Brittany Horn, Jessica Masulli Reyes, Esteban Parra and Christina Jedra and Larry Fenn

The News Journal and Associated Press

Kids are more likely to be shot in Wilmington than any other U.S. city.

Arguments start on Facebook and Twitter between young people age 12 to 17 and are frequently settled with guns. They are targeted for seemingly innocuous insults on social media about a girl, a family member or a pair of sneakers. One shooting often begets another and another.

“Every time you go outside, you have to think about it: Is somebody gonna shoot you today? Are you gonna get robbed today?" asked a 17-year-old who has lost a brother and a best friend to the city's gun violence. "Is this gonna be the last time you see your mom today? And nobody wants to say nothing.”

No one says anything because telling authorities about shootings they’ve witnessed — including those in broad daylight — could make them a target in a city of 72,000 people.

Most who spoke to The News Journal requested anonymity for fear of retaliation. The city's infamous no-snitch culture thwarts investigations by law enforcement, keeps shooting clearance rates low and renders some inner-city streets lawless.

Sixty-four children have been shot in Wilmington shootings between January 2015 and Labor Day. Five have died.

Police have made just 16 arrests.

Most of the victims and shooters come from a few predominantly African-American communities in the city, Wilmington police say. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reports that in the city's toughest neighborhoods, 60 percent of children have experienced trauma — a rate nearly three times that of children living in the rest of Delaware.

Wilmington's skyline is dotted with high-rise buildings belonging to big-name banks, but tucked at their feet sit neighborhoods where many brick row homes are boarded up and vacant. Ten percent of residents in these stressed communities are unemployed, and another 50 percent are not in the workforce, Census data shows.

"This is all you see, every day, is (police) lights, all night," said Minnie Truitt near her home in West Center City. "Sun up, sun down. You see police lights, ambulance lights. Every other day it's a murder. And it's getting closer and closer to home."

The newspaper partnered with USA TODAY and the Associated Press to analyze shooting statistics covering a 3½-year period through June of this year from the Gun Violence Archive, a nonprofit that compiles law enforcement and news media reports. The per capita data in Wilmington showed that roughly 3 out of every 1,000 adolescents are injured or killed every year from gun violence.

INTERACTIVE MAP:Explore shootings in Wilmington

While Attorney General Jeff Sessions has put emphasis on reducing gun violence in big cities, calling blood in Chicago's streets "unacceptable," little attention has been focused on mid-sized cities with populations between 50,000 and 250,000. And teens in Wilmington have been shot at a rate nearly double Chicago's.

Wilmington also has a 2-to-1 lead over Trenton, its closest peer in the mid-sized city group, according to the data analysis. In descending order, other cities facing extraordinarily high teen shootings are Savannah, Georgia; Syracuse, New York; and Flint, Michigan.

Many of Wilmington's teen shootings in the past two and a half years can be traced to a retaliatory gang war among city youth that erupted on a Friday night in January 2015, when kids were sprayed with bullets by passing gunmen while listening to music on the front porch of a home in the Hilltop neighborhood.

Jordan Ellerbe, 16, was hit in the head and later died. A 17-year-old was struck in the chest, and yet another teen suffered a gunshot in the arm.

Two days later, on a Sunday afternoon, their friends gathered on the same front porch to grieve. Gunmen again targeted the Hilltop home, and this time an 18-year-old was hit in the leg, a 16-year-old was hit in the arm and a 21-year-old was shot in the buttocks.

Since then, state prosecutors and court documents have traced four more deaths and more than a dozen shootings to the rivalry between the Only My Brothers and Shoot to Kill gangs in the city.

Each time a teen is shot or killed, the impulsive urge for revenge runs hot among friends and family of the injured. Speculation begins immediately on who will be targeted next.

“The streets remember,” said Mark Denney, a state prosecutor trying to end the gang rivalry.

Some of America's biggest and best-known gangs — the Bloods and the Crips — use member affiliations to sell drugs and firepower to defend turf. It doesn't work that way in Delaware.

State prosecutors say alliances among warring gangs are formed more for protection and friendship than for illegal drug sales. Delaware teens targeted by prosecutors for violating the state's gang participation statute typically have charges of theft and other petty crimes on their records. More importantly, they don't see themselves as gangs.

