“Sounds like the kind of stuff that might fall from space,” I said. “That’s also consistent.”
“Maybe. In any case,” Costa said, “we sent a hunk of the material off to NASA to take a look at it. Maybe they can give us a positive ID.”
That made sense.
“What about the stuff in the clear baggies?” I asked. “Ricin?”
“The lab confirms the presence of ricin in the baggies,” Costa said. “The FBI Medical Examiner has also confirmed ricin poisoning as Mr. Cho’s cause of death. Apparently, he didn’t take appropriate precautions and inhaled some of the powder.”
“That was pretty sloppy,” I said. “Is this guy one of North Korea’s best and brightest?”
I could almost see Costa shrug through the phone.
“Sometimes you need to work with whatever . . . or whomever . . . is available. We are in Minnesota, for God’s sake. Not exactly prime terror real estate. North Korea was probably lucky to have anyone here at all.”
I supposed Costa was right about North Korea’s presence in the Upper Midwest. It would be much easier for Korean natives to blend into the general populace on one of the coasts.
“What else?” I asked Costa.
“There were two halves of a metal ball inside the baggies with the ricin,” Costa said. “They were made of titanium. There was also a small circuit board which was identified as a combination GPS locator and radio transmitter, though it was non-functional at the time of inspection.”
“The rubber gloves . . .” I said
“. . . are standard industrial cleaning supplies,” Costa finished. “Nothing notable there. Anyone can buy the same thing at Walmarts and hardware stores all over the country.”
The FBI lab seemed to have wrapped this case up with a bow. It’s rare for loose ends to tie off so neatly. I was a little disappointed there weren’t a few items to tidy up.
“That’s it?” I asked. “Nothing at all unusual about . . . anything?”
“If you are determined to have something to grind your brain against,” Costa said, “there is one . . . oddity.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“There was slightly more ricin powder in the baggie than would fit into the titanium ball,” Costa said.
My investigative juices began flowing again.
“How does that work?” I asked.
“The ricin wasn’t pure,” Costa said. “The powder in the baggie was about half flour. So we figure he must have cut it . . . thinned it out . . . for some reason.”
“That makes no sense whatsoever,” I said. This new information didn’t fit. My gut told me it was a problem before my head knew why.
“Hey,” Costa said, a defensive tone in his voice. “People cut toxins for all sorts of reasons. Maybe if he delivered the ricin in a pure form it would clump?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Clumping is a big problem with ricin, I hear.”
“There is no need to make a big deal out of this, Beck,” Costa said. “We’ve got the capsule and the biologic. What do we care why Cho cut the ricin? He’s dead. What difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference because, according to your lab,” I said, “about half the ricin is missing.”
Costa paused a few moments to absorb the words I had just spoken.
“You lost me,” he said finally. “If Cho cut the ricin with the flour, the resulting mix could easily exceed the capacity of the titanium ball.”
“Yes,” I said, “that’s true.”
“So what, exactly, is the problem?”
“Listen. Your lab said the powder in the baggies was about half ricin, half flour. Correct?”
“Approximately,” Costa said.
“So which scenario do you think gets us to a 50/50 ricin mixture? North Korea sent a space ship around the earth a few thousand times to deliver a half-full capsule of ricin to America? Or they filled it half with flour and half with ricin, worrying their ricin might clump . . . which didn’t work, by the way, because Cho had to add even more flour after it got here?”
It took a while before Costa answered. I was sure he wasn’t fond of either option. And he probably didn’t like unspoken third option much either.
“Damn you, Beck,” he said presently. “I hate it when I have to admit I’m wrong, especially when it means there has to be more ricin out there to be accounted for.”
“A painful truth is preferable to a jolly fantasy,” I said. I think I heard that expression from a British commando during the nineties. I maybe should have done some translating before uttering it just now.
“A what?” Costa said.
Definitely should have translated.
“You heard me,” I said, pretending “jolly fantasy” was a phrase we used every day here in the nation’s midsection. “So where do you want to start our search for the missing ricin? Cho’s house?” I figured they’d be searching Cho’s home for other reasons anyway. And it was as good a starting place as any.
“We planned to visit Cho’s grieving widow later today anyhow,” Costa said. “We might as well make her day even better with a warrant.”
“I’d like to be there when you search the house,” I said.
“Now there’s a shocker,” Costa said. “Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. We shall have to do a little strategizing before then though. I’ll ring you up when I have the timetable.”
I guessed Costa wanted to show he knew a British idiom or two himself.
“I’ll be waiting for your call,” I said, “as usual.”
“I’m sure,” Costa said then disconnected the call.
Although the fact that some of the ricin was still missing was unsettling, I did have to confess to enjoying the fresh dose of adrenaline that now pumped through my veins. We would find the ricin, I was pretty sure. Costa and his team were competent, and most of all, thorough. I would add my meager set of skills to the mix. How could we fail?
CHAPTER 39
Ottawa County Law Enforcement Center (LEC). Red Wing, Minnesota.
With Costa prepping for the Cho family home invasion, and Beth busy scouring cyberspace, I was feeling a little bit useless at the moment. The clock hadn’t yet reached 9:00 a.m. I needed to do something. A visit to Gunner seemed a logical option.
