Grave Apparel (66 page)

“We
put
building
security on
watch
for the guy who
deliv
ered the
worst
letters. Signed by ‘Joe
Citizen,’
” Mac contin ued.
“We
tightened our procedures. Joe Citizen
was
required to sign the log when he
delivered
his letters.
That’s
how
we
fi
nally got the name Stephen Graybill. He could
have
just signed it ‘Joe
Citizen.’
Idiot.”
Mac opened a
drawer
in his desk and

pulled out a pile of papers. “Copies of his letters. Cops
have
the
originals.”

“So when he
showed
up
today,”
Johnson added, “we were
ready.”

Lacey tried to feel some relief. But there was
something
about the
man’s
face
when he heard himself
charged
with Cas
sandra’s
attack. It looked to Lacey like shock, disbelief;
not
guilt.
But
perhaps
Graybill
simply
felt
selfrighteous,
not
guilty.

“I
have
to hand it to you,
Peter,”
she said.
“You
managed to
get
a
lot
of
information
from
Cassandra.
All
of
which
Mac
could
have
told me
himself.”

“There were threats on her
voice
mail
too,”
Johnson went on, ignoring
her.
“She told me she had the feeling lately she
was
being
followed.”

“Did she tell you, Mac? Or
anyone
else at the paper?” “That she
was
being
followed?
Not that I
know
of,”
Mac said. “Maybe she
didn’t
have
time to dwell on it until she
was
in the
hospital.”

Lacey
needed some air and some
coffee.
“What about this Graybill guy?
What’s
his story? Did Cassandra
ever
see him
following
her?”

“At
a distance, so she didn’t
have
a detailed
description.
This Stephen Graybill character fits the profile, though.
His
life seems to
have
fallen
apart.”
Mac spread the letters out
on
his desk.
“All
we got are these,
but
the cops will get more
out
of him soon, I hope. He owned some kind of small business that got shut
down
a
few
months ago, some environmental
im
pact problem, polluting a water
supply.
His wife left him,
he
filed for
bankruptcy.
Apparently he had nothing to do
but
sit
at home and surf the
Web
and read the papers. And then
Cas
sandra wrote something about
how
polluters should be put
out
of business with regulation and confiscatory taxation and
al
lowed
to
starve
to
death
like
the
parasites
they
are.”
Mac
shook
his
head
ruefully.
“You
remember
that
one?
That
started the
letters.”

That sounded
like
Cassandra,
Lacey
thought. So this
down
andout small
business
owner
took the politically correct Cas
sandra
as
his
personal
demon.
To
the
level
of
stalking
and
assault? “So he
fixated
on her? What kind of small
business
was
it?”

“Something that poisons the atmosphere and pollutes
the
earth,”
Peter quoted Cassandra without
irony.

“I
don’t
remember.
It’s
in here
somewhere.
Then there
was
the chat room
incident.”
Mac sounded tired and rubbed his
face.
Among
The
Eye
’s
new
outreach
efforts
to attract readers were the accursed online chats in which reporters were “requested” to participate. There
was
no
extra
pay for this
extra
duty,
but
it
was
considered insubordinate to refuse this particular pain in the neck.

Personally,
Lacey
hated
the
chats.
The
few
she
had
partic
ipated
in
consisted
of
a
nervewracking
hour
answering
ques
tions
on
style
trends
and
sometimes
personal
selfdefense
tips. Before
she
could
finish
one
answer,
five
more
questions
would
pop
up.
If
she
paused
for
a
moment
to
frame
a
thoughtful
answer the
chatters would
start chatting with
each
other
and
leave
Lacey
out
of
it
entirely.
Other
days
there
would
be
no
one
online
to
talk
to
her
at
all,
just
the
sound
of
crickets.
A
real
ego
boost either
way.
It
was
nice to hear
Cas
sandra
had
to
suffer
through
it
too.
But
then,
Cassandra
never
missed
a
chance
to
insult
someone.
Why
pass
up
insulting
strangers
online?

“Smithsonian, you still with us?” Mac
was
staring at
her.
“Sure, Mac,
it’s
just that my brain starts to flatline when I hear the
words
‘chat
room.’
”

“How
typical of
you,”
Johnson said
snottily.
“I adore
the
chat room. My readers are politically sophisticated and unusu ally well informed, thanks to
me.”

“There
it
went,
I
flatlined
again,”
she
said.
“Back
to
Chatty
Cassie. What happened?”

“Tech
ops had to block this guy from the chat room because of his tone and his
threats,”
Mac said.
“Several
times. He started logging in with
different
names.”

“How
did you catch him?”

“Same threats, same catch phrases, same clichés.
Worse
than a
brandnew
sportswriter,”
Mac said. “So he
was
ejected.”

“More
rejection,”
Lacey
said.
“Poor
guy
could
get
a
complex.”

“He
was
angry
and
abusive!”
Johnson’s
voice
rose.
“Or
didn’t
you get that, Smithsonian?”

“Children,
knock
it
off,
for
pity’s sake.”
Mac
picked
up

Graybill’s
letters and
stacked
them. “It escalated,
apparently,
to the point where he
was
following
her.”

“What
did
he write
about
Sweatergate?”

“He
didn’t.
And that term
was
only going around inside the
paper,”
Johnson seethed. “Why
don’t
you pay attention?”

“Why
don’t
you kiss my—”

“Hey,”
Mac said. “If you
two
want
to
fight,
take
it outside. He didn’t write about the Christmas clothing editorial.
Who
knows
why?”

“But
if
he
didn’t
write
about
the
sweaters,
then
why—”
Lacey
said.

“Writing
wasn’t
enough
anymore!”
Johnson
was
in her
face.
“He
attacked
her.”

“I’m glad
you’re
the smartest man in the room,
Peter.
Where
would
the
world
be without geniuses
like
you? But where did he get the damned
sweater,
genius?”

Mac
stood
up.
Johnson
retreated
from
Lacey,
breathing
hard,
his
lips
a
tight
line.
But
Lacey
wasn’t
thinking
about
Johnson, she
was
thinking about the man in the
lobby.
He
was
dressed for a day in a
Washington
office,
maybe a little shab
bily,
but
no
worse
than a typical
reporter.
Better,
in
fact.
He
was
mouthy,
but
not
very
physical.

“That guy
looked
to me
like
a letter
writer,
not an
attacker,”
she said.

“Which
doesn’t
mean it
couldn’t
have
been him. He could
have
snapped,”
Mac pointed out. “The police think
he’s
proba bly the assailant in the
alley.”
Lacey picked up some of
the
threatening letters from
Mac’s
desk and
looked
at them.

“
‘Joe
Citizen’?
He’s
just
a
blowhard.
Why
on
earth
would
he wrap her up in a Christmas sweater? He
didn’t
even
com plain about the Christmas sweater thing.
It’s
not one of his hot
button
issues, is it? And if he did do it,
how
was
he able to grab
Felicity’s
sweater,
which he
somehow
stole without
anyone
at
The
Eye
noticing? Did he sneak upstairs, past the guards, and grab it right
off
the chair in her cubicle?
How
would
he
even
know
where to
find
it?”

“Sometimes these guys
escalate,”
Mac said. “Nuts can be
very
clever.
As for the rest, Smithsonian, let the cops
figure
it
out.”
Lacey
was
shocked
that Mac
was
taking the easy
way
out on this, just
like
Johnson, jumping to the simple conclusion. She
threw
the letters
down
on
Mac’s
desk.