David Kennedy of the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York, who for years has studied Delaware's biggest city, estimates that there are 30 active street crews in Wilmington. These crews, made up of about 20 people per group, or 600 city residents in total, are responsible for most of Wilmington's crime, he said, though few will ever actually pull the trigger of a gun.

It's difficult for the average person to spot gang members because rather than sporting colors or uniform clothing styles, Wilmington's teen gangs rely on emojis and hashtags to represent their groups online.

“Technology’s evolution has made it easier for criminals to get guns,” said Deputy Attorney General Joseph Grubb. “It also has made it easier for young people to get offended by something, causing them to go grab a gun and shoot up a block as opposed to, 'Meet me in the school yard and let’s fist fight.'”

RELATED:Delaware's economy suffers from Wilmington's violence

RELATED:Delaware gang statute employed mostly against blacks

Teenagers today approach the world as if everything they do is being watched by an audience, and it can make their behavior more intense and impulsive, according to James Garbarino, a psychology professor at Loyola University Chicago.

Joining a gang — and creating a strong self-image online — is a way to gain acceptance from other kids, Garbarino said.

"To them, it is the Boy Scouts with guns," he said.

City teens said they can't recall what started the war, but add that the thirst for revenge remains a daily threat years after the first shots were fired.

"They still beefing about it," one 18-year-old told the newspaper this summer. "They were just arguing on Twitter about it."

And some worry the violence will get worse.

"In the last few months, I have seen violence and anger in middle school kids that I've never seen before," said a youth adviser and coach at a Wilmington community center working directly with teen gang members.

On one side of the gang war is a group of teens and young men ominously calling themselves Shoot to Kill. These young men are avenging the death of their friend, 16-year-old basketball player Ellerbe, who was killed two and a half years ago.

Ellerbe was known for sharing what he had with others. He also was a sharp dresser with an impressive sneaker collection who wanted to be a businessman some day, his family said in the days after his death.

Ellerbe's friends band together in photos and on the street, twisting fingers into upside-down B's to insult 15-year-old Brandon Wingo. He was a younger basketball player who loved mac and cheese and had just started dating when he was gunned down 15 months after Ellerbe's death while walking home from Howard High School of Technology on Wilmington's East Side.

Shortly after his death, Wingo's childhood friend Tyreek Scott, 15, was shot dead last July while wearing a GPS tracking bracelet on his ankle.

Friends of Wingo and Scott are on the other side of the gang war, an even younger clique of kids who grew up together in Wilmington and call themselves Only My Brothers. These teens pose for pictures with their fingers bent into upside-down J's to mock Ellerbe's killing and the Shoot to Kill gang.

RELATED:Delaware's economy suffers from Wilmington's violence

Though 15 months separated the deaths of Ellerbe and Wingo, the tit-for-tat nature of the gang feud played out in city streets and amped up in early 2016.

On March 5, a member of Only My Brothers shot at a member of Shoot to Kill, but no one was hit. Weeks later, a member of Shoot to Kill fired into the leg of an OMB member. On went the exchange of gunfire.

Yet it was the death of Wingo that shocked the community — and spurred outrage among the Only My Brothers gang.Wingo's friends wore T-shirts emblazoned with the saying, “Ballin’ Like I’m Brandon.” They lit up social media with tributes using “#WingoWorld.”

“I wake up every morning wishing you was here or I was there still seem unreal … #Riplilbro #WingoWorld,” one person posted on Twitter.

On the day after Wingo was killed, Raquan Jordan and Zakier Smith – two teens labeled by prosecutors as members of the Only My Brothers street gang – streamed a video using Facebook Live. In the video entered into court by state prosecutors, the teens wave their handguns in front of a cellphone camera, pointing the guns at the screen.

After showing off their weapons, the young men flash their fingers into B’s, a sign of support for Wingo, before giving the middle finger and making the J’s down symbol to mock Ellerbe’s death.

Weeks later, then-16-year-old Naseem Parks, a close friend of Wingo's and a fellow member of the basketball team, feared for his life, said Kathryn van Amerongen, Parks' defense attorney.

Parks was walking home from school when he sensed that members of the Shoot to Kill gang were following him. At the intersection of Linden and South Broom streets he turned toward a crowd of kids crossing the street, took out a handgun and pulled the trigger — but the gun jammed. A crossing guard flagged down police, who chased Parks nine blocks, where they discovered a loaded .380-caliber gun in his waistband, court records show.

