Murder at The Washington Tribune by Margaret Truman

murdered?”
    â€œNo. She called and said she had to work late and was going to grab a bite with friends from the station.”
    â€œHave you spoken with them?”
    â€œNo, but the police said they would—after I told them about it.”
    â€œWhat were their names?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’ve met some of her colleagues, but I don’t know which ones she was going out with.”
    Wilcox took a moment to observe the kitchen. It was sunny and cheery and extremely neat, nothing out of place on the counters or in the glass-fronted cabinets. The backsplash was yellow tile, with a paler shade on the floor. Yellow and white curtains fluttered in a breeze through an open window.
    He returned his attention to Connor. “Any idea what she was doing in the park?” he asked.
    â€œShe probably was walking through it on the way home. I always told her it wasn’t a safe place at night, but it didn’t seem to bother her.” He paused and swallowed hard. “I guess it should have.”
    As Wilcox made notes in his reporter’s pad, Connor said, “You told me on the phone that Colleen might have been killed by a serial killer. Is that true?”
    â€œIt’s a good possibility. At least the police are considering it. Did they mention it to you?”
    â€œNo. That’s really scary, that there might be some nut running around killing young women.”
    â€œIt sure is, Philip. Any thoughts on who might have wanted Colleen dead? Did she have any enemies that you know of?”
    â€œColleen? Everybody loved her.” Tears running down the cheeks now accompanied the hard swallowing. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes, apologizing as he did.
    â€œHey,” Wilcox said, placing his hand on the young man’s arm, “I understand. I really do.” He hesitated before asking, “Do you have a photograph of Colleen? You know, one you really like?”
    â€œSure. I took a lot of pictures of her. I’m an amateur photographer.”
    â€œI’d love to see them—if you wouldn’t mind.”
    â€œI don’t know. I—”
    â€œIf you’d rather not.”
    â€œNo, I guess you can see them. Excuse me.”
    Connor left the kitchen, and Wilcox moved his chair in an attempt to see the people in the adjoining room. A middle-aged couple sat in chairs to one side of the couch. The man saw Wilcox and glared at him. Wilcox averted his eyes and shifted back to his original position as Connor returned and laid a large photo album on the table. Wilcox opened it, and a large color photograph of Colleen McNamara looked up at him. She was beautiful in an obvious Irish way, fair skinned with a few strategically placed freckles on her nose and cheeks, and large, sparkling, emerald-green eyes filled with life—and love. He looked at a few more pages.
The kid’s a pretty good photographer,
he thought. Then again, he had a good, accessible, photogenic subject.
    â€œDid the police ask to see these?” Wilcox asked.
    â€œNo. They had a picture from the station, from her personnel files. They said they’d be back to talk to me again.”
    â€œDid you get their names?”
    He fished two business cards from his shirt pocket and handed them to Wilcox, who recognized the detectives’ names.
    â€œI’d like one of these pictures, Philip.”
    â€œYou would? Why?”
    â€œLet me be candid with you. We’ll be running a story about Colleen’s murder—in the
Tribune
—and I’d hate to have to use some inferior photograph from her personnel file. It probably wasn’t any better than pictures on driver’s licenses and passports.”
    â€œIt wasn’t very good,” he said.
    â€œI’m sure it wasn’t. I think she deserves to have a better picture used, like one of these great shots you took of her. It’s only fair. It’s only right.