HUNTER: A Thriller (A Dylan Hunter Thriller)

by Robert Bidinotto

  “Then you dragged us into the weeds beside the road. And you held Arthur down, and you made him watch—while they raped me.” She paused. “And you know what else they did to me, too.... And through that whole nightmare, I remember Arthur screaming and crying and I heard you laughing and hitting him and telling him to shut up, and then laughing some more at what they were doing to me, and telling them to hurry up, because they didn’t have a lot of time, and it was your turn.”

  She stopped. Her eyes were closed.

  Adrian Wulfe’s face was expressionless.

  “It must have made you feel so very powerful to do that to Arthur, didn’t it, Mr. Wulfe? I mean, to hit him, hold him down, humiliate him like that? After all, Arthur wasn’t a great big guy like you. And Arthur wouldn’t have known how to overpower or hurt someone. Because he never wanted to. He was a doctor, Mr. Wulfe. A plastic surgeon. Unlike you, he devoted his whole life to fixing people’s injuries—not causing them. Sometimes, he even had to repair the horrible damage that monsters like you cause.”

  Frankfurt squirmed in his seat. Wulfe sat motionless.

  “You and I both know you were going to kill us that night, Mr. Wulfe. You wouldn’t have wanted to leave us alive to identify you. It was sheer dumb luck for us that you didn’t—if you want to call us lucky for surviving. If it wasn’t for that pizza delivery kid driving past with his windows down, who heard our screaming and radioed for the cops, I wouldn’t be here. Of course—” Her voice caught. “Of course, Arthur isn’t here. Is he, Mr. Wulfe? No, because he couldn’t deal with it.”

  She turned to Frankfurt, her eyes blazing. “So, doctor. You want me to talk about how I felt. You want me to talk about how I feel. You want me to say what I need. Let me tell you what I need. I need my husband back. I need the wonderful man who shot himself ten days ago, to end the hell that son of a bitch put him through. I need the husband he took from me! I need the man he murdered, just as sure as if he’d bashed in his skull with the tire iron that night. So tell me, doctor: How do you suppose he’s going to ‘restore’ my husband? And why in God’s name should I give a damn about his feelings and his needs?”

  Frankfurt shifted again uncomfortably.

  “You’re right, Mrs. Copeland.”

  They all turned to Adrian Wulfe.

  “There’s absolutely no reason why you should care about anything I feel or need. Absolutely none. Everything you said about me—you’re right. It was monstrous, what I did. Inexcusable.”

  Susanne just stared at him, as if she no longer had the capacity for speech.

  “The only reason I asked for this meeting,” he continued, his voice rumbling deep and soft, “was to give you the chance to say these things to my face. Things you need to say, but weren’t given the opportunity to say in the courtroom. But there’s no reason for you to listen to me. Nothing I can say could ever undo all the suffering I’ve caused you and your husband. It would be insulting of me to even try to apologize.”

  Susanne Copeland was trembling. A tear began a thin track down her cheek.

  “Do you have anything else that you’d like to say to me, Mrs. Copeland?” Wulfe asked. “I’ll stay here as long as you want me to.”

  She shook her head. Tears were now flowing freely. Annie reached out to touch her shoulder.

  “In that case, doctor, there’s no reason she should have to endure my presence any longer.”

  He rose to his feet. Nodded to Susanne. Then met Annie’s angry frown with a little smile.

  You goddamned manipulative fraud.

  Hunter rushed to the door, yanked it open. In the hallway, a few feet away, two waiting corrections officers leaning against the wall straightened when they saw him.

  Two seconds later, the door to Wulfe’s cubicle opened and he emerged.

  Hunter went for him. “Wulfe!”

  The prisoner looked his way, startled. The guards jumped between them, one blocking his path while the other pushed Wulfe in the opposite direction.

  “Hold on, buddy! You stop right there!” the nearest officer yelled to Hunter, pressing him back.

  He stopped. He wasn’t about to hurt innocent people just to get at the guy.

  “Look at me, Wulfe.”

