Murder at The Washington Tribune by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online

from square one. It’s a brand-new case. We start today looking outside the box. Toss out everything anyone has said and push harder this time.” Evans stood and started to leave. He stopped, returned to the table, picked up his half-eaten hoagie, and disappeared through the door.
    Meanwhile, the daily two o’clock editorial meeting at the
Trib
was under way. The assistant managing editor of each section of the paper—National and International; Metro, including the Government Diary and obituaries; the Panache section with its gossipy columns and features, comics, horoscope and crossword puzzles; Sports; and Business—gathered in an eighth-floor conference room to pitch stories they intended to include in the next day’s edition. The run-up to the meeting had produced a discernible increase in activity throughout the newsroom. The leisurely pace of the morning had been replaced by a growing sense of urgency, matched in other departments throughout the building. The advertising department coordinated closely with editorial to determine the number of pages that would comprise the paper the following morning. The more ads, the more editorial material would be needed. Simultaneously, a separate editorial staff responsible for the special section that would be inserted the next morning—Health, Food, Home, Weekend, or Real Estate, depending upon the day of the week—put the finishing touches on their product.
    â€œWhat’s new on Kaporis?” Paul Morehouse was asked after he’d gone over the list of stories he intended to include in his Metro section.
    â€œNot enough to lead with. MPD announced a task force this morning, whatever the hell that means.”
    â€œWhat
does
it mean?” asked the deputy managing editor chairing the meeting.
    â€œWe’re working on it,” Morehouse replied. “Mary’s greenlighted money for our own task force.” Mary Lou Castle, the
Trib
’s comptroller, was the voice of money. “I’ve got Joe Wilcox heading it.”
    The deputy managing editor’s face went sour. “Is he making any headway?”
    â€œNot yet, but we’re ratcheting things up. Joe’s been—how do I say it? He’s been distracted lately, but that’s over. He’s well sourced at MPD.”
    â€œWell, he’d better get his sources to start saying something. Mail is heavy, asking why we’re covering up. You know, protecting one of our own.”
    â€œThat’s nonsense.”
    â€œYou want to answer the mail, Paul?”
    Morehouse didn’t reply.
    â€œJeanette’s going to do something on it in her Ombudsman column day after tomorrow.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œIn the meantime, get something we can run front page this week, some break in the case.”
    â€œWe’re on it,” said Morehouse to the man who outranked him in the
Trib
’s hierarchy.
    Which sufficed for the moment.
    They would meet again at six when final decisions would be made, including which stories would appear on the coveted front page of each section. For reporters writing the stories, being on Page One was like hitting a game-winning home run, grabbing the brass ring, and winning the Medal of Honor, an Oscar and the America’s Cup all at once. They wore their front-page placements like notches on a belt or gunstock. How effectively their bosses lobbied for them at the two and six o’clock meetings went a long way toward determining how many notches they’d end up with—or how many flesh wounds.
    Wilcox was on his way out of the newsroom when Morehouse came from the meeting.
    â€œGot a minute?” Morehouse asked.
    â€œNo,” Wilcox said. “I’m on my way to see Jean’s roommate again. Running late.”
    â€œCheck in when you get back.”
    You forgot the please,
Wilcox thought, and nodded.

    Mary Jane Pruit lived in a twelve-story apartment building across the Potomac, in