Hunter closed the sticky lid of the box and slid it aside to clear space on the desk. “Now that you’re amply, if not properly, fortified, what do you have for me?”
Wonk leaned forward; the chair’s metal legs creaked ominously. He couldn’t bend more than a few inches, but his chubby arms somehow managed to reach past the curve of his belly to grip the green canvas bag at his feet. He lifted it laboriously and balanced it precariously on what little remained of his lap. Then he poked around inside and extracted three thick manila folders, held together by rubber bands.
“Here they are,” he said, panting from his heroic exertion. He pushed the folders across the desk. “All three files that you asked for.”
They bore official Department of Corrections stamps and labels. Hunter whistled softly. “Amazing. How do you manage to get your hands on all this stuff?”
Wonk looked like a puppy tossed a treat. “Trade secrets. That is why I am the highly paid professional researcher, while you are the high-profile professional journalist.” He hesitated. Hunter knew Wonk was waiting to be begged for details. Amused, he ignored him, and instead took his time removing the rubber bands.
“The only thing that I can tell you,” Wonk blurted finally, “is that an administrative assistant in the DOC owed me a huge favor. But Dylan, please understand that you cannot keep these for more than two hours. I must get them back to her before the end of the business day.”
“No problem. I’ll look through the files and have Danika photocopy whatever I need. Did you find out anything else about these guys? The things I wanted to know specifically?”
“Certainly. I ran a Lexis-Nexis search.” He pulled out another file folder and placed it on the desk. “You can keep that one.”
“Just the headlines.”
“You already know from the news reports on Friday that the two younger perpetrators were quietly transferred last month from the juvenile facility into what the DOC calls their ‘reintegration track.’ Specifically, that refers to a community-based vocational training program called Youth Horizons, headquartered in Alexandria. That is what caused that victims-rights group to become so upset. They are really on the warpath about it.”
“What do you know about the program?”
“I am still compiling information. Supposedly, it accepts only nonviolent offenders, so I am not certain how these two qualified for admission. I can only surmise that because they were convicted as first-time offenders, the department’s psychologists may think they constitute promising candidates for rehabilitation.”
“But that doesn’t make sense.” Hunter took a slow breath, tried to keep his tone matter-of-fact. “What they did to…the Copeland woman. They couldn’t have just decided one day, out of the blue, to assault a total stranger. Violently, sexually assault her. Predators start very young, with petty offenses. Then they escalate over the years. By the time they’re caught and convicted for violent adult crimes, they’ve already got long rap sheets.”
“And that is precisely what we see with these young men. The challenge for me was that their juvenile histories have been sealed.”
“So tell me.”
Wonk leaned back, delighted to expound. “My sources in various prosecutors’ offices inform me that it happens all the time. Everyone wishes to grant a juvenile delinquent a ‘second chance.’ A police officer I know has labeled it the ‘Father Flanagan myth’-in other words, ‘There is no such thing as a really bad boy.’ So, in most states, the legal system minimizes a child’s crimes. They usually are not charged with the actual offense that they committed, but with something far less serious. In addition, their juvenile records are sealed, sometimes even expunged, so that the public can never discover their true backgrounds.”
“I know. It’s insane.”
“Perhaps. But prevailing theory is that most youths eventually outgrow their impulsiveness and stupidity; therefore, if their criminal histories are kept confidential, the stigma of juvenile indiscretions will not follow them into adulthood.”
“‘Indiscretions’? Are you serious? We’re not talking about stealing hubcaps, here. We’re talking about violent rape. And probably a lot more-if only we had access to their juvie records.”
His visitor folded his pudgy hands across the globe of his midsection and smiled serenely.
Hunter stared at him. “You didn’t.”
“Well, I was not permitted to take them with me. But a person who shall remain nameless did allow me to take a peek.”
“And?”
Wonk removed his black-framed eyeglasses carefully; one temple clung to the frame by white adhesive tape. He gazed toward the ceiling and, in the staccato of bureaucratese, began to recite chapter and verse from memory. Hunter wondered for the hundredth time if his research assistant was some kind of savant.
“William Michael Bracey, a.k.a. ‘Billy B.’ Age twenty. That is the individual in the top file. Born in Arlington. Raised by a single mother. Three half-brothers by different fathers. The others turned out reasonably well. Not William, however. Truancy at age eleven. Shoplifting arrest at twelve. His mother paid restitution, so nothing happened to him. Associating with gangs since the age of fourteen. Left school before his sixteenth birthday. Arrested several months later for stealing a car, but the victim did not wish to prosecute. Suspected in a violent gang attack that put an honor-roll student in the ICU for weeks; but when the young man came out of the hospital, he either could not or would not identify his attackers.
“William and several other gang members then were arrested for the robbery of a corner grocery in the District, during which the owner was shot several times and later died. There were eyewitnesses to that incident, which is what led to the initial arrests. In fact, William- ”
“Don’t call him that. We’re not on a chummy, first-name basis with this dirtbag.”
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.