  Towering above the head of the other guard, the inmate stared back at him.

  “See this face? I want you to remember it in your nightmares. Because someday, it’ll be the last face you’ll ever see.”

  *

  The three of them sat in a small diner on the outskirts of Claibourne, the old-fashioned kind that looked like a railroad car parked on the side of the highway. She and Susie faced Dylan Hunter on the opposite side of the booth. Annie suspected that he was hungry, but since they were only having hot tea, he stuck to coffee.

  “You actually spoke to him, then,” Susie said.

  “Briefly.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  He took a sip from his mug. “Enough.”

  Annie studied him more closely. His was a masculine face, not pretty-boy handsome, but rough-handsome. Skin creased and slightly weathered, as if he spent his years outdoors. Deep-set eyes, constantly on the move, seeming to miss nothing. Cleft chin, broad nose, thick tangle of dark brown hair. She thought she saw a thin, faint scar along his jawline. He looked more like a prizefighter than a reporter.

  Those eyes caught her watching him; she lowered her gaze to her teacup.

  “You think it was all some kind of ruse, then.”

  “Yes, Susanne, I do.”

  “What could he possibly hope to gain?”

  He shrugged. “Virginia abolished parole years ago. So he can’t be trying to suck up to the parole board. But his plea bargain minimized the time he’ll stay behind bars.”

  Susie looked down. “I suppose you wonder why I agreed to that.”

  “None of my business.”

  “Well, I want to tell you, anyway. It wasn’t so much the ordeal of testifying in court. Yes, I knew it would be hard to face my friends and co-workers if they had all of those...images in their minds. But that wasn’t the biggest thing. It was mostly for Arthur’s sake. He was having so much trouble with it. I couldn’t bear the thought of forcing him to relive it in court.”

  “I understand.”

  “And when their lawyers made it clear that they would really go after us at trial—well, I told the Commonwealth Attorney’s office I wouldn’t fight a plea deal. Not as long as they’d be convicted of a sex crime of some sort. I wanted them branded as sex criminals, with their names in a registry. So that other people would be warned that they’re predators.”

  “You figured that if they were convicted for sex crimes, they’d be gone for a long time.”

  “I still don’t understand why not.”

  Dylan took another sip, put down the mug. Spread his big hands on the paper placemat. “From what I’ve been able to figure out, Wulfe initially was charged with rape and conspiracy to commit a felony. But because he didn’t actually assault you—”

  “Only because the cops got there in time,” Annie interrupted.

  “Only because. So they charged him with ‘attempt to commit rape.’ In this state, that’s a Class 4 felony—which means he was eligible for a two-to-ten-year sentence. The conspiracy charge could’ve added another year or so behind bars. But by the terms of the plea deal, the judge ordered the two sentences to run concurrently, not consecutively.”

  “So, their conspiracy—their gang attack—added nothing, then?” Annie demanded.

  “I’m afraid not. Wulfe received just a little over three years. But with all these early-release programs, who knows what that really means?”

  “What about the other two?” Susie asked.

  “When they attacked you, Bracey and Valenti were still juveniles, if only by a few months. Still, because of the seriousness of the charges, they were indicted in circuit court. They could have been convicted and sentenced as adults. But again, the plea bargains changed all that. They bounced
those two back to the juvie system. Which, as we know, is a joke. Since they didn’t have any serious previous convictions, they were eligible for shorter sentences.”

  “Even though we know they probably both committed murders in the past?”

  “Even though.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “Crazy. And immoral. Because our so-called justice system has nothing to do with justice.”

  “So what happens to Bracey and Valenti now?”

  Annie thought something moved in his eyes.

  “They were in sex-offender ‘therapy’ in the juvenile correction centers. Then they were transferred to a ‘community-based alternative’ in Alexandria called Youth Horizons. It is a group home in a residential neighborhood. When I wrote my article last week, I thought these guys were still living there, locked up.”

  “They’re not?” Susie looked shocked.

