USAMRIID

Tully thought Maggie looked thinner. She insisted it was his imagination.

“It’s only been two days,” she told him.

He held up a square white box for her to see through the viewing window.

“Courtesy of Ganza.” Tully tucked the phone receiver so he could use both hands and lift the lid. “He assured me you would appreciate the humor.”

“Doughnuts.” It worked enough for a smile. “Chocolate ones are your favorite.”

“These are all yours.”

“I can’t believe they let you in here with those.”

“Guess they trust that an FBI guy certainly isn’t gonna bring in tainted doughnuts. Dr. Drummond even said she’d bring them in for you. She did have to test one.”

“Really? Under a microscope?”

“In the mouth. So you’re one shy of a dozen.”

Despite the awkward setup they went into their regular briefings. Tully knew Maggie was itching to dive into work and avoid the personal stuff. Something they had shared since day one.

Maggie told him about the envelope inside the Kellermans’ house and how she was able to connect the Kellermans’ name, along with the return address, to a cold case—the Tylenol multiple murders in Chicago in 1982. Then she explained how she had discovered that phrases from the doughnut-box note had been lifted from the Beltway Snipers case.

“Funny, George Sloane just mentioned the Beltway Snipers and how we feebies screwed that one up.”

“Sloane’s in on this?”

“Cunningham requested he take a look at the note.”

“He should have recognized the phrases if he worked the Beltway Snipers case.”

“Didn’t sound like he was on it. He just wanted to get his digs in. He did work the anthrax case and recognized the similar pharmaceutical fold. That would make three cases this guy used—the Tylenol poisonings, the anthrax murders and the Beltway Snipers. Is he just being clever? Showing off? Or is he telling us who he is and where he’ll strike next?”

“I think a little of both. It certainly makes him sound like a textbook profile of the clinical narcissist.”

“He wants recognition, needs validation for his brilliance.”

“He’s obviously planned all this for some time,” Maggie added. “He’s probably rehearsed it over and over in his mind. Calculating, deliberating every move like a chess player. Now he’s shuffling out pieces of his puzzle for us to put together.”

“Finding the Kellermans in Elk Grove just so he could duplicate one of the victims’ names in the Tylenol murder…” Tully shook his head. “The guy has too much time on his hands. Is it possible he’s unemployed?”

She shook her head.

“Maybe he has access to inside information?” Perhaps even a database, but this Tully kept to himself. He wasn’t ready to share with Maggie his theory about the Ebola coming from USAMRIID. He didn’t have any evidence. It seemed cruel to suggest the idea, especially when she was locked up here. She looked exhausted, shadows under swollen eyes. Dressed in the hospital gown and white socks made her seem smaller, even more vulnerable.

He’d wait.

But what if he was right? What if the guy was someone right here? Getting his jollies, watching his victims slowly crash and bleed in front of him. That, too, might fit the profile. Tully hoped he was wrong.

“Has he sent other envelopes?” Maggie asked, startling Tully back to attention.

“Others? Like the one you found? You think that’s the way he sent the virus? No doughnut box? No pizza box? A mailing envelope?”

“Colonel Platt will be able to tell us for sure, but yes, there was a plastic Ziploc bag inside.”

“He could do that? Mail Ebola? Anthrax I understand. It’s like a powder. But Ebola? What would you need for that? Do you have any idea how that’s possible?”

She hesitated but Tully knew she did know. He had noticed the laptop computer. The swollen eyes weren’t because she couldn’t sleep, she wouldn’t sleep. She’d already been using work and research as her sanity safety net.

“It would have to be actual cells, infected cells from blood or tissue. But it could be a small amount, even microscopic. It wouldn’t take much. The virus can’t survive without a host for more than several days. But it can if it’s been preserved, frozen or sealed like in an airtight plastic bag.”

“So anyone who opened up the bag would take one whiff—”

“No, I don’t think so. From what I understand, it’s not airborne. Not like anthrax. The Ebola virus needs a point of entry.”

“It has to enter into the bloodstream?”

“Yes, or enter the body through other body fluids, mucus, semen, saliva.”

“Or vomit sprayed in your face, your eyes, nose.”

Maggie blinked and Tully wished he hadn’t said it. Before he could respond, she added quickly, “Or through a cut. Just a break in the skin, a cuticle or a razor nick.”

“That’s all it would take?”

She nodded.

“Cunningham thinks this is personal,” Tully said. He wasn’t, however, convinced that it was some personal vendetta. “Is it possible he worked on the Tylenol case?”

Maggie shrugged.

“They wouldn’t let me see him. He gave me a phone number. There’s no answer.”

Quiet. They stared at each other, neither willing to voice their suspicions.

“Maybe I should start taking a look at guys Cunningham helped put away.”

“Or the ones who never got caught.”

Tully remembered the impression left on the surface of the envelope. “He may have made one mistake. Does ‘call Nathan R. 7:00 p.m.’ mean anything to you?”

“What was the context?”

“He wrote a note to himself on top of the envelope he used. It pressed into the surface. No block printing. Regular handwriting. Sloane says the guy probably didn’t even know he left an impression.”

Tully thought Maggie recognized the phrase. There was something, but then she shook her head.

“Should I start looking for someone named Nathan?”

“I don’t know,” Maggie said. “I honestly don’t know.”

Tully thought her voice sounded exhausted. But then she sat up to the edge of her chair as if pushing for another surge of adrenaline.

“I do know this guy may crave attention, but he doesn’t want to get caught,” she said. “It’s not like the BTK killer, coming to the surface twenty years later just because he misses the attention. This guy has been simmering for years, possibly stewing over grievances real or imagined. He’s been planning, strategizing every step. Somewhere in his life he feels he’s been wronged or not given credit that was due to him.

“Maybe he holds a grudge against law enforcement and that’s why he wanted to render us powerless. He’s disciplined. He’s smart. He takes risks but he’s not reckless. I think he holds a full-time job but he’s a good liar. He looks and acts cool and calm, is able to function on a normal day-to-day basis, but the whole time there’s a rage simmering inside him. You have to remember though he’s not like a serial killer who enjoys the kill. This guy’s satisfaction is retribution. He wants to even a score. He wants his victims to get sick, to linger, to know they’re dying. In his mind it’s his own perverted sense of justice. His own way of dealing out a death sentence.”

Tully sat back and let out a breath. She still amazed him when she did this, spouted out a profile that nine out of ten times was dead on. This wasn’t like George Sloane. Tully wasn’t quite sure what the difference was. Sloane seemed ruled by statistics and ego. Maggie followed her gut instincts. He’d trust Maggie’s gut over Sloane’s ego any day of the week.

Tully mock gestured a wipe at his forehead, along with a sarcastic “whew,” garnering another smile from Maggie.

“I asked George Sloane if we should be searching cabins in the woods,” he told her.

“This guy’s hiding in plain sight, Tully. And I know he’s sent other envelopes.”