As the officers cuffed him, a commemorative pin with Wingo's picture fell to the ground.

“That’s my brother,” Parks said to the officer, who picked it up and returned it to the boy.

Prosecutors submitted at least 83 pages full of social media postings and photos into court evidence to support their claims that these young men, linked together by Wingo's death and other acts, were toting high-powered guns and brazenly showing them off online.

In one photo, Zakier Smith stares down the camera behind the barrel of a handgun. In another, three of the indicted teens flash large wads of money at the camera with guns sticking out of their pockets.

And on May 26, 2016, Smith posted to Facebook: “We Risking Indictment.”

Smith was right.

State prosecutors used these social media postings, commemorative pins and criminal acts to link 29 teens and young men from different New Castle County schools and city blocks to the Only My Brothers gang, charging all in a sweeping indictment with gang participation and other crimes. All 29 have since pleaded guilty to multiple felony charges.

One month after Wingo was killed, three alleged members of Shoot to Kill were charged with his death.

Prosecutors said Wingo was an ally of Only My Brothers gang members, appearing in at least two pictures submitted by state prosecutors. Yet defense attorney van Amerongen questions why victims are labeled allies when their closest friends are charged as gang members. It's an unfair connection to criminal activity, she and other defense attorneys contend.

Yet days after Wingo's death, Smith posted to Facebook: “I Heard N****s Dissing On BWingo That's The Reason Why We Smoking On JorJor.”

The feud remains a daily battle on city streets.

Another indictment came quietly this year in late May, charging four more young men as part of the Shoot to Kill gang. That indictment linked the gang war to two murders and four additional shootings in 2017.

Prosecutors say the deaths of 21-year-old Kaden Young and the death of 18-year-old Yaseem Powell were both carried out by members of the Shoot to Kill gang.

Young was found shot in the head on Elm Street about 3:30 p.m. on January, 20. Powell was found shot in the head about 4 p.m. along North Claymont Street March 28.

Powell's death was most prominent on social media, where already released members of OMB posted tributes and profile pictures honoring Powell with his nickname "Sosa." In the young man's obituary picture, he is holding a B's up symbol with his fingers.

Therion Reese, 22; Isaiah Baird, 19, Dai'yann Wharton, 18; and Benjamin Smith, 19; were all charged with first-degree murder and weapons offenses.

Some parents of 29 teens charged in last year's OMB indictment claim their children are being unfairly branded as gang members for simply hanging around with friends. The parents contend the gang participation indictment lumps their kids in with others who have committed serious crimes.

News Journal reporters spoke with alleged gang members still on the street, and with kids trying to stay out of the fray — a feat that proved impossible for some.

Tynesia Cephas was killed by gunfire in April when the 16-year-old attempted to break up a fight among a crowd of people outside her boyfriend's home on Kirkwood Street, a treeless block where many houses sit boarded up.

Cephas collapsed on the sidewalk when gunfire rang out. Friends and family carried her inside believing she had suffered an asthma attack, said her boyfriend's grandmother, Yvonne Brooks.

When her coat was opened by friends inside the home, blood gushed from bullet holes. Cephas died on the living room floor.

Two years earlier, Cephas had placed third in the Delaware Juneteenth Pageant — an organization dedicated to addressing issues facing teens, including gang violence.

On June 6, 6-year-old JaShown Banner was shot in the head as a vehicle driven by his mother was riddled with bullets on Sixth Street. The vehicle was caught between a shooter and an intended target on a neighborhood street. He remains hospitalized.

Parys Henry was shot May 28 after hugging her godfather outside his North Harrison Street home. While the 14-year-old girl was not the target of the shooter, she was hit in her legs, feet, abdomen and hand by eight rounds.

Today, Henry no longer has metal rods and pins in her pinky finger and foot or a temporary colostomy bag around her waist — because a bullet required doctors to remove part of her colon – but she will forever miss a bone in her right toe because it was shattered by bullets.

While her wounds healed, the soft-spoken teen couldn't eat McDonald’s or go outside with her friends. Still, she participated in her eighth-grade graduation from Kuumba Academy Charter School via Skype from her hospital room. She still can't run due to a destroyed tendon in her leg.

