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.”