  Dylan shook his head. “All they really have to do is show up each morning for four hours of counseling. In the afternoons, they’re released, supposedly to look for jobs. But at night, those two are out roaming the streets. You can thank the idiots promoting all these ‘alternatives to incarceration’ programs. They’re responsible for— Something wrong, Annie?”

  She tried to cover her reaction. “Sorry. I, I just remembered—I have to visit someone tonight.”

  “Anyway, next year, when they turn twenty-one, they can’t be held any longer. But I think they’ll be out even sooner, because they get months of ‘good behavior’ credits that shorten their sentences.”

  “You’re telling me these animals will serve less than three years, then be back on the streets?”

  “Susanne, I’m telling you they’re already back on the streets.”

  She put her head in her hands. “I can’t believe this. They took my Arthur forever, and they lose only three years of their lives.”

  Dylan turned away and looked at the passing traffic.

  “I appreciate your honesty. I wish the prosecutor had been this honest with me.”

  They were silent for a moment. Then Susie spoke again. “Dylan, for a reporter, you’re unusually sympathetic to crime victims. I was thinking. I’d like to invite you to the next executive committee meeting of our Vigilance for Victims group. I think the members would like to meet you.”

  He nodded immediately. “Susanne, I’d be honored.”

  “You, too, Annie. I’ve been inviting you for months, and you haven’t shown up yet.”

  “Well...when is it?”

  “Wednesday night, 7:30. I know it’s short notice, but—”

  “Works for me,” Hunter said, looking not at Susie, but at her.

  “Sure,” she found herself saying, breaking eye contact. “I think I’m clear, too.”

  “Great. It’s at our...it’s at my home just off Route 193, north of Tysons Corner. Annie knows where it is, but I’ll email you the directions. You’ll be glad you came. The people are wonderful. Inspiring. For me, they’ve meant so—”

  “Excuse me,” Dylan said, pulling his ringing cell phone from a jacket pocket. “Yes?.... Oh, Danika. Hi. Look, I’m tied up right now. Could I— What?”

  His eyes widened, his lips parted. She exchanged glances with Susie.

  “Sure.... I understand.... Listen, let the detective know I can meet him there about 4:30. Then call Bronowski back and tell him I’ll phone in about an hour, okay?.... Thanks.”

  He closed the phone. “Sorry for the interruption. That was my answering service. Considering what we’ve just been talking about, you’re not going to believe this.”

  He pushed his cup and saucer aside, reached across the table and rested his hand on Susie’s. “Susanne, it seems that you have one less criminal to worry about. William Bracey has just been found shot dead.”

  Her shoulders began to shake.

  Then he was around the table, holding her close as she began to sob.

  TWELVE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Monday, September 8, 4:40 p.m.

  Dylan Hunter liked Ed Cronin’s face.

  The Alexandria homicide investigator had a squarish jaw, a fringe of close-cropped blond hair, and blue eyes that sparked with intelligence. He looked to be in his mid-forties; beneath his blue sports jacket he seemed trim and athletic. Maybe a handball player or runner. One of that minority of balding guys that women go for.

  “I appreciate this, Mr. Hunter. I won’t take much of your time.”

  “It’s okay, Sergeant Cronin. End of the workday. What can I do for you?”

  “As I told your receptionist when I called, it’s about the murder of William Bracey.”

  “Right. One of the trio I wrote about last week. I caught the news on the radio on my way here.”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “Well, I don’t think many people will lament his passing.”

  Cronin smiled, the only editorial he would permit himself.

  “But I put everything that I learned about the guy in the article. So if you’re looking for more information, I’m not sure I can help you.”

  The detective leaned back in the guest chair. It didn’t creak as it had under the weight of its previous occupant. “Maybe you can. We found something unusual at the crime scene.”

  He shut up. Waiting for him to fill the silence. The guy was good. But it would seem suspicious not to bite. “Unusual?”

  Cronin reached into the large manila envelope he’d brought with him. Extracted a clear, zip-lock plastic bag and slid it across the desk toward him. He leaned over to look at it. Inside was a newspaper clipping with brownish spatters on it.