“I brought cookies this morning, Barbara,” I said to the receptionist/dispatcher. “Can I interest you in a snack?”
I folded back the top of the white bakery box and displayed its contents toward her. The bulletproof glass prevented me from shoving the whole container to within her reach, but she could see the selection well enough.
“Why, thank you,” she said with a smile, leaning forward to get a better look. “I’ll have one of those chocolate chip ones . . . on the end over there.”
She pointed. I indicated a particular cookie in response. She nodded. Communication complete.
Employing a sheet of translucent baker’s paper, I acquired the cookie and slid both cookie and paper through the desk-level document slot.
“Thanks again,” Barbara said, still smiling.
“Napkin?” I offered, reaching into the white paper bag from whence the cookie box had come.
“That would be great, Mr. Becker,” she said, accepting the paper napkin through the same slot. “Thank you.”
Barbara stood up, coffee mug in hand, and turned to leave. I assumed she needed a refill to accompany the cookie.
“Excuse me,” I said, half raising a finger in polite protest. “Could I trouble you to let Chief Deputy Gunderson know I’m here to see him?”
Barbara returned to her communications console.
“Oh. He’s not busy right now,” she said. “I’ll just buzz you in.” She tossed her head in the direction of the entrance to the inner offices.
I looked around to see whether this was a trap. Seeing no obvious snares, pits, or land mines, I proceeded to the door, which buzzed obediently on my arrival. I glanced at Barbara once again and saw her hand depressing
the door release button. Still perceiving no objection, I chanced a twist on the metal lever . . . and I was in.
I smiled a “thank you” to Barbara as the buzzing ceased.
If I had known that, for the price of a cookie, I could gain access to Gunner’s sanctum sanctorum, I would have kept a pack of Double Stuf Oreos in the Pilot’s glove box at all times.
I made my way down to Gunner’s office where I found the grey steel door closed. Fortunately, I could see inside through the wire mesh reinforced glass panel. Gunner was just shuffling through papers on his desk . . . obviously not busy at all, just as Barbara had indicated.
Hiding my face behind the jam, I rapped on the door – three times.
“It’s open,” Gunner announced from inside.
I cracked the door just far enough to slip my hand, holding the cookie box, inside.
“Cookie time,” I said, still not showing my face.
Suddenly a picture of my kindergarten teacher, Miss Chipper – no kidding – flashed in my mind. In one hand held a package of cellophane-encased, generic blond sandwich cookies. “Cookie time,” she was saying in that singsong kindergarten teacher voice. Twenty years later I heard she’d been arrested for operating a house of ill repute. People change.
“I’d recognize that voice even if you put it through a meat grinder,” Gunner said. “Now get in here with those cookies.”
Once again, cookies work their magic. Noted and logged.
“Hey, Gunner,” I said, rounding the door frame and stepping inside. He had sounded entirely too pleasant. I was cautious. “Cookie time?”
“Damn straight,” he said, rising from behind his institutional metal desk.
I flinched instinctively at his movement. Gunner noticed.
“Geez, you’re jumpy,” he said, moving across the room to the Mr. Coffee machine. “Black, I assume?” he said, pointing a Styrofoam cup at me.
“Great,” I said. “Okay if I sit down?”
“Sure.” Gunner said as he poured our coffee. “Just clear a spot and make yourself at home.”
“You’re awful cheery this morning,” I said after we had each chosen a cookie and settled in.
“Huh,” Gunner said. “I suppose I am.”
Even Gunner seemed surprised.
“Why is that, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Gunner reached across his desk to pick up a copy of Peace Officer’s Monthly magazine, and began thumbing through it.
“Here you go,” he said, passing me the magazine. It was open to a page with a picture of Gunner at the top. He was wearing his full dress uniform, including cap, and all buttoned up tight. The headline read: “Gunderson Named Local Peace Officer of the Month.”
“Hey, congratulations, Gunner,” I said, reaching over to shake his hand. “That’s pretty cool. And well deserved, I’m sure.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks. I’m tickled to say the least.” Gunner was grinning from ear to ear.
“Did you do something special to win this award?” I asked. “Or just your usual top notch investigative stuff?”
“There’s a lot that goes into it, I’m told,” Gunner said, still smiling. “But I think the big thing was that cartel bust out in Bellechester. I think that put me over the top.”
“Really?” I said. “That was two years ago.”
Gunner frowned.
“Yeah, well, it takes ‘em a while to process all the candidates, you know,” he said. “Anyway . . . it doesn’t matter if that bust was the reason. That’s my picture right there in that magazine.” He gestured vigorously. “And that baby’s going up on the wall as soon as I can find a frame.”
“Like I said, Gunner. I’m certain you deserve it. You have my props.”
“Your what?”
“Props,” I said.
“Is that some sort of lingo designed to make me feel stupid?” Gunner said. “Because even your mumbo jumbo, highfalutin, lawyer jibber jabber ain’t gonna bug me today. I got my mug right there in a magazine.” He pointed to his photo again.
