Bronowski was silent a moment. “Okay. I won’t pry anymore. Hell, I don’t care if you flunked English or were Saddam Hussein’s press secretary. Only thing that matters is, you keep delivering the goods. Right now your freelancing generates more mail than anything my staff here produces. Which reminds me-the circ audit just came in. I checked back. Since you started pitching me stories last year, we’re up eight percent. That’s while the competition is bleeding readers and advertisers.”
“So what did you tell Addison?”
“ That’s what I told Addison.”
“Good for you, Bill.”
“Yeah, well, since you’re gonna cost me my job any day now, you damned well better make your next piece worth my while.”
It reminded him of why he had come here today. He felt his jaw tighten.
“It will be the talk of the town.”
He removed the battery from the cell again as he left the conference room, then rounded a corner and opened the door to number eleven.
*
Freddie Diffendorfer perched like an enormous Buddha on the armless visitor’s chair next to the desk. His legs were splayed far apart, unavoidable given the size of his thighs. An open box of a dozen assorted doughnuts covered much of the desktop-at least, it used to contain a dozen. Three were left.
He looked up at Hunter, a semi-circle of white pastry poised in his hand. His cheeks were streaked with powdered sugar.
“Hello, Dylan,” he mumbled as he chewed.
“Hello, Wonk.” Hunter barely managed to squeeze past him to get to the chair behind the desk. “What’s this? Late lunch?”
His visitor shook his head. A crumb hiding somewhere in one of his chins came loose and landed on his lap. “No, I had lunch at McDonald’s. But on my way through Dupont Circle, I observed that the hot light was on.”
“I understand. Opportunity of a lifetime. So, do you need some time to finish up?”
“No, I shall save the rest for a snack later, thank you.”
Hunter watched with a mixture of awe and disgust as Wonk crammed the remaining half of the doughnut into his mouth. Barely chewed before he swallowed. Then licked his fingers. Then clapped his fat palms together, raising a small white cloud. Then wiped his hands on stained, unpressed slacks the size of a circus tent.
Hunter closed the sticky lid of the box and slid it aside to clear space on the desk. “Now that you’re amply, if not properly, fortified, what do you have for me?”
Wonk leaned forward; the chair’s metal legs creaked ominously. He couldn’t bend more than a few inches, but his chubby arms somehow managed to reach past the curve of his belly to grip the green canvas bag at his feet. He lifted it laboriously and balanced it precariously on what little remained of his lap. Then he poked around inside and extracted three thick manila folders, held together by rubber bands.
“Here they are,” he said, panting from his heroic exertion. He pushed the folders across the desk. “All three files that you asked for.”
They bore official Department of Corrections stamps and labels. Hunter whistled softly. “Amazing. How do you manage to get your hands on all this stuff?”
Wonk looked like a puppy tossed a treat. “Trade secrets. That is why I am the highly paid professional researcher, while you are the high-profile professional journalist.” He hesitated. Hunter knew Wonk was waiting to be begged for details. Amused, he ignored him, and instead took his time removing the rubber bands.
“The only thing that I can tell you,” Wonk blurted finally, “is that an administrative assistant in the DOC owed me a huge favor. But Dylan, please understand that you cannot keep these for more than two hours. I must get them back to her before the end of the business day.”
“No problem. I’ll look through the files and have Danika photocopy whatever I need. Did you find out anything else about these guys? The things I wanted to know specifically?”
“Certainly. I ran a Lexis-Nexis search.” He pulled out another file folder and placed it on the desk. “You can keep that one.”
“Just the headlines.”
“You already know from the news reports on Friday that the two younger perpetrators were quietly transferred last month from the juvenile facility into what the DOC calls their ‘reintegration track.’ Specifically, that refers to a community-based vocational training program called Youth Horizons, headquartered in Alexandria. That is what caused that victims-rights group to become so upset. They are really on the warpath about it.”
“What do you know about the program?”
