Exposed (27 page)

North Platte, Nebraska

Patsy Kowak looked forward to Saturdays. She’d pick up her daughter and the two of them would go into town for their book-club meeting. They usually met at the café. A corner table that fit all seven of them. The owner of the local bookstore, A to Z Books, offered recommendations, and for the last two years their club had read novels Patsy would have never chosen on her own. This week’s selection was by a local author, a mystery writer named Patricia Bremmer. Patsy finished it in two days, partly thanks to Ward not talking to her. Maybe if the silence continued she’d get all kinds of things accomplished.

Only a week until the wedding. She had to admit she was excited, not just for her son and for the day, but to get away. As much as she loved her home and this ranch, she did enjoy a change of pace. It had been ages since she and Ward had been anywhere. Okay, so it was only Cleveland with a layover at O’Hare, but even Cleveland sounded exotic right now. And though there would be few family and friends able to make the trip from Nebraska, Conrad had told Patsy that they expected over two hundred people, mostly friends and colleagues. Patsy couldn’t imagine even a pharmaceutical vice president and the CEO of an advertising agency having that many friends and colleagues. But Conrad was excited and happy and that’s what was important. This woman made her Conrad happy like no other person had been able to.

Patsy ran a brush through her hair. It didn’t look bad despite her habit of sometimes trimming chunks that didn’t belong. It was a nervous habit, worse when she was under stress. In fact, Ward could always tell if she was having a bad day. Earlier in the week he had asked if her bangs were shorter. A simple yes made him nod and back off.

But now instead of her hair she noticed her hands. They were more red and chapped than usual from brushing down the horses and digging up the last of her vegetable garden. She traded the hairbrush for cuticle scissors and went after the ragged skin, trying to make her fingers more presentable but leaving one bleeding.

She hadn’t had a professional manicure for ages but knew it was out of the question. Ward had already lectured her about running up their credit card. It was just another way for him to voice his complaints about the wedding since the only purchases she had made were a new dress and luggage for the trip. She refused to drag out the worn old set they had. It was ancient and didn’t even have rollers. No wonder Conrad was convinced all his father thought about was money. Which reminded her. She didn’t have any cash and wouldn’t have time to stop at the bank.

She opened the bottom drawer to her dresser, uncovered the square box she used for loose change and trinkets. That was also where she had hidden the plastic bag with cash from Conrad. Ward would never go through Patsy’s dresser drawers, so she knew it was safe there. She hadn’t really intended to use the money. She could stop at the bank after the book-club meeting and replace it later. What harm could there be in using it and replacing it?

She opened the plastic bag, reached in and pulled out one of the twenty-dollar bills.

North Platte, Nebraska

Patsy Kowak looked forward to Saturdays. She’d pick up her daughter and the two of them would go into town for their book-club meeting. They usually met at the café. A corner table that fit all seven of them. The owner of the local bookstore, A to Z Books, offered recommendations, and for the last two years their club had read novels Patsy would have never chosen on her own. This week’s selection was by a local author, a mystery writer named Patricia Bremmer. Patsy finished it in two days, partly thanks to Ward not talking to her. Maybe if the silence continued she’d get all kinds of things accomplished.

Only a week until the wedding. She had to admit she was excited, not just for her son and for the day, but to get away. As much as she loved her home and this ranch, she did enjoy a change of pace. It had been ages since she and Ward had been anywhere. Okay, so it was only Cleveland with a layover at O’Hare, but even Cleveland sounded exotic right now. And though there would be few family and friends able to make the trip from Nebraska, Conrad had told Patsy that they expected over two hundred people, mostly friends and colleagues. Patsy couldn’t imagine even a pharmaceutical vice president and the CEO of an advertising agency having that many friends and colleagues. But Conrad was excited and happy and that’s what was important. This woman made her Conrad happy like no other person had been able to.

Patsy ran a brush through her hair. It didn’t look bad despite her habit of sometimes trimming chunks that didn’t belong. It was a nervous habit, worse when she was under stress. In fact, Ward could always tell if she was having a bad day. Earlier in the week he had asked if her bangs were shorter. A simple yes made him nod and back off.

But now instead of her hair she noticed her hands. They were more red and chapped than usual from brushing down the horses and digging up the last of her vegetable garden. She traded the hairbrush for cuticle scissors and went after the ragged skin, trying to make her fingers more presentable but leaving one bleeding.

She hadn’t had a professional manicure for ages but knew it was out of the question. Ward had already lectured her about running up their credit card. It was just another way for him to voice his complaints about the wedding since the only purchases she had made were a new dress and luggage for the trip. She refused to drag out the worn old set they had. It was ancient and didn’t even have rollers. No wonder Conrad was convinced all his father thought about was money. Which reminded her. She didn’t have any cash and wouldn’t have time to stop at the bank.

She opened the bottom drawer to her dresser, uncovered the square box she used for loose change and trinkets. That was also where she had hidden the plastic bag with cash from Conrad. Ward would never go through Patsy’s dresser drawers, so she knew it was safe there. She hadn’t really intended to use the money. She could stop at the bank after the book-club meeting and replace it later. What harm could there be in using it and replacing it?

She opened the plastic bag, reached in and pulled out one of the twenty-dollar bills.

Quantico, Virginia

Tully had heard him the first time. He didn’t need George Sloane to inform him again that Tully and Ganza had “exactly fifteen minutes” before Sloane had to return to his class.

Tully watched the man make a ceremony of sitting down in front of the documents like a priest about to perform some sacred ritual. He played the role of professor very well, even dressed it—black knit turtleneck, tight enough to show off his trim physique, along with well-pressed trousers and matching suit jacket. He wasn’t a big man, five-foot-seven. His strut into the room asked for but didn’t quite command attention. He was Tully’s age but had none of the salt-and-pepper Tully had been discovering at his own temples. Instead, Sloane’s thick hair, that he wore long enough to curl over the turtleneck, was almost jet-black, and Tully suspected it was because of Grecian hair formula rather than youthful genes.

“The lighting is horrendous in here,” Sloane announced in place of a greeting. “Does Cunningham expect me to work miracles?”

Tully wanted to say, “No, just your regular voodoo will do.” Instead, he said what he knew would pacify the man and not waste their precious fifteen minutes. “We’re just grateful you can take time out to help us, George. Anything you can offer will be appreciated.”

“See if you can find me a better light,” Sloane told Ganza, dismissing the director of the lab with a wave of his hand as if Ganza were one of his college students.

Ganza stared at Sloane’s back for a second or two then glanced at Tully, who could only offer a shrug. Ganza checked his watch then pulled down the bill of his Red Sox cap and headed for the conference room’s supply closet.

“So terrorists are delivering their threats at the bottom of doughnut boxes now?” Sloane said, scooting his chair closer to the table. “Where were you at the time?” he asked Tully. “If I remember correctly, you can’t resist a chocolate doughnut.”

“Stuck in traffic,” Tully said, trying not to show his annoyance and impatience. Sloane had already used up five minutes fidgeting with his preparations.

“Thank God for morning rush hour, huh?”

Ganza hauled a long, metal contraption out of the storage closet that looked like something from a garage sale. He set it on the table beside Sloane.

“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:

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 significant. 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?”