Then he used tape from the desk to stick a copy of the Inquirer article to Valenti’s shirt, just above the bullet hole. Beneath it, on Valenti’s lap, he carefully placed a much older news clipping.
It reported the tragic discovery of the body of Roberta Gifford. For a few seconds, he looked at the face of the girl in the photo.
Then he pulled a small digital camera from his pocket and began snapping photos.
When he was done, he tossed the tarp, scissors, tape, and everything else he had used or touched into his trash container. Before he left, he checked the whole area carefully. He kept the gloves on as he took the cart back down to the lobby.
“All done?” the guard asked him when he dropped off the key at the security desk.
“For the time being.”
*
Across town, in a warehouse area, he stopped in an alley that he had checked earlier. He got out and stripped the magnetic janitorial sign from the side of the van, replacing it with a larger, gaudier one advertising a nonexistent nightclub in Baltimore. He snapped a plastic cover off the license plate, revealing a different, equally phony number from Maryland.
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.
FOURTEEN
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.
<
br /> 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.
As the group reclaimed their seats, Susanne spoke again. “I know you all share my gratitude to Dylan for the courageous work he’s been doing on behalf of crime victims.” They began to applaud.
“Thank you,” he said. “But you’re the courageous ones, not me.”
“You’re too modest, Dylan.”
He shook his head. “My job is merely to chronicle your courage. The word ‘crime’ means nothing to public officials, except pages of cold, empty statistics. But when you stand up and speak out for justice, you put human faces on all those abstract numbers. I’m honored to be in your presence.”
Morgan Jackson, a dignified, middle-aged African-American, and co-chair of the group, took the floor to open the session with a prayer. As he spoke, those in the room bowed heads and joined hands. A frail elderly woman, who had been introduced to him as Kate Higgins, rested a pale, thin hand on Susanne’s shoulder.
“And Lord,” Jackson concluded, “in Your infinite mercy, please lift the burdens from our hearts. Remember especially in this difficult hour our sister Susanne. Give her comfort, even as You welcome into Your holy presence the soul of her dear husband and our beloved brother, Arthur. And Lord, continue to shine Your grace upon the souls of those whom we have lost. Amen.”
The meeting began with reports from various fundraising and project committees. Before long, the agenda turned to new business. Jeri West, a svelte blonde in her early fifties, stood and faced the group with a grim expression.
“I spoke this morning with the chief of staff in Congressman Shipler’s office. He told me that H.R. 207 was going to pass favorably out of committee.”
The room erupted in protests; she raised a hand. “I know. Last week we were told it wasn’t going to happen. But it looks like the ‘prisoner rights’ lobby finally got to some of the committee members. So did the idea of getting a lot of federal money in their districts.”
“Damn the bastards! We can’t let them get away with this!” George Banacek’s eyes blazed. Well into his sixties, he had the rugged face and rough manner of a man who had worked all his life with his hands. There was no sign of pain in that face; whatever private agony he had endured had long since metastasized into unforgiving anger.
“I’m sorry,” Hunter said, “but I don’t know the bill you’re referring to.”
Jeri explained that if passed into law, H.R. 207 would provide states tens of billions of federal dollars to fund and expand experimental “alternatives to incarceration” programs. Strapped for cash, state and local governments were eager to slash their prison budgets, even if it meant dumping thousands of dangerous inmates back out onto the streets.
Banacek exploded again. “No way we let this pass! You all know my boy Tommy was murdered by a couple of punks who never should’ve been on the streets.”
Kate Higgins covered her face with her hands.
Banacek saw her and pointed. “And poor Kate here, her Michael, he was-”
“George, stop it!” Jeri interrupted. “Please. This is hard enough on many of us. We’ll just have to fight it when it gets to the House floor.”
“What good’s it going to do? Once it gets out of committee, we know they got the votes to pass it in the House. The Senate, too. And our dear president-hell, he’s a lost cause. He’ll sign the damned thing in a heartbeat.”
“We just can’t let the sentences be slashed on all the vicious criminals who did these things to us and our families,” added Bob West, Jeri’s husband. “Once they’re out again, they’ll just prey on others.”
“After what that monster did to my little Loretta, I don’t think I could deal with it if he got out,” Lila Jackson, Morgan’s wife, said in a soft voice. “I don’t care if it sounds un-Christian. Those vigilante people who killed Susie and Arthur’s attackers. Whoever they are, I pray to God they would do the same thing to him.”