“I am still compiling information. Supposedly, it accepts only nonviolent offenders, so I am not certain how these two qualified for admission. I can only surmise that because they were convicted as first-time offenders, the department’s psychologists may think they constitute promising candidates for rehabilitation.”
“But that doesn’t make sense.” Hunter took a slow breath, tried to keep his tone matter-of-fact. “What they did to…the Copeland woman. They couldn’t have just decided one day, out of the blue, to assault a total stranger. Violently, sexually assault her. Predators start very young, with petty offenses. Then they escalate over the years. By the time they’re caught and convicted for violent adult crimes, they’ve already got long rap sheets.”
“And that is precisely what we see with these young men. The challenge for me was that their juvenile histories have been sealed.”
“So tell me.”
Wonk leaned back, delighted to expound. “My sources in various prosecutors’ offices inform me that it happens all the time. Everyone wishes to grant a juvenile delinquent a ‘second chance.’ A police officer I know has labeled it the ‘Father Flanagan myth’-in other words, ‘There is no such thing as a really bad boy.’ So, in most states, the legal system minimizes a child’s crimes. They usually are not charged with the actual offense that they committed, but with something far less serious. In addition, their juvenile records are sealed, sometimes even expunged, so that the public can never discover their true backgrounds.”
“I know. It’s insane.”
“Perhaps. But prevailing theory is that most youths eventually outgrow their impulsiveness and stupidity; therefore, if their criminal histories are kept confidential, the stigma of juvenile indiscretions will not follow them into adulthood.”
“‘Indiscretions’? Are you serious? We’re not talking about stealing hubcaps, here. We’re talking about violent rape. And probably a lot more-if only we had access to their juvie records.”
His visitor folded his pudgy hands across the globe of his midsection and smiled serenely.
Hunter stared at him. “You didn’t.”
“Well, I was not permitted to take them with me. But a person who shall remain nameless did allow me to take a peek.”
“And?”
Wonk removed his black-framed eyeglasses carefully; one temple clung to the frame by white adhesive tape. He gazed toward the ceiling and, in the staccato of bureaucratese, began to recite chapter and verse from memory. Hunter wondered for the hundredth time if his research assistant was some kind of savant.
“William Michael Bracey, a.k.a. ‘Billy B.’ Age twenty. That is the individual in the top file. Born in Arlington. Raised by a single mother. Three half-brothers by different fathers. The others turned out reasonably well. Not William, however. Truancy at age eleven. Shoplifting arrest at twelve. His mother paid restitution, so nothing happened to him. Associating with gangs since the age of fourteen. Left school before his sixteenth birthday. Arrested several months later for stealing a car, but the victim did not wish to prosecute. Suspected in a violent gang attack that put an honor-roll student in the ICU for weeks; but when the young man came out of the hospital, he either could not or would not identify his attackers.
“William and several other gang members then were arrested for the robbery of a corner grocery in the District, during which the owner was shot several times and later died. There were eyewitnesses to that incid
ent, which is what led to the initial arrests. In fact, William- ”
“Don’t call him that. We’re not on a chummy, first-name basis with this dirtbag.”
Wonk blinked. “Sorry. Anyway…Mr. Bracey?” Seeing no objection, he continued. “Mr. Bracey was initially identified by both witnesses as the one who actually shot the store owner. In their initial statements to the police, they said the shooting was entirely unprovoked; the victim had already surrendered the contents of his cash register.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He was a gentleman in his forties, an immigrant from Japan, with a wife and four children. The Post clipping in the file reports that Mr. Takahashi was a beloved local resident, very hard-working. He was a huge baseball fan and quite active sponsoring Little League teams. His family and the community were absolutely devastated… Is something wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything. Continue.”
“When Mr. Bracey came to trial, neither of the eyewitnesses would testify. You’ll see a note near the back of the file, written by an assistant prosecutor who comments about likely witness tampering. But without their testimony, there was no case.”
