Exposed (7 page)

Elk Grove, Virginia

Maggie tried to keep Mary Louise from seeing the Smith & Wesson gripped in her hand and down by her side. Cunningham moved the little girl to the corner behind him, shielding her from whatever they were about to find.

“Backup is at the front door,” Maggie heard in the earbud. She avoided glancing over her shoulder. “Bomb squad is scanning outer perimeter. They’re ready to go in. Are you coming out?”

Maggie looked to Cunningham.

“Negative,” he said, barely audible while he smiled at Mary Louise. The little girl was chattering to him about eating a whole bag of M&Ms which she really, really loved and was probably the reason her tummy hurt.

Maggie knew they were out of time, yet Cunningham was hesitating. She watched him scan the door frame again and again. Nothing looked out of place. Not on this side. Cunningham cocked his head as he listened for any sound behind the door. His right hand clutched the doorknob. His body kept close to the wall. His left hand stayed open and ready in front of Mary Louise like a traffic cop holding her back.

In an ambush situation they’d kick in the door, weapons drawn. But the threat of rigged explosives with hidden trip wires warranted slow and easy. Maggie knew they should let the bomb squad take it from here.

Cunningham wasn’t budging. Another victim, Mary Louise’s mother, was on the other side. If they picked up the little girl and ran, would it set off a panic? Was someone watching the house with a detonator, waiting for them to do exactly that?

“Ready?” he asked Maggie.

She wanted it over with. They had already wasted too much time. Yes, she nodded, and he eased the door open.

There was no click. No sizzle. No bang.

Nothing.

Except for an unnerving rasping sound. Someone inside the room was having trouble breathing.

Mary Louise swept past both of them while Cunningham grabbed and missed. She bounded up onto the bed where it looked like a pile of bedding had been dumped in the middle. The SWAT team swarmed the outside room, moving so quietly Maggie didn’t even notice them brush behind her, already in the bedroom.

“Mommy, Mommy, someone came to help,” Mary Louise sang out to the swaddled bundle.

Cunningham rushed over and he swooped the girl into his arms, cradling her close to his chest. But then he stopped dead in his tracks, and turned back to Maggie. There was a flicker of panic in his eyes, but his voice remained calm and soothing as he said, “There’s blood.”

A pause and another glance, then, “A lot of it.”

Maggie came in closer. She could see only the woman’s head, matted hair sticking to her forehead. She was gasping, almost a gurgle. Blood spurted from her mouth and nose onto a stained pillowcase. There was blood all over the bedding. But she couldn’t see any external wounds.

Then Maggie remembered the note’s warning. She realized it was too late. There was no bomb. There were no explosives.

“We may have expected the wrong kind of crash,” Maggie said. Instead of relief, her stomach took a plunge.

“What are you talking about?” Cunningham tried to get a closer look while the little girl squirmed in his arms.

“Instead of a bomb squad we should have brought a hazmat team.” She could feel everything around her grind to a halt. The bomb squad and SWAT team were frozen in place by her words.

That’s when Mary Louise started throwing up. Her upset tummy spewed up red and green all over the front of Cunningham, spraying Maggie, too.

“Christ!” he muttered as he wiped vomit and spittle from his face.

Elk Grove, Virginia

Maggie tried to keep Mary Louise from seeing the Smith & Wesson gripped in her hand and down by her side. Cunningham moved the little girl to the corner behind him, shielding her from whatever they were about to find.

“Backup is at the front door,” Maggie heard in the earbud. She avoided glancing over her shoulder. “Bomb squad is scanning outer perimeter. They’re ready to go in. Are you coming out?”

Maggie looked to Cunningham.

“Negative,” he said, barely audible while he smiled at Mary Louise. The little girl was chattering to him about eating a whole bag of M&Ms which she really, really loved and was probably the reason her tummy hurt.

Maggie knew they were out of time, yet Cunningham was hesitating. She watched him scan the door frame again and again. Nothing looked out of place. Not on this side. Cunningham cocked his head as he listened for any sound behind the door. His right hand clutched the doorknob. His body kept close to the wall. His left hand stayed open and ready in front of Mary Louise like a traffic cop holding her back.

In an ambush situation they’d kick in the door, weapons drawn. But the threat of rigged explosives with hidden trip wires warranted slow and easy. Maggie knew they should let the bomb squad take it from here.

Cunningham wasn’t budging. Another victim, Mary Louise’s mother, was on the other side. If they picked up the little girl and ran, would it set off a panic? Was someone watching the house with a detonator, waiting for them to do exactly that?

