Hale: One Print
Chapter 12
William Hale thumbed through the mail as he walked up the driveway to his house. One envelope made his heart sink. It was addressed to Lynette. She was the wife he’d made a home with for 20 years. William couldn’t believe she was still getting mail 10 years after her death.
He came across a letter from the AARP. Black and white proof of an elderly status that was quickly catching up with him. He stepped back in the house.
William went back to the envelope addressed to his wife. He couldn’t find a return address so he roughly tore it open. He skimmed the letter that was inside.
“Jesus,” he said not realizing he was audible. His jaw couldn’t have hung any lower. “This must be a mistake.”
William dialed the phone number he saw at the bottom of the letter. There was no indication whose number this was, but needed to speak with someone. It rang three times.
“Joey’s Pizza,” a voice responded.
“Hello, my name is William Hale. You sent a letter to my wife.” He paused a moment awaiting a response. “Hello? Are you there? Lynette’s been dead for 10 years. Who is this?”
The line went dead a dial tone was all William heard. He wrinkled his brow and set the phone down. He picked up the letter and redialed the number. He thought perhaps he had dialed it wrong the first time. Again, it rang three times.
“Hang up the phone William, and burn the letter,” a gruff voice said.
William was stunned and perplexed. “What?! How do you know my—”
“Burn the letter now.” Dead line. Dial tone.
William switched into detective mode. His curiosity was more than piqued. He needed to know why someone sent his dead wife a letter with a phone number and who it was that answered and how they knew his name.
He clutched the letter and took it to his study. He pulled out an old-fashioned fingerprinting kit. He laid out all the pieces then spilled a bunch of black powder onto the letter. He curled the paper and drained the powder back into its original jar. He tapped it twice.
He brushed away the extra powder from the bottom right corner. A clear fingerprint began to emerge. He opened his desk drawer and removed a digital camera. He snapped an image of the print and attached the camera to his computer.
William picked up the phone and dialed an old friend who still worked at his precinct. If anyone could help him, he knew it was Jack Hamilton.
“Hamilton.”
“Jackie, it’s Bill, I need a favor.”
“Everything all right?”
William realized his voice sounded strained and tense. He calmed himself.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “I need you to run a print for me. I’m e-mailing it to you now.”
“All right,” Hamilton said. “Give me just a minute.” He paused a moment. “I have it. Which databases?”
“Everything.”
“No problem,” Hamilton told him. “While it’s running, you mind telling me what all this is about, man?”
William stammered a moment. “I got a strange letter in the mail today. It was addressed to Lynette. There was a phone number and something strange happened when I called. I just want to know who sent the letter.”
“Okay,” Hamilton said. “I have a match, but— wait, this is unusual.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a 96% match with an FBI agent.”
William Hale thumbed through the mail as he walked up the driveway to his house. One envelope made his heart sink. It was addressed to Lynette. She was the wife he’d made a home with for 20 years. William couldn’t believe she was still getting mail 10 years after her death.
He came across a letter from the AARP. Black and white proof of an elderly status that was quickly catching up with him. He stepped back in the house.
William went back to the envelope addressed to his wife. He couldn’t find a return address so he roughly tore it open. He skimmed the letter that was inside.
“Jesus,” he said not realizing he was audible. His jaw couldn’t have hung any lower. “This must be a mistake.”
William dialed the phone number he saw at the bottom of the letter. There was no indication whose number this was, but needed to speak with someone. It rang three times.
“Joey’s Pizza,” a voice responded.
“Hello, my name is William Hale. You sent a letter to my wife.” He paused a moment awaiting a response. “Hello? Are you there? Lynette’s been dead for 10 years. Who is this?”
The line went dead a dial tone was all William heard. He wrinkled his brow and set the phone down. He picked up the letter and redialed the number. He thought perhaps he had dialed it wrong the first time. Again, it rang three times.
“Hang up the phone William, and burn the letter,” a gruff voice said.
William was stunned and perplexed. “What?! How do you know my—”
“Burn the letter now.” Dead line. Dial tone.
William switched into detective mode. His curiosity was more than piqued. He needed to know why someone sent his dead wife a letter with a phone number and who it was that answered and how they knew his name.
He clutched the letter and took it to his study. He pulled out an old-fashioned fingerprinting kit. He laid out all the pieces then spilled a bunch of black powder onto the letter. He curled the paper and drained the powder back into its original jar. He tapped it twice.
He brushed away the extra powder from the bottom right corner. A clear fingerprint began to emerge. He opened his desk drawer and removed a digital camera. He snapped an image of the print and attached the camera to his computer.
William picked up the phone and dialed an old friend who still worked at his precinct. If anyone could help him, he knew it was Jack Hamilton.
“Hamilton.”
“Jackie, it’s Bill, I need a favor.”
“Everything all right?”
William realized his voice sounded strained and tense. He calmed himself.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “I need you to run a print for me. I’m e-mailing it to you now.”
“All right,” Hamilton said. “Give me just a minute.” He paused a moment. “I have it. Which databases?”
“Everything.”
“No problem,” Hamilton told him. “While it’s running, you mind telling me what all this is about, man?”
William stammered a moment. “I got a strange letter in the mail today. It was addressed to Lynette. There was a phone number and something strange happened when I called. I just want to know who sent the letter.”
“Okay,” Hamilton said. “I have a match, but— wait, this is unusual.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a 96% match with an FBI agent.”
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