“He has a thing for snakes, too,” I reminded him, “but I don’t think this envelope has room for either a bomb or a boa constrictor. Anthrax or ricin, maybe. But it’s probably just a hateful letter. What I want to know—besides is the guy still behind bars—is how the hell he got this to me?”
Decker didn’t speak for a moment; in the background, I heard computer keys clattering. “Hang on. I’m checking on him.” More clattering. “Well, according to this—the state’s Felony Offender Information database—he’s still there. And I sure haven’t heard anything about an escape. Which I would have. And so would you. ‘Serial killer breaks free’? You know the media would go nuts over that.”
He had a point there, I had to admit. “So how was he able to send this to me? Can convicted killers just mail stuff to anybody they please?”
“Unfortunately, yeah,” he said. “There are a few rules, but they’re pretty minimal. Basically, inmates aren’t supposed to send threats to victims or victims’ families.”
“Wait. Did you say ‘rules’? And ‘supposed to’? The system assumes a serial killer’s gonna play by the rules for good mail manners?”
“Sounds lame,” he conceded. “But there’s a safety net, sort of. If the warden thinks a piece of mail poses a threat, he can have it opened. But that requires a bunch of paperwork, and prison wardens probably have enough paperwork already, without creating more for themselves. Still, Satterfield’s no ordinary prisoner, and the warden would know that the two of you aren’t exactly pen pals.” There was a pause, then: “It’s Sunday. Did you not check your mail yesterday?”
“I did,” I said, the realization—no mail on Sundays—hitting me for the first time as I checked for a postmark. “Shit. This wasn’t mailed. This was hand delivered.”
“Listen, Doc, the safest thing would be to get the bomb squad over there.”
“That would freak Kathleen out,” I said. “I don’t even want her to know about this, much less think it’s about to blow our house to smithereens.”
“So take her out for brunch. Stay gone for a couple hours, let the guys check it out, then we give you a call once we’re gone.”
“And the neighbors wouldn’t notice a thing, right?” I pictured the series of scared and angry phone calls we’d get. “She’d be twice as mad at me—first for tricking her, then for upsetting everybody in Sequoyah Hills.”
“Well, we gotta do something with it, Doc. And you damn sure shouldn’t just tear into it. What do you suggest?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the dad and the girl on the bike looping back toward me, thirty yards away and closing fast. “Hang on just a sec,” I said to him, then took a casual step sideways, putting my body between the envelope and the child. Decker was right; we had to do something, and fast—get the package out of the neighborhood, away from innocent bystanders. “I’ll take it to the forensic center,” I told him after they had passed. “We’ve got a portable x-ray machine; I can wheel it outside, onto the loading dock, and shoot an x-ray. If it shows any wires, I’ll call the bomb guys. If it doesn’t, I can take it inside and open it under an exhaust hood, in case it’s some sort of nasty powder.”
“I don’t like this,” Decker grumbled.
“I don’t like it either,” I said. “But the less fuss the better. Like I said, it’s probably just a hateful letter.”
“Then how come it’s not in a regular envelope?” I didn’t have a good answer for that. “Let me come get you, Doc.”
“Just meet me at the forensic center, Deck.”
“I’m on my way,” he said. “How soon can you be there?”
“I’ll leave right now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” I thought about how to explain my abrupt departure. “I’ll tell Kathleen the M.E. needs me to come look at a skull fracture.”
“Hurry up, but be careful, Doc. Don’t handle it any more than you have to. I don’t suppose you’re wearing gloves?”
“Come on, Deck. Do you put on gloves when you go to the mailbox? Does the mailman wear gloves? The mail sorters?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he groused.
“Besides,” I went on, “y’all can get prints off whatever’s inside, right? And it’s not like Satterfield’s trying to hide—hell, he’s put his name right here on the envelope. He may have licked the flap, too, which gives you DNA. What more do you want—a video of him sealing and mailing the package?”
“That’d be helpful.”
“Yeah, well, good luck with that. Okay, I’m signing off. Gotta go in and make my excuses to Kathleen. See you in twenty?”
“Put it in the back of your truck. Hurry up—but drive slow.”
“Deck, you’re talking to a man who’s never gotten a speeding ticket in his whole life.”
“I’m not worried about you getting a ticket. I’m worried about you going kablooey.”
“You’re talking to a man who’s never gone kablooey, either.”