“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.
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.