“I always thought nothing like this would happen to me,” she said, picking at her bandaged foot. “I can’t explain it.”

On Labor Day, a five-year-old girl on West Fifth Street was riding her scooter when she was grazed by a bullet on her right leg as a gunman fired multiple rounds in Wilmington's Little Italy.

Gun violence has tormented Wilmington for decades. Locals vividly recall the race riots of 1968 and the 1999 shooting death of Denise Rhudy, a 36-year-old Glasgow mother of four who was fatally shot in downtown Wilmington when three people robbed her.

Locals like Fran Livingston, the director of a successful Wilmington summer education program, the Freedom School, point back to the 1968 riot as the moment the city got a bad reputation for crime. The uproar drew and kept the National Guard in the city for nine months.

“People would say, ‘Wilmington is bad. It’s violent,’” Livingston said. “I really think that became a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

Policing strategies to end the bloodshed change with mayors and their police chiefs. An approach dismissed by one administration can be born again with another.

The one constant is talk — talk among elected officials and key government leaders who for years have impaneled study groups to examine new approaches to stop the bloodshed.

But the number of shootings continue to rise.

In 2004, the city experienced 97 shootings in what then-Mayor James Baker labeled "self-inflicted genocide."

During just the first half of 2017, 108 people were shot.

In the early and mid-2000s, dealers earned $1,000 a day selling drugs on city streets and would shoot one another over control of a corner, The News Journal reported in 2005.

Baker quickly created the Wilmington Hope Commission — with dreams of establishing "Hope Zones" around town — to connect people in the city's toughest neighborhoods with resources. At the time, then-Lt. Gov. John Carney, who was elected Delaware governor in November, co-chaired the commission formed to help change the city’s disturbing rise in gun violence.

Lacking funding, the Hope Commission reduced its mission years later to focus solely on helping prisoners successfully re-enter society.

By 2009, Wilmington's violent crime rate had soared to the third highest in the nation of mid-sized cities. The News Journal explored successes in Providence, Rhode Island, which dramatically reduced its high crime rate by getting more community involvement and giving second chances to some nonviolent drug dealers.

Yet Michael Szczerba, then Wilmington's police chief, dismissed Providence's approach — bluntly stating that the tactic could stay with John Jay College professor Kennedy, who helped develop it.

"Would I buy into sitting down with drug dealers, drug traffickers, offering them a second chance?" Szczerba asked in 2011, a year after the city set a homicide record of 28 that still stands. "No. Go to jail. Stay off our streets."

As the shootings worsened, top brass faced growing complaints from citizens, who demanded that the department adopt community policing practices with more officers walking the streets. Officials traveled to High Point, North Carolina, where the policing strategy used in Providence was developed — and decided the community-based approach that brought drug dealers and other criminals into the same room as police would work in Wilmington.

Police leaders learned how to wipe out open-air drug markets, and late in Baker's 12-year tenure, the police department began using the approach suggested by Kennedy.

It didn't last long.

Dennis P. Williams, a former police officer, was elected mayor in 2012, and followed through on his campaign pledges to roll back the community-based approach, suggesting it was wrong-headed to “hug a thug.” Williams created the Cease Violence program in 2013, which uses former offenders in an effort to deter others from committing crimes. The program has since folded due to lack of funding.

Kennedy's strategy was never fully implemented.

"Where you have adult supervision, you can get the work done," Kennedy said in a recent interview with The News Journal. "When the people whose job it is to manage this problem ... go off track, there's very little that the people below them can do to fix that."

Mike Purzycki followed Williams as Wilmington mayor, and he immediately faced a fresh round of violence. In April, Purzycki hired Robert Tracy, Chicago's former top crime strategist, as Wilmington's new police chief.

Tracy worked with Kennedy to develop the Group Violence Intervention, which Tracy used to reduce crime in New York City and Chicago. Kennedy visited Wilmington in mid-July and will work with Tracy to bring the strategy to Wilmington, as early as year's end.

"It's not a Hug-a-Thug thing," Tracy said. "There's actually a real message that we want you to be a productive citizen. We want you to be a productive juvenile so you can be a productive adult."

During a surge in violence in 2013, Wilmington City Councilwoman Hanifa Shabazz, now City Council president, asked the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta to undertake a one-of-its-kind study examining youth gun violence as a public health crisis in Wilmington.

