Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

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.

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 bier 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.