“Okay then, you can begin by stopping by our office this morning for questioning.”
He choked on his first sip, then said, “What? Wait… I have to be on shift by ten a.m.” He paused and stuttered, “Am-am I a suspect?”
“Officer Briscoe, everyone’s a suspect until we have more information. We plan for you to provide that to us. We’ve talked to your shift supervisor. They’re not expecting to see you today.”
“Lieutenant, this is rather uncomfortable for me. I don’t even know what’s in the envelope. How can I help you more?”
“Simply put, officer, by telling us where you might have received the letter. We’re hoping a security camera caught the drop. We’ll walk you through your last few days and try to determine when and where it was placed in your cruiser.”
“Okay, I can do that. I’ll start rehashing my last week on my way up there. What time?”
“Plan to spend your normal shift with us. We’ll expect to see you around ten a.m. Okay?”
“Have any donuts up there Lieutenant?” he asked, chuckling.
“Does a bear poop in the woods? Of course we do, Briscoe. We’ll save a plate for you.”
“Great! I’ll see you then. Take care, Lieutenant Poole. Oh, are you in the main building with Sheriff Victor?”
“No, we’re in the Crime Lab on Flower Street, third floor, back of the building in SID Lab. Ask for me at the front desk; I’ll lead you back.”
“Thanks Lieutenant. See you soon.”
He placed the phone into the cradle and stared at it for seconds wondering why him? Did someone target him or was it just a random encounter and his cruiser happened to be there. He shook it off, to be solved another time, and sipped his coffee into the kitchen, joining Barb for breakfast.
The large clock on the wall showed nine-fifty as he entered the lobby of the multistoried Crime Lab on North Flower. The desk sergeant’s call brought Lieutenant Poole down the stairs into the plush lobby of black marble and gleaming steel. She looked all business, her uniform pressed with sharp seams, her graying brunette hair in a tight bun at the back of her head. She exuded authority, something he admired in his business. He noticed on her approach that she was shorter than he expected, but her more-than-ample bosom compensated for her height.
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” he said, smiling.
She returned a slight smile and responded, “Morning Officer Briscoe. Please follow me.”
Briscoe, intimidated by her abruptness, began moving toward the elevators but stopped when she pointed toward the stairway.
“We use only the stairs here. I like to think it keeps us in shape.”
Trailing behind her, heading upward, he commented, “Well, from what I can see, I’d say it’s working.”
She stopped, glared back at him, and said, “I don’t know whether to thank you or slap you, Officer Briscoe, but that was uncalled for. We’re on duty here.”
Blushing, he offered, “Sorry Lieutenant. I meant it as a compliment.”
Poole turned and continued up the stairs, “Compliment my abilities, not my appearance, if you must. I will accept that.”
He smiled and retorted, “Well then, Lieutenant, you climb the stairs with muscular grace.”
Pausing to scold him once more, she hesitated, then continued upward with a sly smile and said nothing more until the third floor landing. “This is our stop,” she said, opening the stairwell door.
Amazed by the opulence of the offices as they entered the hallway heading to the lab, he observed, “Wow, you guys have some nice perks, here. This makes our building look shabby.”
“You should have seen our old lab. Crowded, dim and ancient, it affected our performance. We worked harder and they rewarded us. It was a long time coming, though.”
“Well, that gives me hope. Even though I spend most of my day out on patrol, it would be nice to come back to this.” He smiled and added, “Guess I’ll just have to write a few more tickets.”
Poole smiled, then stopped. “Here we are. Home sweet home.” Over the door was a sign lettered Special Investigations Lab. Poole punched a cipher into the electronic lock and opened the door, revealing an enormous futuristic science lab. Black-topped lab benches loaded with autoclaves, Bunsen burners, microscopes and titration towers, centrifuges, computers and electronic instrumentation surrounded the room. It smelled of science, reminding him of his high-school chemistry class. Intermittent beeps and clicks sounded through the room, indicating tests either were in progress or complete. Silently, four workers dressed in white lab coats attended to their tasks, moving from bench to bench in hurried concentration.
Three small conference rooms and a larger mirrored interview room stretched across the rear of the lab. In one of the smaller rooms, he could see five uniformed and black-suited individuals surrounding a table in a heated discussion. Each of them was holding a single piece of paper waving it occasionally in front of them.
“That’s the Adam task force,” Poole said, leading him toward the room.
“Really?” he asked. “Named after what? A-T-O-M or A-D-A-M”
“A-D-A-M, trying to keep it innocuous. It’s written on the evidence cover.” Thinking further, she added, “But that’s a curious observation. Something we have considered.”
Moving quietly into the room, Poole offered him the head seat and took the chair beside him. The conversation paused as they sat; twelve eyes rested on him. Uncomfortable but confident he nodded to the team seated around him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is CHP Officer Mica Briscoe, the one who found the evidence.”
She cleared her throat and continued, “Officer Briscoe, allow me to introduce the taskforce.” Pointing around the table at each individual, she started, “Special Investigator Gene Keller, O.C. Sheriff’s Office, Special Agent Doug Strong, with the FBI’s terrorism unit out of Quantico, Special Investigator Linda Combs, Cryptanalyst, L.A. Sheriff’s office, Dr. Herman Weisner, Forensic Psychiatrist with our lab, and finally Special Agent Lashawn Gibbs with the U.S. Department of Homeland Security.”
He swallowed audibly and said, “Well, I must have uncovered some threat. This is quite a formidable team. I just hope I can help.” He glanced at the papers in their hands and asked, “Is that the contents of the envelope? May I see a copy so we’re all on the same page, so to speak?”
Poole slid a copy from the center of the table to him. “This is a double-sided photocopy of the note in its entirety. There were no fingerprints found on the original. It was typed on a vintage typewriter using yellowing paper. Someone intended an element of intrigue.”
He read the front, then turned it over to the empty backing and said, “Is this it? It’s just a poem. Anybody recognize Gin Nose?
Team members around the table eased back in their seats at his first evaluation.
Psychiatrist Weisner studied him briefly, then asked, “Is that all you see, Officer Briscoe?”
Briscoe turned it over in his hands again, inspecting it closer. “I see that it is rather nonsensical; possibly the work of a kook.”
“Read the title and first paragraph aloud for us please, Officer Briscoe,” requested Weisner.
Telescoping his arm in and out, he settled at arm’s length and started, “Poetic Aim.” He looked around at the expectant expressions, and read on, “no math clue err, cursed it’s not, dinosaurs cartoons: paradise lost, delays one’s spot.” Ending the paragraph, he lowered his arms to the table.