The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [36]
“Why thank you,” Quincy said evenly.
“It’s true,” Glenda chimed in, though she had the courtesy to look at him with more concern than Montgomery. “If something had happened to you yesterday, standard procedure would have been to investigate personal acquaintances as well as people from prior cases. Not an easy feat, but certainly a manageable one. Now, however, entire prison populations have your personal information. You could be targeted by any neo-Nazi who hates federal agents, any gangster looking to build a rep, or any psychopath who’s simply bored. If something should happen to you now . . . The playing field is wide open. No matter how many agents were assigned to the task, we’d never wrap our arms around a suspect list this big. Frankly, it’s a brilliant strategy.”
“This is serious,” Everett pronounced again.
As the one who was being targeted by some unknown stalker, Quincy thought he already knew that.
Glenda flipped through the file Quincy had put together. “In the good news department,” she reported, “some of these newsletters are more reputable than others. If they ran an ad, it was because they received specs and payment by mail. If they’ve kept the original letter and envelope, we’re in luck. We can trace the postmark back to city of origin, test the envelope for DNA and fingerprints, plus test the whole package for chemical residues, dirt, debris. On the other hand . . .” She hesitated, glancing at Quincy apologetically. “Prison newsletters are mostly grassroots journalism. It could take us weeks simply to track down every publication carrying the ad. And even then . . .”
She didn’t have to say the rest. They all knew. Not all prison newsletters were really about journalism and not all were reputable. In the sixties, information was smuggled into prisons in packs of cigarettes. When the drug problem grew too big, however, correction departments across the country cracked down on all contraband by universally banning outside packages, including ones bearing tobacco products. Prisoners were allowed to receive only money, which they could then use to purchase cigarettes from the prison commissary. While it was unknown if this policy truly limited the drug problem, it did cut off the information flow.
Which brought the underground information network into the nineties and the miracles of constitutionally protected free speech. Prisons got computers, complete with desktop publishing software, and prison newsletters sprang up across the country. While some were small, many garnered national distribution. And the coded ad was born. Got some information you want to disseminate? Disguise it as a request for a pen pal, and pay five, ten, one hundred bucks to bring your message to the masses. Financially constrained? Some Web sites would now run pen pal ads and even build personal Web sites for inmates, free of charge. Just because you murdered eight people doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have a voice in society. Or a pretty blond writing correspondent named Candi.
“A lot of these newsletters probably didn’t require much in the way of payment,” Quincy filled in for Glenda. “And most of them probably did destroy the original letter of request, as a matter of protocol.”
“Prison Legal News is a good one,” she offered. “We can focus our efforts there.”
“Good.” Everett nodded approvingly.
“I can call the phone company,” Jackson volunteered. “See if Verizon has had any breaches of security lately. You know, that they’ll admit to.”
Everett nodded again, looking pleased. Quincy, however, rubbed his temples. “I doubt you’ll find the original letter and envelope,” he said quietly. “And even if we do, there won’t be any DNA evidence. There won’t be fingerprints. Nobody takes the time to think of such an elaborate ruse, then forgets something as simple as fingerprints on the envelope and saliva on the seal. Whoever we’re looking for, he’s smarter than that.”
“You think it’s personal,” Glenda said.
Quincy gave her a look.