Hunter didn’t say anything.
“There is nothing further in his official record, not until the Copeland attack. Believe it or not, Dylan, that was his first criminal conviction.”
Hunter flipped open the file folder. Bracey’s photo was paper-clipped inside the cover.
Hollow cheeks, thin lips, dirty-blond hair, empty eyes the color of ice.
“So, that makes this piece of crap a ‘first-time offender.’”
“As far as the courts and the DOC are concerned-yes. And that is probably why they admitted him into that rehabilitation program… That is the extent of what I learned, but there is more detail in the file about his family, past associates, addresses, and so on.”
“That should be helpful.” Hunter took a last look at the photo, burning the image into his memory, then slapped the cover shut on it and slid the folder aside.
He flipped open the second file. Saw a broad, leering face with dark curly hair and a wispy mustache staring back at him from black shark’s eyes.
“That next fellow is John Joseph Valenti. ‘Jay-Jay’ is his street name. Anyway, Joh- Mr. Valenti hails from a nice Philadelphia working-class family. His father is a heavy-machine operator. They all moved to the Virginia suburbs ten years ago, when the builder for whom his father works landed a major paving contract in the District.”
Wonk paused. “Believe me, Dylan, this one is a real weirdo. I had a brief look at his social services report. When he was a child-a really young child-he liked to hurt animals. They caught him drowning a litter of kittens in a stream. Slowly, one at a time. He was only six years old. Can you imagine that?”
“Indeed I can. What else?”
“He was caught…exposing himself to other children.”
“No need to be embarrassed, Wonk.”
“Well, I just find that positively creepy. And not just to children. Later on, to a neighbor, an adult female living in the house next door. He stood naked in front of his window, doing…things. He was only ten.”
“Precocious little bastard, wasn’t he?”
Wonk winced. Dylan had forgotten that he didn’t like raw language.
“Anyway, there was more of that sort of thing as Mr. Valenti entered his teen years. So he was placed in a psychological counseling program. However, there were no legal consequences when he stopped attending.”
“Why am I not surprised.”
“Things grew considerably more serious when he was accused of molesting a fourteen-year-old girl.”
“His first known rape?”
The researcher’s plump cheeks reddened. “Well. Not rape, exactly. It was-what do they call it?-a kind of a fetish assault.”
“Say no more. I’ll read the file. So, what happened to him?”
“Nothing happened. As with Mr. Bracey, nothing of consequence ever happened to this individual, either. In this case, the girl was too embarrassed to pursue charges. Or perhaps it was her parents who were embarrassed; the report is ambiguous on that point. But Mr. Valenti-he was fifteen at the time-was urged again to seek counseling. He did not.”
“I am reeling in shocked incredulity. Anything else?”
“Only rumors. Very disturbing rumors, however. During the summer that he turned sixteen, Roberta Gifford, a college coed who lived on his block, went missing. Her body was discovered a week later, two miles away. She had been tortured…with various objects.”
He fell silent for a moment. Hunter stared down at the shark’s eyes in the photo.
“He was questioned about it,” Wonk continued, “but nothing came of it. He had an alibi, and so the case is still listed as unsolved.”
“What was his alibi?”
Wonk pointed at the third file folder. “Him.”
Hunter looked at it. Drew it closer. Flipped it open to the photo.
Older man, early forties.
Strong face. Large, hawkish nose.
Longish, slack sandy hair, tossed back roughly.
Eyes like an overcast November sky.
Hunter tapped the face in the photo with his forefinger. “This,” he said softly, “is the one who interests me most.”
“Adrian Dalton Wulfe,” Wonk announced. “He had hired Mr. Valenti to help him with home renovations at the time of the girl’s disappearance. Or so he claimed to the authorities.” Hunter didn’t say anything, so he went on. “And not long afterward, he also hired Mr. Bracey to assist with the yard work. That, apparently, is how the trio met.”
Hunter rocked slowly in his chair, holding the file folder level with his eyes.