“Ready?” he asked Maggie.

She wanted it over with. They had already wasted too much time. Yes, she nodded, and he eased the door open.

There was no click. No sizzle. No bang.

Nothing.

Except for an unnerving rasping sound. Someone inside the room was having trouble breathing.

Mary Louise swept past both of them while Cunningham grabbed and missed. She bounded up onto the bed where it looked like a pile of bedding had been dumped in the middle. The SWAT team swarmed the outside room, moving so quietly Maggie didn’t even notice them brush behind her, already in the bedroom.

“Mommy, Mommy, someone came to help,” Mary Louise sang out to the swaddled bundle.

Cunningham rushed over and he swooped the girl into his arms, cradling her close to his chest. But then he stopped dead in his tracks, and turned back to Maggie. There was a flicker of panic in his eyes, but his voice remained calm and soothing as he said, “There’s blood.”

A pause and another glance, then, “A lot of it.”

Maggie came in closer. She could see only the woman’s head, matted hair sticking to her forehead. She was gasping, almost a gurgle. Blood spurted from her mouth and nose onto a stained pillowcase. There was blood all over the bedding. But she couldn’t see any external wounds.

Then Maggie remembered the note’s warning. She realized it was too late. There was no bomb. There were no explosives.

“We may have expected the wrong kind of crash,” Maggie said. Instead of relief, her stomach took a plunge.

“What are you talking about?” Cunningham tried to get a closer look while the little girl squirmed in his arms.

“Instead of a bomb squad we should have brought a hazmat team.” She could feel everything around her grind to a halt. The bomb squad and SWAT team were frozen in place by her words.

That’s when Mary Louise started throwing up. Her upset tummy spewed up red and green all over the front of Cunningham, spraying Maggie, too.

“Christ!” he muttered as he wiped vomit and spittle from his face.

Quantico, Virginia

R. J. Tully watched Keith Ganza process the envelope with the indentation using an ESDA (Electronic Detection Apparatus). He remembered as a kid rubbing the side of a number-two pencil over indentations in a notepad to reveal what had been written on the page that used to be on top. He probably read how to do it in
Encyclopedia Brown.
He was crazy for those books when he was about nine or ten, long before he even knew what an FBI agent was or did. They had an influence. Made him realize how much he loved solving puzzles. If only Emma read something more than
Bride
and
Glamour
. He had no clue what she was interested in these days, although if text messaging became a career skill she’d have that mastered.

It amazed him how much that generation depended on computers. Kids knew how to access e-mail and create MySpace profiles, but logic and ingenuity, even puzzle solving, were foreign concepts. As Tully watched Ganza he couldn’t help but think that a lead pencil would do the trick and be quicker. At least they would have known already whether there was something to process. But the expensive equipment didn’t destroy the evidence. And that was important.

Ganza adjusted the light on the ESDA. He had the envelope sandwiched between the metal bed and a Mylar overlay. When he was ready he’d pour a mixture of photocopier toner and tiny glass beads over the Mylar. The machine created an electric static charge with the glass beads scattering the toner and attaching it to the indented parts of the paper, almost like inking an embossed image. At least that’s how Tully understood it. With the image visible they could then take a picture of it and enlarge it.

Sometimes the images appeared to be only scribbles. But this time it looked like they had more. The envelope had definitely been underneath a piece of paper that someone had written on, pressing hard enough to leave indentations. The solution almost seemed too easy. But even criminals, especially cocky ones, got sloppy. Could they be that lucky?

“You think it’s his handwriting?” Tully asked, meaning the guy who left the bomb threat. “Or just some accident? Maybe someone at the bakery?”

“He’d never let the note out of his sight or put it in the doughnut box until he was ready to unload it.” Ganza handled the transparency with gloved fingertips, placing it on a light box gently as though it would shatter.

He fidgeted with some buttons and suddenly the impression grew and darkened. There would be no further tests needed. The letters looked as if they had been jotted quickly, but they were easy to decipher. The note read:

Call Nathan R.

7:00 p.m.

All the periods and the colon were especially indented from extra pressure.

Tully held up the plastic bag with the original note, trying to make an amateur handwriting comparison.

“Block printing, but not all caps like in the note,” he said.

“Almost as if he didn’t think he had to disguise this.”

“Because he didn’t think we’d ever see it.”