“It takes a lot to grab a gun and blow somebody’s head off, let alone having a 14-, 15-year-old have that kind of rage,” Shabazz said.

The CDC concluded that Wilmington was facing an epidemic and urged Delaware to follow a CDC roadmap for stopping the bloodshed: Create a database that allows state agencies to share information about children that would include school truancy records, child welfare reports and emergency room visits to help authorities see a portrait of kids who need help — before they get into serious trouble.

Children need to be identified as early as elementary school, the CDC said, or statistics show they would ultimately end up in the criminal justice system and perpetuate the cycle of violence that's gripped Wilmington since the 1960s.

Delaware's leaders liked the CDC plan.

Almost two years later, though, state officials have made no tangible progress in identifying which children need help the most. Instead, the council led by Shabazz, now City Council president, has spent the past few months taking stock of the already-existing programs for kids — and it is promoting the ones council members believe work best.

Carney acknowledged that funding for the core CDC recommendation — data sharing — fell to the state, but no dollars have been allocated.

The governor noted that tax hikes and budget cuts were needed to balance Delaware's $4 billion budget this year, and before he allocates more money to Wilmington, he must first ensure the state dollars allocated to the city are being spent wisely.

Dr. Kara Odom Walker, Cabinet secretary for the Department of Health and Social Services, estimates it would cost $1 million to $2 million per year to operate data sharing services and said it could be another year or more before officials start working with data.

Another complication is that lawyers assigned to the project are still searching for a workaround to the federal law restricting information sharing, Shabazz explained.

Added Purzycki: "To me, where these fail is usually in some departmental drawer somewhere because there are limits to what we can accomplish."

Steven Sumner, a CDC researcher, suggested the data sharing task may not be as difficult as Delaware is making it. He did a slice of the Wilmington data aggregation, he said, to show "it's possible for cities and states to make better use of the data they already have to help young people who are struggling get back on the right track."

Erin Dalton, who runs a municipal data operation in Allegheny County, Pennsylvania, was more blunt: “You need political will to bring data together.”

Latisha Jackson watched helplessly as her boys, 17-year-old Jahlil Lewis and 20-year-old Na-Quan Lewis, lost friends to the city's gun violence, or had guns pulled on them outside their childhood home in Wilmington's Southbridge neighborhood.

Jackson, 40, has worked two jobs and raised the boys mostly alone because their father was in prison. Fearful about her kids' future, she moved them out of Wilmington to suburban Newark and got them involved in sports. Occasionally, she would take them to Disney World and on other trips to show them life outside Delaware.

But, drawn by family-like bonds the boys experienced with their old friends in the gang, they frequently returned to Wilmington. They were arrested and charged with theft and other minor crimes. Last year, they were arrested as part of the indictment against the Only My Brothers gang.

Hours after Wingo died, prosecutors said Jahlil and other accused Only My Brothers gang members grabbed their guns and headed to a rival gang member's home in the 500 block of Shearman St., but police intercepted them before they made it to the target. Jahlil and three others were arrested for illegally carrying weapons — charges that were later wrapped into the Only My Brothers gang indictment.

Delaware prosecutors are increasingly using the gang participation charge to indict large groups of juveniles. The statute forbids people from actively participating in a gang, which is described under the law as a group of three or more people engaging in a pattern of criminal activities under a common name, identifying sign or symbol.

Sixty juveniles have been charged with it since the law was enacted in 2003 — most after the statute survived a constitutional challenge in the Delaware Supreme Court in 2013. Thirty-three teens were charged last year with the statute, which elevates felony charges and can lead to longer prison sentences.

Jahlil has pleaded guilty to felony charges of gang participation, possession of a firearm by a prohibited juvenile, carrying a concealed deadly weapon and second-degree conspiracy for planning criminal acts with gang members. He was sentenced to two years in prison.

Na-Quan, who has the word "Misunderstood" tattooed on one arm and a tribute to Wingo on the other, was not with his brother the day Wingo died. He was arrested months later when authorities searched Jahlil's phone and found pictures of the brothers with weapons purchased illegally. He was charged with gang participation, possession of a firearm by a prohibited person and carrying a gun during the commission of a felony.

Na-Quan said he believed the charges were unfair but decided to plead after facing up to 109 years in prison if found guilty.