“Dylan?”
Hunter remained silent. Rocked. Studied the photo before him.
“Why have you asked me to research these individuals?”
Silence.
“I gather that this is all about Dr. Copeland’s suicide this weekend. Am I correct?”
Silence.
“I assume that you intend to write about it, then?”
He stopped rocking. Lowered the file folder and met his researcher’s eyes.
“Among other things,” said Dylan Lee Hunter.
SEVEN
Arlington, Virginia
Monday, September 1, 6:45 p.m.
They stood in the hallway of the funeral home. Susanne Copeland, clutching a tissue, stared at the open door of the parlor just ahead of them, on the left. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen; her dark-red, shoulder-length hair bordered a pretty face now lined with pain and fatigue, a face that seemed to have aged ten years in the past three days.
She breathed deeply. “Okay. I guess it’s time.”
Annie took her arm gently and they began to walk slowly toward the room, followed closely by about a dozen of Susie and Arthur Copeland’s closest family members.
The funeral director who had greeted them at the building entrance had walked ahead, and now stood to one side of the parlor door. On the opposite side of the entrance a small, marble-topped table supported a spray of white roses, the visitors’ register, and a golden pen. The director smiled sadly as they approached, his hands clasped before him like a maitre d’.
“Mrs. Copeland,” he said, placing a consoling hand on her shoulder, “please take all the private time you need, and let me know if you require anything, anything at all.”
She blinked and swallowed. “Thank you, Mr. Reynolds.”
He moved to greet the relatives following them. She glanced at Annie, then at the door yawning open before her, as if it were the entrance to hell. Annie gave her arm a supportive squeeze. Susie took another deep breath, let it out, and they entered.
Soft string music was playing over the intercom-some banal, bittersweet religious hymn. She felt Susie’s arm go rigid at the first sight of the casket. Illuminated by hidden lights, it rested in a recessed alcove to their right. It was a gleaming bronze thing lying on a bi
er draped in cascades of rich white fabric, surrounded by what seemed to be a solid wall of floral wreaths and displays. The sickly sweet scent of hundreds of flowers was almost overpowering.
Arthur Copeland’s face and folded hands were visible against the white satin of the casket’s open lid.
As they neared, Susie’s pace slowed; then her steps became halting, each punctuated by a little gasp. The gasps became sobs. She sank onto the kneeling pad at the side of her husband’s body.
“Oh God. Oh God. Oh Arthur! ” she cried out, her voice high and thin. She reached out a trembling hand, touched his sleeve. “Oh Arthur!”
Annie found hot tears running down her own cheeks. She knelt beside her friend, wrapped her arm around her quaking shoulders. Susie turned into her, and they hugged and cried together.
Annie didn’t know how long they remained like that. She became dully aware of the family members around them, sobbing and praying.
Eventually, Susie regained her composure. Annie helped the young widow to her feet and then stepped aside to let her lean in close to her husband’s body.
It was a cliche, she thought, but Arthur looked as if he were merely asleep. The man’s face, so anguished during the past two years, was serene now-unlined, unmarked, bespectacled, just as it had been earlier in his life. She had dreaded seeing his body tonight almost as much as Susie had; but she marveled now that there was no sign of the gunshot wound that he had inflicted to his own skull. Clearly, the funeral director was as skilled at his own reconstructive craft as Dr. Arthur Copeland had been at his. At just forty-four, Arthur had been one the nation’s most renowned plastic surgeons.
“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it,” Susie said, shaking her head. “Oh, Arthur, why? ” She touched his clasped hands, flinched a bit-the shock of the hard coldness, Annie realized-but then let her palm rest on them. She touched his wedding ring with her forefinger. Then she leaned her face over his, and began to talk to him so quietly that Annie could no longer hear what she was saying. As she spoke, she patted his loose blond strands. Smoothed the lapel of his charcoal suit. Ran her palm down his tie.
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