Just then Ganza’s cell phone started ringing. He yanked off his latex gloves and flipped the phone open while walking to the other side of the lab. Ganza barely said hello and Tully’s cell phone started chiming like a Chinese dinner bell. He’d hit the button yesterday and accidentally changed his ring tone. The damn thing drove him crazy. He was constantly screwing up settings in his search for missed calls or voice messages. And now he’d have to make up with Emma long enough to get her to fix it.

“R. J. Tully,” he said after three chimes.

“We’ve got a problem.” He recognized Maggie O’Dell’s voice without an introduction.

Before she could explain the problem, Ganza was rushing across the lab, his eyes locking onto Tully’s. Into the phone he said, “We can be there as soon as I get packed up.” To Tully, he said, “We’ve got to go now, before the military gets their hands on the evidence.”

“Oh, good,” Maggie said in his ear. “You’re with Ganza.”

“What’s going on?” he asked, but Ganza was headed in the other direction again, gathering equipment, the cell phone still pressed to his ear, his long strides almost wobbly like he was hurrying along on stilts.

It was Maggie who finally answered, “We’ve got a real mess here.”

Quantico, Virginia

R. J. Tully watched Keith Ganza process the envelope with the indentation using an ESDA (Electronic Detection Apparatus). He remembered as a kid rubbing the side of a number-two pencil over indentations in a notepad to reveal what had been written on the page that used to be on top. He probably read how to do it in
Encyclopedia Brown.
He was crazy for those books when he was about nine or ten, long before he even knew what an FBI agent was or did. They had an influence. Made him realize how much he loved solving puzzles. If only Emma read something more than
Bride
and
Glamour
. He had no clue what she was interested in these days, although if text messaging became a career skill she’d have that mastered.

It amazed him how much that generation depended on computers. Kids knew how to access e-mail and create MySpace profiles, but logic and ingenuity, even puzzle solving, were foreign concepts. As Tully watched Ganza he couldn’t help but think that a lead pencil would do the trick and be quicker. At least they would have known already whether there was something to process. But the expensive equipment didn’t destroy the evidence. And that was important.

Ganza adjusted the light on the ESDA. He had the envelope sandwiched between the metal bed and a Mylar overlay. When he was ready he’d pour a mixture of photocopier toner and tiny glass beads over the Mylar. The machine created an electric static charge with the glass beads scattering the toner and attaching it to the indented parts of the paper, almost like inking an embossed image. At least that’s how Tully understood it. With the image visible they could then take a picture of it and enlarge it.

Sometimes the images appeared to be only scribbles. But this time it looked like they had more. The envelope had definitely been underneath a piece of paper that someone had written on, pressing hard enough to leave indentations. The solution almost seemed too easy. But even criminals, especially cocky ones, got sloppy. Could they be that lucky?

“You think it’s his handwriting?” Tully asked, meaning the guy who left the bomb threat. “Or just some accident? Maybe someone at the bakery?”

“He’d never let the note out of his sight or put it in the doughnut box until he was ready to unload it.” Ganza handled the transparency with gloved fingertips, placing it on a light box gently as though it would shatter.

He fidgeted with some buttons and suddenly the impression grew and darkened. There would be no further tests needed. The letters looked as if they had been jotted quickly, but they were easy to decipher. The note read:

Call Nathan R.

7:00 p.m.

All the periods and the colon were especially indented from extra pressure.

Tully held up the plastic bag with the original note, trying to make an amateur handwriting comparison.

“Block printing, but not all caps like in the note,” he said.

“Almost as if he didn’t think he had to disguise this.”

“Because he didn’t think we’d ever see it.”

Just then Ganza’s cell phone started ringing. He yanked off his latex gloves and flipped the phone open while walking to the other side of the lab. Ganza barely said hello and Tully’s cell phone started chiming like a Chinese dinner bell. He’d hit the button yesterday and accidentally changed his ring tone. The damn thing drove him crazy. He was constantly screwing up settings in his search for missed calls or voice messages. And now he’d have to make up with Emma long enough to get her to fix it.

“R. J. Tully,” he said after three chimes.

“We’ve got a problem.” He recognized Maggie O’Dell’s voice without an introduction.

Before she could explain the problem, Ganza was rushing across the lab, his eyes locking onto Tully’s. Into the phone he said, “We can be there as soon as I get packed up.” To Tully, he said, “We’ve got to go now, before the military gets their hands on the evidence.”

“Oh, good,” Maggie said in his ear. “You’re with Ganza.”

“What’s going on?” he asked, but Ganza was headed in the other direction again, gathering equipment, the cell phone still pressed to his ear, his long strides almost wobbly like he was hurrying along on stilts.

It was Maggie who finally answered, “We’ve got a real mess here.”