Free Exposed by Alex Kava

envelope. He had used plain white paper sold anywhere from office supplies stores to Wal-Mart. The ink he used would, no doubt, test to be the same ink used in just about every ink pen. And the guy didn’t seal the envelope, so no chance of salvia, no chance of DNA.
    Tully had put in a call to George Sloane before joining Ganza. Sloane was Cunningham’s choice documents guy ever since the anthrax case in fall 2001. Tully thought forensic document sleuthing was more luck than anything, but he didn’t see any harm in letting Sloane play his magic. Of course, Tully realized that his thinking of Sloane’s contribution as little more than voodoo was no different than what some people thought of criminal profiling. Both depended on recognizing behaviors of the criminal mind, which was never as predictable as any of them hoped.
    Ganza had set aside the test tube and was poking around the box again. With long metal forceps he pinched what looked like microscopic pieces, and was putting them into a plastic evidence bag. He pushed up his glasses and dived the forceps in, suddenly getting excited.
    “Might be his,” Ganza said, showing Tully the half-inch black hair now clenched at the end of the forceps.
    Tully caught himself before he winced. So much for craving any of those doughnuts.
    Ganza placed the hair on a glass slide and slid it under a microscope. “Got enough of a root for DNA.” He twisted the focus and swooped down to the eyepiece for a better look. “At first glance, I’d say he’s not Caucasian.”
    “Also could be someone at the doughnut shop,” Tully said.
    Tully looked at the note and envelope again. “So how many people would know how to do an old-fashioned pharmaceutical fold like this?”
    “He may have read about it somewhere. Could be showing off,” Ganza answered.
    Tully lifted the envelope and piece of paper higher so that the lab’s fluorescent light shined through both. That’s when he saw it, almost invisible in the corner on the back side of the envelope. Sometimes you didn’t need a forensic documents expert to catch stuff like this.
    “We might have something here,” Tully said, continuing to hold the plastic bag to the light, waiting for Ganza to leave behind the microscope and come around the table.
    “Son of a bitch,” Ganza said before Tully could point out the subtle indentations on the envelope. “Bet he didn’t plan on leaving that behind.”

CHAPTER 8
    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