This individual is almost certainly:
Mentally unbalanced, believing that he has a special relationship with God. He may believe that God speaks to him directly.
IMPORTANTLY: He would not make a public announcement of this relationship.
Highly intelligent.
Well educated, most likely a college graduate, but almost certainly has some college education.
Well spoken, possessed of a good vocabulary.
An expert typist, with access to a current model IBM typewriter (one with a "type ball").
This individual is probably: A male Caucasian. Twenty-five to forty years old.
Asexual (that is, he's unmarried, and has no wife, or homo- or hetero-sexual partner or sex life).
"A loner" (that is, has very few, or no friends). Living alone.
Neat and orderly, possibly to an excessive degree, and dresses conservatively.
Of ordinary, or slightly less than ordinary, physical appearance. A chess player, not a football player.
Self-assured, possibly to an excessive degree. (That is, tends to become annoyed, even angry, with anyone who disagrees with him.)
An Episcopalian, Presbyterian, Methodist, (less likely, a Roman Catholic) but not an active member of any church group.
Works in an office. A nondrinker.
Either a nonsmoker or a chain cigarette smoker.
This individual is possibly:
An engineer, either civil or electronic, or an accountant, or someone who works with figures.
A veteran, possibly discharged for medical (including psychological) reasons. Possibly a former junior officer.
Someone who has come to the attention of the authorities as the result of a complaint he has made when he has felt he has been wronged. (For example, complaining about neighbor's loud party, or loud radio, damage to his lawn, et cetera, by neighborhood children.)
As O'Mara read it, Matt glanced up at the silent TV mounted on a hospital-room shelf over the door. O'Mara had been watching an old cops-and-robbers movie.
I wonder how he can tell the good guys from the bad guys? They all look like 1930s-era gangsters.
"Your sister was able to come up with all this just from that nutty note that screwball wrote?" O'Mara asked, visibly awed.
"My sister is a genius. It runs in the family."
"Shit!" O'Mara said.
After a pause, Matt thought, while he decided I was not serious.
"Well, I'd better run this out to the brass," O'Mara said, and finally pushed himself upright and got off the bed.
At the head of the stairs, O'Mara stopped. "How do I get out?" Matt recalled that O'Mara had parked Wohl's car in front of the building. Despite the NO PARKING signs, no white hat was going to ticket what was obviously the unmarked car of a senior white shirt. He had unlocked the plate-glass door to the lobby with his key, and then locked it again after them. It would now be necessary to repeat the process to let O'Mara out.
"I'll let you out," Matt said, and went down the stairs ahead of him.
Matt went into the kitchen and took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and went into the living room, slumped in his chair and picked up a copyof Playboy. He looked at his answering machine. The red,You Have Messages light was flashing.
I really don't want to hear my messages. But on the other hand, Wohl may be wondering what the hell took me so long.
He reached over and pushed the PLAY button.
There were six calls, five of them from people People, hell, Evelyn is at it again!
– who had not chosen to leave a message, and one from Jack Matthews, who wanted him to call the first chance he got.
And I know what you want, Jack Matthews. The FBI wants to know what the hell the Keystone Cops are doing with the Secret Service big shot from Washington. Fuck you!
As the tape was rewinding, the doorbell, the one from the third floor, at the foot of his stairs, buzzed.
Now what, O'Mara? Did you forget something?
He got out of his chair, and pushed the button that operated the solenoid, and then looked down the stairs to see what O'Mara wanted.
Mrs. Evelyn Glover came through the door and smiled up at him.
Jesus H. Christ!
"Am I disturbing anything?"
"No," Matt lied. "I was just about to call you. Come on up."
There was an awkward moment at the head of the stairs, when Matt considered if he had some sort of obligation to kiss her and decided against it.
"I guess I shouldn't have done this, should I?" Evelyn asked.
"Don't be silly, I'm glad to see you. Would you like a drink?"
"Yes. Yes, I would."
"Cognac?"
"Yes, please."
She followed him into the kitchen, and stood close, but somewhat awkwardly, as he found the bottle and a snifter and poured her a drink.
"Aren't you having one?"
"I've got a beer in the living room."
"I owe you an apology," Evelyn said.
"How come?"
"I didn't really believe you when you said you had to work," she said. "I thought you were… trying to get rid of me."
"Why would I want to do that?"
Because even as stupid as you are in matters of the heart, you can see where this one is about to get out of control.
"But then, when I happened to drive by and saw the police car parked in front…"
"He just left."
As if you didn't know. What have you been doing, Evelyn, circling the block?
"Forgive me?" Evelyn asked coyly.
"There's nothing to forgive."
She had moved close to him, and now there was no question at all that she expected to be kissed.
There was just a momentary flicker of her tongue when he kissed her. She pulled her face away just far enough to be able to look into his eyes and smiled wickedly. He kissed her again, and this time she responded hungrily, her mouth open on his, her body pressing against his.
When she felt him stiffen, she caught his hand, directed it to her breast, and then moved her hand to his groin.
She moved her mouth to his ear, stuck her tongue in, and whispered huskily, pleased, "Well, he's not mad at me, is he?"
"Obviously not," Matt said.
To hell with it!
He put his hand under her sweater and moved it up to the fastener on her brassiere.
Marion Claude Wheatley turned the rental car back in to the Hertz people at the airport in plenty of time to qualify for the special rate, but there was, according to the mental defective on duty, 212 miles on the odometer, twelve more than was permitted under the rental agreement. The turn-in booth functionary insisted that Marion would have to pay for the extra miles at twenty-five cents a mile. He was stone deaf to Marion's argument that he'd made the trip fifty times before, and it had never exceeded 130 miles.
It wasn't the three dollars, it was the principle of the matter. Obviously, the odometer in the car was in error, and that was Hertz's fault, not his. Finally, a supervisor was summoned from the airport. He was only minimally brighter than the mental defective at the turnin booth, but after Marion threatened to turn the entire matter over not only to Hertz management, but also to the Better Business Bureau and the police, he finally backed down, and Marion was able to get in a taxi and go home.
When he got to the house, Marion carefully checked everything, paying particular attention to the powder magazine, to make sure there had been no intruders during his absence.
Then he unpacked the suitcases, and took his soiled linen, bedclothes, and his overalls to the basement, and ran them through the washer, using the ALL COLD and LOW WATER settings. He watched the machine as it went through the various cycles, using the time to make up a list of things he would need in the future.
First of all, he would need batteries, and he made a note to be sure to check the expiration date to be sure that he would be buying the freshest batteries possible for both the detonation mechanism and for the radio transmitter.