“Sorry,” I said. “It just means I’m giving you ‘proper respect,’ that’s all. All respect to which you are due, which I’m sure is a bunch. Okay?”
“Yeah, all right,” Gunner said, looking a bit sheepish. “Thanks, Beck.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. I looked around the cluttered office to see whether anything interesting might jump out at me. It didn’t. “Anything new, by the way?”
“Not really,” Gunner said, settling into his wheeled task chair and taking a sip of coffee. “But, oh, hey . . . this is up your alley. I got another junk email today . . . forwarded from the Sheriff.”
“Really?” I said, doing my best to maintain a casual tone. “What did this one say? Are the Russians coming?”
Gunner chuckled.
“Hell, I don’t know. It was a lot like the last one. Something about Rodney Holton’s cows having some ‘disease of terror,’ or some such. I sent it along to the FBI. There’s a copy in your Inbox, too.”
I remembered Beth’s email trap and hoped this terrorist’s error might bear some fruit. Leads were scarce concerning the FMD threat.
“I do love that junk email,” I said. Even though I was chomping at the bit to see the latest communication from this POI, I didn’t want to tip Gunner off to the Classified parts of the operation. So I played it cool. “It’ll fit swell between the Viagra offer and the credit card pitch.”
I laughed.
Gunner laughed along with me.
“So . . . speaking of Rodney Holton’s place,” Gunner said. “I haven’t seen the feds around lately. Are they gone for good? Or do I need to keep an eye out so I don’t shoot ‘em?”
“Never good to shoot a fed,” I said. “Better keep your eyes peeled.”
Gunner frowned.
“You will tell me what the Fibbies have been up to once this thing . . . whatever it is . . . is all over, right?”
“If you really want me to,” I said. “But keep in mind, if I tell you, I might have to kill you.” I said it with a straight face.
Gunner laughed.
I smiled.
CHAPTER 40
I brought the Pilot to an abrupt stop in front of our home on Jefferson Avenue, bounded up the porch steps, and trotted on into the house. I was anxious to hear what Beth and her email trap might have found out.
“Beth,” I called from the foyer. “Are you home?”
“Out back,” Beth returned.
“Oh, hey, Babe,” she said as I poked my head through the kitchen sliding door and into the back porch space. Beth was seated on the double swing with her laptop. Maybe she’d been there the whole time since I left for Gunner’s.
“I was just about to call you.”
“Great,” I said, plopping into one of the brown wicker chairs. “What’ve you got? Maybe a rat caught in your email trap?”
Beth made a fake frown.
“You take the fun out of this when you know before I tell you,” she said. “But yes . . . the POS sent another message. Unfortunately, it was from a guest account at a public library.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” I said. “But it can’t be a huge surprise, right?”
“No,” Beth said. “Not a surprise, but not as tidy as a street address and apartment number either.”
Beth paused.
“C’mon,” I said. “You’re killing me here. Give me the rest.” I knew there had to be more.
Beth smiled.
“So . . .” she said, “I cross referenced the townspeople – the library was in Ames, Iowa, by the way – I cross referenced the residents with my ‘recently traveled to South Africa’ database. And . . .”
“And?”
“We’ve got only three matches,” she said. “Of course, the POS doesn’t necessarily have to live in Ames. But why two emails from the same spot unless it was convenient for the sender?”
“So you know both emails came from the same place?”
&n
bsp; “Yes,” Beth said. “Didn’t I just say that? Once I got the unique user info for the second email, I contacted their ISP and tracked the first email to the same static IP address.”
I didn’t understand what she had just said, but it sounded authoritative and I had total faith in Beth’s tech talents.
“Okay,” I said, trying not to sound too clueless. “So who are our three candidates?”
“Two are South African students studying at Iowa State,” Beth said.
“There were a couple foreign students involved in the Boston marathon bombing, weren’t there?” I commented.
“Allegedly involved,” Beth said, “and only on the periphery. The bombers were U.S. citizens.”
“That’s right,” I said. “But foreign students still make good terror suspects.”
“That may be true,” Beth said. “But both of these students are women. Didn’t you say your CI, Benny, identified the cow shooter as a male?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But he also identified the HazMat team as aliens. I’m not certain we can rely on Benny for detailed ID.”
“Don’t you want to hear about South African traveler number three?” Beth asked, the tone of her voice indicating that I definitely did want to hear about traveler number three.
“Of course,” I said. “Please proceed.” I gestured to confirm that Beth still held the floor.
“POS number three is an independent veterinary pharmaceutical salesman,” she said. “Age thirty-six. Married with two young kids. Home mortgage is under water and credit cards are maxxed. His visit to South Africa occurred one week before Benny said he saw the guy shooting cows at Rodney’s farm. And . . . he stayed in South Africa less than forty-eight hours. To top it off, DHL shows he received a package from Johannesburg a few days after returning from the trip.”
“Traveling on business?” I suggested.
“He doesn’t have any customer accounts in South Africa,” Beth said. “His vendors have in-country wholesalers. And this is his first trip to Africa . . . ever. The other two suspects have been back and forth several times on a typical school schedule.”
9 More Killer Thrillers Page 91