  He looked up at his visitor. “You found this at the crime scene?”

  Cronin nodded, watching him.

  Hunter sat back, frowned, and spread his hands. “I don’t understand.”

  Cronin stared at him for a moment. Then relaxed and sighed. “Neither do we, frankly. We can only speculate. Most likely thing is, somebody read your article, got royally pissed off, and decided to whack the guy. Then leave the clipping at the crime scene. As his justification.”

  “You think my article motivated somebody to kill this guy?”

  The detective shrugged. “Sure looks like it. From the way the crime scene was staged.”

  “Staged?”

  “Look, I tell you this, it’s not for public consumption, okay? I don’t want to read about it in the paper tomorrow.”

  Hunter didn’t like it, but he raised three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Okay, Bracey was shot lying in his bed. But that’s not where we found him. The perp, or perps, dragged him off the bed and perched him in a stuffed chair facing his front door. Then they positioned his hands on his lap. And they put your article in his hands. Like he was reading it.”

  He blinked, his mouth hanging open. “You’re kidding.”

  “Damnedest thing I’ve seen in a while.”

  He stared at the cop. Then began to laugh.

  Cronin smiled. “We thought it was funny, too.”

  Hunter clapped several times. “Bravo! Somebody out there has a sense of—I don’t know, what would you call it?”

  “Humor, for sure.”

  “I was going to say ‘poetic justice,’ but that’s not quite right. And I don’t pretend my writing is poetic.”

  “Whatever it is—between us, the guys in the department like it. We’re glad somebody’s saying this stuff, because we can’t. You know how it is.”

  “I know exactly how it is.”

  Cronin reached for the plastic evidence bag, returned it to the envelope. “No matter what I think about this privately, though, I have a job to do.”

  “Of course. We can’t have killers walking the streets, now, can we?”

  The cop caught the irony and chuckled. “No, of course not. Anyway, we’re doing the usual. Looking at Bracey’s associates, enemies. Checking out the families of his vics, to see if anybody might have gone over the edge. They’d probably have the most mo
tive. We also talked to your editor, asked him for all the mail that came in about your article. Has anybody really upset contacted you privately about it? Mail, email, calls?”

  Hunter looked off into space. “Not really. Certainly no one who sticks out as being unhinged.”

  The detective got up, pulled out a business card, and left it on the desk. “Well, you let me know if anybody communicates with you that we should check out.”

  Hunter walked with the detective back to the reception area. Danika looked up and smiled at them both.

  “Sorry I couldn’t help you.”

  Cronin turned and extended his hand. “Mr. Hunter, what you do, that’s already a big help. To everybody. Please keep it up.”

  He held the man’s eyes. “Count on it.”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Monday, September 8, 7:30 p.m.

  She turned off 16th onto a side street that curved back into an upscale residential neighborhood of northwest Washington. In a couple of blocks, she pulled into the driveway of a large, stately home. After turning off the ignition, she remained at the wheel a moment, steadying herself for the conversation to come. They’d had a few such conversations before. They never lasted long. They never got easier. And they never got anywhere.

  Maybe this time.

  She got out and walked up the tidy brick sidewalk that arced toward the front door. Even before she rang the bell, Gracie, the old Irish Setter, began to bark inside.

  Kenneth MacLean peered through the arched window of the door, and a smile spread over his face. The door opened a few seconds later.

  “Annie dear! What a lovely surprise.” He opened his arms and she returned his hearty hug.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Come, sit down.” He put his arm around her shoulders and led her into the den. Gracie followed and Annie bent to pat her for a minute until, satisfied, the dog wandered off.

  Paneled in dark oak, the room was a gentleman’s sanctuary from another era. The wall to the left was lined, floor to ceiling, with bookcases. The wall opposite featured a massive stone fireplace. Family photos adorned the mantelpiece, and a few paintings surrounded the window on the far wall. It had been her favorite place in the house as a little girl. Curled up with a story book in one of the big club chairs, she felt a sense of security, stability, and permanence.