Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

“You just said a ‘case.’ Is he involved in something I should know about?”

“No, not at all. You see, I’m a member of what the media calls ‘the Vigilantes Task Force.’ The first of those incidents took place on my turf, in Alexandria, which is how I got involved. And I met Mr. Hunter through his newspaper articles on the subject.”

“Oh,” she said, relaxing. “For a minute, there, you had me worried. So, what’s the problem, or puzzle, then?”

He leaned forward, placing his palms flat on the table. “Let me be up front with you, Ms. Woods. Mr. Hunter has aggravated some prominent and powerful people with what he’s been writing.”

“I know.”

“I can see it bothers you, too. Look, personally speaking, I applaud what he’s doing. He’s telling it like it is about the legal system. That article he wrote yesterday, for instance. He really opened a can of worms. I wish-”

“Excuse me, Detective,” she interrupted, “exactly how might I help you?”

“I’m sorry. Forgive my babbling. As I said, because he’s upset some V.I.P.’s, I’ve been asked to find out a bit more about him. You know-what makes him tick, why he’s doing this. That sort of thing. But when I started to do that this morning, certain things just didn’t add up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ms. Woods, when I started running background on him, I couldn’t find any history anywhere for a ‘Dylan Lee Hunter.’ The name, it just materialized out of thin air two, three years ago. It doesn’t lead back anywhere. It’s like this guy is a ghost.”

She laughed. “Oh, that! Okay, I see your problem. I encountered the same thing when we first started dating a couple of months ago, Detective Cronin. You see, I’m an investigator, too. Insurance claims. When we met, I did a bit of research to find out more about him. I also hit nothing but dead ends.”

“So why are you laughing about it?”

“He explained it to me.” She spent the next five minutes repeating to Cronin what Dylan had told her about his background. “So, you see,” she concluded, “you probably can’t find him because he legally changed his name to Dylan Lee Hunter. He showed me his IDs under that name, including his Maryland driver’s license. I’m trained to judge such things, and they were completely authentic.”

Cronin still looked skeptical. “I already guessed he might be using a pen name. Or even that he might have changed his name a few years back. But a legal name change leaves tracks. The new name would be linked to the old one in state records. We have access to their databases, and I ran checks this afternoon. Every state. Nada. We came up dry.”

“There must be an explanation.” She tried to remember exactly what he had told her. “He said he talked to some skip tracer, who coached him on how to disappear. He cut all his old ties, deleted and altered personal information on his old accounts before he closed them. Then he applied for a legal change of name and moved from place to place, job to job.”

Cronin rapped his fingertips rhythmically on the table, looking off into the distance. “But that wouldn’t be enough to erase all tracks from our databases that would tie him back to his old identity. For one thing, he’d still have the same Social Security number. That would link his new name to his old one.”

A group of loud kids wandered by, horsing around. Her eyes rested on them, automatically, but not her mind. She was thinking of their first date, of how relaxed he looked while he explained it all to her. It had sounded so reasonable. Now, she felt her early uncertainty about him creeping back, like a slow-acting poison in her veins.

Cronin continued. “To really vanish as whoever he was, and establish a new identity as Dylan Hunter, he almost certainly would need a new SSN in that name.” He stared off into space as he thought it through. “He couldn’t function anywhere without one-get a job, buy a house, open bank accounts, or obtain other legit IDs, like a driver’s license. But the Social Security Administration doesn’t issue somebody a new number.”

“What about a fake SSN? Maybe he got one and used that to obtain all his new IDs.”

“Not likely. Not anymore. Since 9-11, the states have really tightened security on issuing copies of birth certificates and new drivers’ licenses. A fake SSN would be flagged during their routine record checks. But you say he had authentic IDs. That suggests to me that he also has a real SSN, issued to Dylan Hunter. So how could that happen?”

“Well, illegal aliens seem to get all sorts of ID documents right on the streets. Don’t they get Social Security cards, too?”

“People who want to hide their pasts, like illegal aliens, don’t get government-issued SSNs. They usually rely on fake IDs. Fakes won’t pass close inspections, so that limits what they can do without getting caught. That’s why they typically work for cash at day jobs, where nobody bothers to check their IDs too closely. They keep a low profile. They avoid attention and encounters with the law. Well, does that sound like Mr. Hunter? Instead, he’s hiding in plain sight, right out in the open, and getting lots of public attention. And if you’re right, he has managed to get legitimate government IDs for what he admits isn’t his real name.”

He paused. His cool blue eyes were direct and unsparing.

“Ms. Woods, what he told you just can’t be the whole story. How well do you really know him?”

She felt a pang of anxiety. “What do you mean, ‘how well’?”

“You don’t really know much more about him than what he told you-right? From what you say, he’s put up a wall between you and his past. You’re a professional investigator. But even you haven’t been able to confirm a single thing he’s told you about his history.”

Her mouth was going dry. She licked her lips. “So, what are you suggesting?”

“Nothing in particular. I certainly don’t have reason to think he’s involved in anything criminal, if that’s what you mean. Maybe there is another perfectly reasonable explanation, like you say. I hope so. I like him. And I love what he’s been doing. But the details of his story just don’t add up. So far, we’ve been accepting him on blind trust.”

The words struck her like a slap in the face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”

“No. It’s okay. You’ve just taken me off guard… So, what are you going to do now?”

“First, I think I need to pay him a visit and get some answers.”

“Maybe I should, too,” she said.

“Not yet. That might be counterproductive. Look, why don’t you let me poke into this a bit more before you do or say anything?”

He rose to his feet; she followed suit.

“Please let me know what you find out,” she said.

“Will do. Meanwhile, here’s my card. Just-well, just keep your eyes and ears open. Call me if you discover anything that might clear this up. And thanks for all your help.”

*

She sat down again after he left. After a few minutes, she raised the cup to her lips; her hand shook as she sipped the coffee, now cold and bitter.

How can you really know someone?

How can you really trust anyone?

She replayed their conversations in her mind, seeking clues in his words to answer the questions now looming before her. But his words faded in her memory.

Instead, she saw his face. The firm, proud set of his mouth and chin, the direct intensity of his gaze-these seemed to banish all questions and doubts. She remembered the night they had met with the crime victims. Recalled the compassion of his gaze as he listened to them, the righteous anger in his eyes as he vowed to help them.

And today-that same fearless passion for justice in his words, in his bearing, when he confronted-