Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

He headed north out of Alexandria. In a few miles, he pulled off the George Washington Parkway into the Gravelly Point parking area near Reagan National Airport. He waited for the noise to subside as a jet glided down the Potomac just a few hundred feet away and landed on the nearby runway.

From the glove compartment he took a hand-held recorder and a disposable cell phone. Replacing the battery in the phone, he powered it on and dialed a second disposable cell, hidden in another location. That one was set for call forwarding, to the night desk at the Inquirer. But the call would go first through a “spoof” website, so that a different phone number would show up on the editor’s Caller ID. The number was that of Youth Horizons in Alexandria.

He liked that touch. In any case, the police would never track the calls to him-especially after he destroyed and dumped both phones within the hour.

When he heard the night guy at the paper pick up, he pressed the “play” button on the recorder. His voice, electronically distorted by the spoof site, told the astonished editor exactly what would be found in the Alexandria courthouse.

Alexandria, Virginia

Wednesday, September 10, 1:30 p.m.

It wasn’t the best of days for the Alexandria Police Department.

As supervisor of the Violent Crimes Unit, Ed Cronin stood beside two of his superiors: the police chief and the deputy chief of the Investigations Bureau. Inside a conference room of their headquarters just off the Capital Beltway, under the TV camera lights and reporters’ probing eyes, they manned a podium spiked with microphones, fielding embarrassing questions to which they could give only awkward answers.

He felt particularly sorry for his chief. The man was trying to back-pedal away from the press statement that he had issued earlier that morning. But it was hard to do, because that statement had been a lie, and now he was caught in it.

Last night, a reporter at the Inquirer was tipped about the stiff in the courthouse, and he showed up with a photographer. The guard at the front desk had no clue what the hell they were talking about. He made them wait while he went upstairs to check out their crazy story.

Then rushed back to phone it in.

Since it was obvious from the m.o. that Valenti’s murder was connected to Bracey’s, the investigators didn’t want details to leak out, details that could be useful later when questioning suspects. So, this morning-in answer to the front-page story in the Inquirer -the chief issued a flat denial that any messages had been left by the killer or killers at either crime scene.

But around noon, the Inquirer and other media outlets received anonymous phone calls directing them to envelopes left at various places around the District. Inside, they found photos of Valenti’s body posed in the Commonwealth Attorney’s office, including a close-up shot of the newspaper clipping taped to the corpse.

Naturally, this caused a sensation, and it forced the chief to call this second news conference to rationalize his deceptive remarks at the first. Cronin was relieved not to be fielding any of those questions-they were the chief’s problem. But the reporters finally got around to singling him out.

“Nan Lafferty, the Post, for Sergeant Cronin: Have you been able to connect the two shootings as having been done with the same weapon?”

No, two different guns. “I’m sorry, but I can’t get into issues of physical evidence.”

“A follow-up, if I may,” the woman continued. “You have at least one eyewitness, the guard in the lobby, and the courthouse has plenty of security cameras. Will you be releasing a description or video footage of the suspect to the public?”

The commander of the Investigations Bureau leaned into the fountain of mics. “Yes. We’re processing the footage and expect to release a clip and some stills for you in another few hours, along with some additional details from the witness.”

“Would any of you please comment on the statement just released from the Commonwealth Attorney, in which he blamed ‘incendiary media coverage’-specifically, the article in the Inquirer last week-for inciting these killings?”

“With all due respect to him, I think that’s premature,” the commander said. The chief shook his head and added, “We don’t have enough yet to speak to motive.”

“Darrell Ellis, WTOP. Sergeant Cronin, how about you? As the lead investigator, do you think the killings were motivated by revenge?”

“Well, that assumes the perpetrator or perpetrators were personally involved with the deceased. We aren’t able to draw any conclusions like that at this early stage.”

“So you think there’s a possibility of more than one person being involved?”

Sure as hell looks that way. “We aren’t prepared to rule anything out at this point.”

He saw another hand waving in the back, near the door. Oh Jesus. He pointed. “Yes, Mr. Hunter.”

Everybody turned around to look at the guy.

“Dylan Hunter, on assignment for the Inquirer,” he said. “It seems that I’ve become part of this story, whether I want to be or not. So, Sergeant, why don’t we simply connect the dots here?”

“What do you mean?”

“First dot: Just after my article outlining their criminal histories appears in print, Bracey and Valenti are both shot, execution-style, within a three-day period. Second dot: A clip of that article is placed on Valenti’s body, which is left right inside the prosecutor’s office. Third dot: Whoever did all this then notifies the media, and encloses photos of the body and also of the clipping. So, isn’t it reasonable to assume that the two killings are connected by a common motive-such as revenge-and that the killer or killers left that clipping behind as their explanation or rationale?”

“We’re not in the business of operating on assumptions, Mr. Hunter.”

“You don’t see an obvious message here?”

The chief interrupted. “We’ve called upon the FBI’s behavioral profiling experts to assist us in interpreting the crime scene evidence. But as Sergeant Cronin said, at this point, we aren’t prepared to leap to conclusions.”

*

When the news conference ended, Cronin’s two bosses huddled with him away from the microphones.

“That Inquirer dude,” said the deputy chief of Investigations. “What do you know about him?”

Cronin watched as Hunter, brushing off a knot of reporters, left the room.

“Not a lot. Maybe if I ever get some time, I’ll find out and let you know.”

Tysons Corner, Virginia

Wednesday, September 10, 7:25 p.m.

Hunter descended the stairs into the spacious, rustic den of the Copelands’ gracious Colonial home. The conversations among the fifteen people in the room trailed off as they turned his way.

The first person whose eyes his found was Annie Woods. He nodded.

She nodded back.

Smiling, Susanne got up from an armchair and approached. “I’m so glad you made it, Dylan. Everyone, this is Dylan Hunter, the Inquirer reporter.”

She led him into the room and performed the introductions. He filed away their names in memory as he shook hands. The executive committee of Vigilance for Victims was a demographically diverse group: couples and singles, young and old, a mix of races and ethnic backgrounds. Their only common denominator was something he saw in their eyes. He’d seen that haunted look many times in the eyes of victims of violence. It added a tinge of poignancy to their smiles and friendly greetings.

Declining the offer of the punch and cookies spread on their bar, he found a spot in a folding chair against a paneled wall covered with framed vacation photos of the Copelands in various countries. They looked young and happy and in love.