"It's an acronym. D-A-R-E-S. There were teams. Each side dared the other to do things that could land them in jail."
Dance gave a cold laugh. Here she'd been so pleased that the boys were playing a game with paper and pen and avoiding the violence of the computer world--which had seduced Antioch March and helped turn him into a killer. And now the analog life had proven just as destructive.
A game you played with paper and pen? How harmful could that be?...
"And Wes's team was dared to commit the hate crimes?"
"That's right. Donnie has some juvie time under his belt. Troubled kid. And tonight? He had a weapon. His father's gun. A thirty-eight."
"My God."
"He said at first he just brought it for protection but then he admitted he was going to rob Goldschmidt. Some dream of moving out of the house. I've spoken to his father. Frankly, hardly blame the boy. Whatever happens, he'll be better off out of that household. I think he confessed so he didn't have to go back home."
Well, I'm not sure what to call you.
Mrs. Dance...
"Wes actually wrote those horrible things on the buildings and houses?"
"No. He was just a lookout for Donnie."
Still, that didn't absolve him. Even if he didn't tag the house himself he was a coconspirator. An accessory. And with the gun? It could be conspiracy to commit armed robbery. And what if someone had been killed because of a stolen stop sign? Homicide.
"I'm just setting the stage, Kathryn. There's more."
More? How the hell much worse could it be?
A cramp spidered through her right hand; she'd been gripping a pen furiously. She set it down. "I was concentrating on Maggie, who was upset about singing a damn song, and here was Wes committing felonies! I didn't pay him any attention. His life could be over--"
"Kathryn. Here." He set a mobile phone on her desk. And dug into his pocket and placed an envelope beside it.
She recognized the Samsung as Wes's. She looked up, frowning.
"There're videos on the phone. And this's a police report that Wes created." He pushed the envelope toward her.
"A police report? What do you mean?"
"Unofficial." O'Neil offered a rare smile. "He's been working undercover for a month. That's how he put it."
She picked up the envelope, opened it. Pages of computer printouts, a diary, detailing times and dates.
March 18, 6:45 p.m. in the evening, I personally observed subject Donald, AKA Donnie, Verso paint on the southwest wall of the Latino Immigration Rights Center, at 1884 Alvarado Drive, with a Krylon spray can the words: Go back to Mexico you wetbacks. The color of the paint was dark red.
O'Neil took the boy's phone and ran the camera app. He scrolled through until he found a video. It was shaky but it clearly showed Donnie tagging a building.
"And the other dares? The ones Donnie challenged the other team with? Wes documented those too. And the stolen street signs? Wes followed Nathan and some friend Vincent when they dug up the stop sign. He called nine-one-one right away to report it. And stayed at the intersection to make sure nobody was hurt."
She stared at the video. In a quiet voice-over: "I Wes Swenson am personally observing Donald Verso place graffiti on the Baptist New World Church..."
O'Neil continued, "About a month ago a friend of Wes--I think his name was Rashiv--had a run-in with Donnie and Nathan and another one of Donnie's crew."
Dance told him, "That's right. Rashiv and Wes were friends. Then Wes just stopped seeing him. I don't know what happened."
"Donnie and the others were bullying him, extorting money, beating him up. They stole a game console. Rashiv told Wes about it. There wasn't anything they could do themselves--you've seen Nathan?"
"Yes. Big."
"He was the muscle in the crew. He'd do anything Donnie told him. Including hurting people badly. Wes'd heard that Donnie and his friends were into some illegal things--the D.A.R.E.S. game was being talked about in school, though nobody knew exactly what it was. Wes decided to find out and--these were his words--'collar the bastard.' He talked his way into the clique and finally got Donnie to trust him enough to let him play.