in his vehicle and stakes out pregnant women?”
    â€œAppears that way.” Max put the report down. “As we speak, we have uniformed teams talking to every known neighborhood clinic, asking them to instruct their clients about safe conduct. We've asked for media support.”
    â€œOkay. May I have a copy of what you're telling them? I'm sure our people will be on it, but I can put something in my followup article.” I turned off the recorder and put it away. I fiddled with my hands, a habit of mine from childhood when I'm tense.
    â€œNow, what is the real reason you are here?” Max asked in a fatherly tone.
    I smiled. He read me like a book. “I came to apologize,” I ‘fessed up.
    Max furrowed his brow.
    â€œJanet's roommate?”
    â€œWho seems to have disappeared,” he said