A News Journal reporter met with Na-Quan at the Howard R. Young Correctional Institution in April. Na-Quan described his life as a series of revolving schools and juvenile detention centers, an account differing from his mother's. It left him with no high school degree or work skills beyond brief stints washing dishes at restaurants.

Jackson, the boys' mother, said she was stunned to learn her kids had guns in the house. And she has no answers about how the boys ended up being charged as part of a violent city street gang.

"I don’t know,” she said. "I thought I was doing everything right. My kids weren’t no gangsters.”

She believes they're being unfairly branded as felons by prosecutors using Delaware's gang participation statute as a means of getting them off the streets.

Grubb, chief New Castle County prosecutor, countered that parents aren’t always aware of what their teens are doing.

“It’s no different than when you go in for a parent-teacher conference, and they tell you your child is struggling with social studies,” Grubb said. “The parent comes home and says, ‘She (the teacher) doesn’t know what she’s talking about.’”

“Except now, we are putting criminal activity with the juvenile … now they are a member of a gang."

A News Journal analysis of court records, social media and the newspaper's shooting database found that young men from these gangs are responsible for much of the city’s bloodshed last year. During the first seven months of the year, a third of the shooting victims under age 21 were linked to the gang rivalry, the newspaper's analysis shows.

Juvenile shootings fell in 2016 from five in July to zero in August after prosecutors publicly announced the indictment of 29 young men. But they picked up again in September when three more teens were shot.

“The next group is around the corner,” said former State Prosecutor Kathleen Jennings. “Nature abhors a vacuum.”

The rivalries have further fractured an already divided city. West of I-95 is known as "The Hill," while east of the interstate is "Down Bottom." The downtown and business district, where gun violence rarely strikes, lies in Down Bottom.

Crossing the line created by the freeway can be deadly, said a youth adviser, who has become a mentor to city teens living in neighborhoods that daily ring with gunfire. He requested anonymity for fear of losing the trust of these young men who turn to him regarding these issues.

“They speak of it like there are trolls under the bridge,” he said, adding that when he drives kids home from basketball tournaments they often duck for fear of being seen — or shot — in rival neighborhoods.

Basketball courts under the freeway are among the best in the city, but many of the teens interviewed said they don't dare play there.

"Someone might take a foul personal and be ready to fight you, and that's the risk we don't wanna take," another 19-year-old told the newspaper, adding that most fist fights quickly escalate to gunfire.

While the freeway divides the city, teen alliances are not formed around geography, but by friendships and where children grew up, the youth adviser said.

What matters most is who you hang out with. Some teens said they won't flash certain hand signs on social media anymore because the gestures could be mistaken as a "dis" against another crew – an act that could make you a target.

There's only one place where warring gangs walk the same turf without raising fists or guns: Gracelawn Cemetery near New Castle. On the streets, Ellerbe and Wingo were separated by their alliances.

In death, their bronze-colored plaques lay forever in the Garden of Serenity – just 80 paces apart.

This yearlong investigative project sought to unravel the driving force behind Wilmington's teen violence, an ongoing plague in the city considered most dangerous for children in all of America. Journalists spent more than a year interviewing both the teens affected by the violence and those charged with committing these crimes, state prosecutors, police officers, community members and family members. Reporters attended funerals of children lost to the violence, community meetings and rallies condemning the gunfire, and court hearings of teens and young adults charged with gun violence. Journalists also pored over thousands of pages of court documents, data requests and social media posts to re-create a full account of what prompted a teenage gang war to break out in Delaware's largest city. This three-day series is the result of those efforts.

Brittany Horn is an investigative reporter at The News Journal who has chronicled Wilmington's gun violence and Delaware's struggle with the heroin and opioid epidemic.

Esteban Parra is the solutions and breaking news reporter at The News Journal, where he has worked for more than 20 years covering business, courts, police and Wilmington.

Christina Jedra is Wilmington’s watchdog reporter and focuses on holding elected officials accountable and helping city residents understand how their government works.

Jessica Reyes was the courts and justice reporter at The News Journal, where she documented the state's debate about the death penalty and equal access to justice.

Photos and video used in this series were taken by staff photographers Jennifer Corbett, Suchat Pederson, Daniel Sato, William Bretzger, Damian Giletto and Kyle Grantham.