“Easy, honey,” Morgan said, putting his arm around her. “You know you don’t mean that.”
“I do! God help me, I do. But that’s too much to hope for. There’s just no justice in this world. No justice at all. People just don’t have a clue what’s going on in the legal system. We have to stop this madness.”
“Maybe we can, if we bring it to public attention,” Jeri said.
“How the hell we going to do that?” Banacek demanded.
“Perhaps I can help,” Hunter said.
They all looked at him. He drew a slim black recorder from his sports jacket.
“If you tell me your personal stories, I’ll give them the attention they deserve. I’ll tell everybody how the early-release programs in this bill will lead to more crimes like those that you’ve experienced. Together, we can make that bill so radioactive that no politician will dare touch it.”
Everyone broke into smiles and excited chatter. Kate Higgins rose unsteadily and shuffled toward him. He stood to receive her. He took in her white hair, her ravaged face. She reached out and grasped his hands; in his, hers felt tiny, delicate, and lost.
“God bless you, Mr. Hunter,” she said, smiling through her tears.
He couldn’t say anything.
He felt another set of eyes on him. He looked past her and saw Annie Woods watching him intently from across the room.
*
After the meeting broke up two hours later, he shook hands all around. It wasn’t a coincidence that he found himself leaving at the same time she did. They said their goodbyes to Susanne at the door.
They strolled casually, side by side, toward their cars. The bright moon cast tree shadows across the pavement of the cul-de-sac. Deep in the wealthy residential neighborhood, only the sounds of their footfalls broke the eloquent silence. He felt an electric tension rising between them with each step.
She broke it first. “It’s wonderful. What you’re doing.”
He looked at her. She wouldn’t meet his eyes; hers remained focused straight ahead as she walked.
He said, “Susanne is fortunate to have someone as loyal as you in her life.”
Her expression seemed to change, but she didn’t reply. As she reached her car, she pulled out her keys and unlocked it remotely.
You can’t get involved.
“I was wondering,” he heard himself say, “if you’d like to have dinner this Friday evening.”
She stopped. Didn’t speak for a moment. Then turned to face him. The moonlight bared what he thought was a hint of fear in her eyes.
“Dylan, I like you. But I hardly know you. And-”
“-and when you get to know me better over dinner, maybe you won’t like me.” He knew he should stop. He couldn’t. “But at least you’ll have had a great dinner.”
The fear was obvious now. “I really shouldn’t.”
Let her go.
“I really shouldn’t either. But I don’t seem to care.”
“Tell me you’re not married. Or involved with somebody.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “No, Annie. I’m not married. And I’m not involved with anyone.”
“Then why do you say you shouldn’t?”
“For the same reason you do.”
“You’re scared?”
&n
bsp; “Terrified.”
“Terrified? Of what?”
“Why don’t we reveal our respective fears over dinner?”
She laughed. He did, too. It broke the tension. He asked for her number and address. She told him. She asked why he didn’t write them down. He told her he never had trouble remembering truly important things. She laughed again.
He loved her laugh.
He followed her around to the driver’s side. It was a physical effort not to touch her as she slid into the seat. Then to refrain from touching the window when she looked up at him and smiled.
She started the car and pulled away into the night.
He stood there in the middle of the empty street, watching until the car rounded a curve and its red tail lights winked out.
On the way to his own car, he found himself humming a Cole Porter tune. In his head, he could hear Frank singing it in his iconic style.
Then Frank got to the part about the warning voice in the night, repeating in his ear.
He sat motionless behind the wheel. The voice, suppressed during the previous hours, was loud now.
Yes, you damned fool. Use your head. Face reality.
Cold logic always served him well. Cold logic now told him this couldn’t end well.
But he had been alone such a long time.
He turned over the key, gunned the engine, wiped out the nagging voice.
Tonight, for once, he didn’t give a damn what cold logic said.
FIFTEEN
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Thursday, September 11, 9:40 a.m.
“Annie.”
She was arrested by the familiar growl of Grant Garrett behind her, and she turned to face him. He stood in the hallway, feet planted apart, hands jammed in his trouser pockets, just outside the exit doors of the auditorium. His tall, lean, unmoving figure forced the crowd emerging from this year’s 9-11 memorial ceremony to separate and flow around him. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, she thought.
She approached him, wading against the tide of people. “What’s up?”
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