For his first package, his first "perfect" kill, Artie had followed in his mentor's footsteps, choosing one of his favorite crimes and an address connected to it: Benjamin Tasker Middle School in Prince George's County, Maryland. On Monday, October 7, the Beltway Snipers shot their youngest victim, a thirteen-year-old on his way to school, practically on the front steps. The boy survived, unlike ten of the other thirteen victims. Also unlike the others, Artie found it daring, bold and totally unpredictable to shoot a kid. So Artie wanted to do something just as daring. If you wanted to spread a deadly virus, where better to start than in a school?
Pleased with himself and satisfied with the two bags, Artie slipped them into their envelopes then began the cleanup process. He hated the smell of bleach but he used it to spray and wipe all surfaces. The smell lingered in his nostrils. Though he was diligent about giving himself a shot every time, he never failed to use a skin decontaminate. The military M291 resin kits had six individual decontamination pads. The dry, black resin powder was designed to show up any contamination spots. He was told it was the best universal liquid skin decon that the military had.
Yet, that wasn't quite enough for Artie. After the resin, he still mixed fresh .05 percent hypochlorite solution with an alkaline pH and washed his hands again, up to the elbows. He had read in one of his paperbacks that the solution had been used by the military before the M291 resin kits, all the way back to WWII. Artie figured it was an extra safeguard, another one of those things his mentor would expect of him—to do his own research and take his own precautions.
In the small bathroom/supply closet he changed from his scrubs back to his street clothes, bagging all of it, including the paper face mask and shoe covers. He'd toss them in the parking lot's Dumpster. No need to clean them. The closet was filled with an endless supply.
He left the lab, feeling excited and… What was the word? A few monkeys still screeched down the hall, but now Artie ignored them. His step was lighter, almost a strut. For the first time in his life he felt… And then the word came to him. He felt powerful.
CHAPTER
27
Reston, Virginia
Emma needed to get some sleep. It was late by the time she and her dad got home. He was so mad at Maggie's friend, Nick Morrelli, that Emma could see the vein in his forehead throbbing. That same vein she thought only she could set vibrating. It'd been a long time since she'd seen her dad that upset. And the poor guy, a real hottie, had only been delivering flowers to Maggie, wanting to see her and then suspicious when he saw someone else going into her home.
Emma thought it was all so totally romantic.
She checked down the hallway to make sure all the lights were out then she closed the bedroom door. Harvey stretched out on the floor beside her bed. He looked up at her and she whispered, "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere."
Maggie had once told Emma about how she had found Harvey under a neighbor's bed, bloodied and injured, having fought hard to protect his master but loosing the fight. Now the dog was very protective of Maggie. When Emma took care of him that protective instinct extended to her, which Emma thought was very cool.
She petted him and crawled back into bed. She made one last attempt to invite him up with her. He stretched out on the floor instead and Emma pulled out the pile of letters from under the covers. Just one more, she promised herself.
September 2, 1982
Dear Liney,
Thanks for the long letter. Razzy and J.B. are jealous. I have that goofy
photo strip of the two of us. Remember the one from the photo booth at
the mall? I put it up to remind them how jealous they should be.
It's been a tough week. I'm sore from the obstacle course. Think I might have pulled my shoulder. Don't get me wrong, I'm in great physical shape. Guess I have my dad to thank for that. Lifting all those crates probably helped.Though I 'd never admit that to him.Sounds like he's still bellyaching to my mom that I should be home. The bastard's finally realizing how much of the workload I did.Wait until inventory. Then he'll really be bitching.Maybe he'll make my precious baby sister do something for a change. Though I doubt it. Wouldn't want to get calluses on those precious musician fingers.
Sorry, I don't mean to get off on that, but reminding myself of that hellhole actually helps me get through the tough load here. Thinking about you helps,too,but in a good way. A real good way if you know what I mean. I think about the good stuff and good times. I've been thinking about you taking me to the Art Institute this summer. Of all places. Me in an art gallery. And a V atican art show at that.You're going to be a famous artist someday, Liney. Just you wait and see. If I say it's gonna happen it will.
We have the night off. Razzy rented one of those video players. He and J.B. picked out a couple of movies. One I can't wait to see. A guy flick called Mad Max. I can smell the butter and the popcorn. Better go or they'll eat it all. I'll write more later, I promise.
Yours truly, Indy
She couldn't resist looking at the next one. It was dated only a day later. She unfolded it gently, almost reverently. There was something so romantic about the idea that he couldn't wait to write…that he needed to write to her every day.
September 3, 1982 Dear Liney
We have our first case. It's homework but it's a real case. Pretty exciting stuff. I'm not supposed to be discussing it with anyone other than my classmates, but it's not like you're going to tell anyone, right? In May a guy sent a bomb to Vanderbilt University Sent it in the mail via the good old post office. Can you believe it? Actually it was forwarded. Even had insufficient postage, so they're wondering if maybe the target might have been the bogus return address. Pretty interesting stuff.
On July 2 another bomb showed up in a faculty lounge at Berkeley. We're thinking it's the same guy though this one was left there, not sent. We're… Listen to me. I'm already considering myself one of them. Anyway, the bombs look like an amateur with a lot of scrap. They were calling him the Junkyard Bomber. Now they've got a new name for him, an acronym, but I probably shouldn't be telling you.
We get to put together the profile from the evidence. They think the same guy might be responsible for a series of bombs going back to '78. Can you believe that? 1978 and they haven't caught the guy yet. I already have a pretty good idea for my profile. Razzy and J.B. are all hot to discuss it, but I'm not going to share my ideas. Why should I, right? Let them figure it out on their own.
So I'm sure everyone is figuring the guy is a loner with a grudge against either Vanderbilt or universities in general. Maybe he got expelled as a student or fired as a professor. But I think there's a lot more to him. You can't argue that he's got to be smart,right? Maybe he uses scraps to throw off investigators. How do you track down pieces of wood or regular shingle nails? It's hard not to admire someone who can put together something like this and not get caught.