Death of an Intern by Keith M. Donaldson Page B

flatly.
    â€œNot really. She's on Scalawag.”
    â€œWhy am I not surprised?” he said, nodding.
    â€œI had to protect her,” I said defensively.
    Max raised his arms making the gesture of laying out a big headline in front of himself: “Reporter Holds Rausch's Roommate Hostage to Get Inside Story.”
    â€œI have told you everything she told me. She wants to talk to you, but she's not up for the limelight.”
    He leaned toward me. “Are you implying I exploit my interviewees?”
    I pulled back. “Of course not. It's just that we don't know enough about what's going on with these murders. Maybe Janet was specifically targeted.”
    â€œThey are serial killings. Is the roommate pregnant?”
    I shook my head. “Could you talk with her, maybe this afternoon after three?”

    I taxied back to the paper and worked on my followup article. I didn't feel any closer to finding the killer, but Max's information was at least publishable. The MPD release would be out later.
    MPD knew the paternity with Williams, but not with Janet. I decided a comment about the lack of information coming from the Vice President's office was in order. Why weren't they being more forthcoming?
    From what Marsha told me, Kat Turner was in the know. Without information about Janet's social life, I had no place to look except to the Vice President's office. That's where Janet spent many of her off hours, according to Marsha. Still, the father could have been a pickup which Janet did not want to admit to, even to her roommate.
    The public was in a furor over these killings, and rightfully so. I put MPD's precautions for pregnant women in my article and delivered it to Lassiter. I felt that asking a question about the paternity of Janet's baby was perfectly reasonable. Especially in light of the celebrity attached to her by virtue of her employment.
    I called Marsha about meeting her on Scalawag. I met Max in the marina's parking lot at four. True to his word, he interviewed Marsha gently for about ten minutes.
    â€œI wish I knew more.” She smiled.
    Max shook that off. “You did fine.”
    â€œThere's some interesting stuff in Janet's room you might want to see,” I said.

T he next day, Max picked me up at 11:30. We were lunching at the Hotel Washington on the corner of 15th and Pennsylvania Avenue NW. Their rooftop outdoor Terrace Restaurant has a spectacular view. It is a favorite of Jerry's and mine and is convenient to both our offices.
    The view takes in the Washington Monument, Jefferson Memorial, and the upper portions of the White House. Heavy trees block direct view of its south grounds. Max has no trouble finding a place to park his unmarked cruiser.
    Once we were seated and the server had taken our orders, Max said, “You may be stepping on some sensitive toes with this second story of yours.”
    â€œLassiter okayed it. Haven't you ever had a case that looked like one thing, but turned out to be something all together different?”
    He was about to respond when the clatter of a helicopter, which had been in the background, now came on with a roar. Marine One, the President's helicopter, had moved in over the south lawn of the White House preparing to land. Customers rushed to the west rail for a better look. Unfortunately, they would find it to be more hearing than seeing.
    The waiter arrived with our lunches as I was looking around casually. Not all diners were at the rail. Kat Turner, for one. She sat with a weeping young woman I thought might be Sarah McDowell, a coworker of Janet's I had met at the anniversary party.
    â€œMax,” I said loudly over the noise. He looked at me. “Over there,” I nodded, “Kat Turner on the left with Sarah McDowell from the Vice President's office.”
    â€œMiss Sarah seems a bit upset.”
    â€œShe worked with Janet on political and fundraising activities.”
    â€œCould be a grief session.”
    I wasn't