"What the hell is this?" Sloane sat back as if the thing had accosted him.
Ganza ignored him. He unwrapped the cord, plugging it in and then snapping on the fluorescent lamp. It lit the area enough that even Sloane couldn't complain though he grumbled a bit before scooting his chair back into position.
He picked up the plastic bag with the envelope first, holding it up and examining it, pursing his lips and furrowing his brow. Tully couldn't help thinking of Johnny Carson's Carnac the Magnificent.
"Uppercase," Sloane mumbled under his breath like it was exactly what he had expected. "Every maniac from the Unabomber to the Zodiac killer used uppercase printing. In everyday life few people print entire words and phrases in uppercase, so it's more difficult to match."
"So it's easier to disguise their handwriting," Ganza said from his perch standing over Sloane's left shoulder.
"That's what I just said. If you already know all this why did Cunningham call me in?"
Tully watched from across the room as the two men exchanged glares. Ganza was totally harmless, definitely not the type who engaged in pissing contests. He was a professional, and he was actually a bit of an introvert. Perhaps George Sloane brought out the worst in everyone.
When Sloane seemed satisfied that Ganza would no longer interrupt he sat up even taller in the chair.
"It's not just about disguising his handwriting," Sloane continued. "Uppercase gives an appearance of urgency to the message. He's shouting it. But see here," and Sloane held up the plastic-encased envelope and pointed. "He pushed down harder on the periods after Mr. and F.B.I. He's taken time to carefully print out the message, letter by letter, but those periods almost poke through the paper. He's revealing a bit of emotion there."
"Yeah, what's up with him putting periods after each letter of FBI?" Ganza wanted to know while Tully wanted to wince. Didn't Ganza get it, that he was supposed to be quiet and this would take less time. Be less painful. Tully waited for Sloane's look of simmered annoyance and wasn't disappointed. Ganza, however, seemed oblivious to it.
"He obviously doesn't consider it an acronym," Sloane slowly said and now he enunciated each word as though he were speaking to a foreigner. " To him it's the Federal Bureau of Investigation."
"So maybe it's somebody who's fed up with the feds?" Ganza persisted.
Sloane glared at the lab director instead of offering a response. He put the envelope aside, glanced at his wristwatch and picked up the second plastic bag.
"The note's open," Tully told him, "but it had been folded to fit the envelope.You can see from the creases it was—"
"A pharmaceutical fold," Sloane finished for him. He looked up at Tully with thick eyebrows raised. "Your people still opened it when it was folded like this inside the envelope?"
"The envelope hadn't been sealed." Tully tried not to make it sound like he was being defensive despite Sloane's accusation and the man's continued glare. Tully hadn't even been the one to open it and yet he was feeling the need to explain. Maybe it was something that came with the professorship—a superior aura that made everyone else feel like an underling student."There was nothing inside," he finally said without adding what he wanted to say, that Cunningham was the one who opened it. He knew that would sound childish.
As if on cue Sloane pursed his lips again, reminding Tully of a pouting child. He glanced at his watch.
"Come on, George," Tully said, "we already know this has all the markings of a remote-control killer. This guy might be getting ready to send another of his special deliveries. What can you tell us about him? Are we going to find him holed up in some backwoods cabin or in a suburban garage?"
Sloane sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.
"He won't be holed up in a cabin," he said with what sounded like a snort at the end to tell Tully what he thought of his two-cents' worth. "Nor is he someone in the pharmaceutical business. He may have simply done his homework. The anthrax killer in fall of 2001 used that same fold. I'd say he has it right down to the quarter-inch sides."
"You were brought in on that case?" Ganza asked.
"Who do you think told them to start looking stateside at our own labs and scientists and not at some Muslim living in an Afghanistan cave?" Sloane fidgeted in his chair. "Though I shouldn't be surprised you wouldn't know that. No one hands out much praise around here, do they?" He hesitated, looking as if he was considering whether to share more. "Not that it matters," he said, waving the plastic bag. "You FBI guys believe what you want to believe, like your profile for the Beltway Sniper. You guys stuck to that generic description of a young, white male, a loner in a white paneled van. Never had a clue, did you, that it might be two black guys in a muscle car."
"I wasn't in D.C. then," Tully said.
"Oh, right. You were still in Cincinnati."
"Cleveland."
"Sorry, my mistake." But he didn't sound sorry. He brought the note up close and read it out loud with a sort of bellow like a sports announcer:
"‘CALL ME GOD.
THERE WILL BE A CRASH TODAY.
At 13949 ELK GROVE
10:00 A.M.
I'D HATE FOR YOU TO MISS IT.
I AM GOD.
P.S.YOUR CHILDREN ARE NOT SAFE ANYWHERE AT ANY TIME.'"
Then Sloane put the plastic bag down on the table and pushed his chair back, letting it screech across the linoleum. Ganza and Tully waited and watched.
"He's smart," Sloane said without looking up at them. "Not only smart, but well educated. He's precise and detail oriented. He wants you to believe that all of this may be religious based, but I think he uses his references to God much more literally. He simply thinks he's superior to you. Even using the pharmaceutical folds is sort of a ploy, a…" Sloane waved his hand around and Tully thought of a preacher emphasizing points of his sermon."He's playing you, wanting to throw you off."
Then the professor shrugged and stood up, signaling he couldn't tell them any more. But still, he continued, "His choice of ten o'clock may be significant. The address or the numbers in the address may be signif-icant.There's no way for me to tell you that without more information."
"What's your best guess?" Tully asked and watched Sloane wince.
"Guess? Is that what you call your profiles? Because I certainly don't call mine guesses."
Tully held back a sigh of frustration. Sloane looked from Ganza to Tully like he was deciding whether or not to take pity on them.
"My best guess—" he dragged out the word until the s's sizzled "—is that he could be an insider. Maybe you start looking at research labs again. The anthrax killer was never caught. He wouldn't be the first guy to come back out for some attention. Some killers can't stand it. Look at the BTK killer. Nobody would have caught that guy had he not gotten greedy for more attention."
"Maybe this means something to you," Tully said, and he pulled out a photo of the indentation they'd found. He handed it to Sloane. "We lifted this from the envelope."
Sloane took it and held it up to the light, a smile starting at the corner of his lips. If Tully wasn't mistaken it looked like they might have actually impressed the professor.
"Son of a bitch," he said. "You guys found this, huh?"
CHAPTER
42
The Slammer
It was long past breakfast by the time they brought in a tray for Maggie. By now food was the last thing on her mind. She picked at the eggs, ate half the wheat toast, took two sips of orange juice and left the rest. There was a weight on her chest making it uncomfortable to breathe, like something heavy was sitting on top of her, pressing hard against her rib cage. Even swallowing became a conscious effort. She caught herself listening to her own heartbeat. She put two fingers on the pulse point at her throat. Did she expect to feel or hear the virus multiplying inside her? Is that what the extra weight was?