Dead River by Fredric M. Ham

folding chair. “The FBI? But there hasn’t been a federal crime committed.” His Brooklyn accent was now breaking out heavily.
    The Rileys sat on the couch, hanging on every word.
    “I know, but I think they should get involved anyway.”
    “I suppose, if they’re willing.”
    “I know the supervisory senior resident agent here in Orlando.”
    “Who’s that?”
    “Sidney Harrington.”
    “How well do you know him?”
    “Very well. I think I can convince him to help us out on this one.”
    “Isn’t there an FBI office in this area that we should notify?”
    “Yeah, I’m sure Sid will contact them after I talk to him. I believe it’s in Melbourne. I’ll call Sid after I get there.”

 11
    ADAM APPROACHED Carillo’s equipment table with his arms folded over his chest. “What do we do now?” he demanded.
    “Hold on. One more call, then we’ll talk.”
    Carillo got Wilkerson on the phone and arranged for the postmaster and two officers to start searching through the mail immediately. He hung up and turned to face Adam. “Mr. Riley.” He motioned toward the couch. “Please sit with your family.”
    “I don’t want to sit. Besides, only part of my family’s here. I want some answers!”
    “Please calm down.”
    “To hell with calm, I want to know what’s going on.”
    “What are you doing to catch this person?” Valerie shouted.
    Carillo jumped to his feet. “Hold on!” Less than five feet from Adam, he looked up at him. “I know you won’t like this, but we wait.”
    “Wait?” Adam shouted.
    “Hear me out.”
    “Do something!” Dawn screamed.
    Carillo’s face tensed as he threw both of his arms upward. “Goddamn it! Shut up!”
    Adam took one step back. Valerie and Dawn eased back down on the couch.
    Carillo lowered his arms and pointed around the room. “Set—tle down. Understand?”
    The room was silent.
    “Okay. Here’s what’s going on. The postmaster and police will search the post office for the letter. As soon as I hear something I’ll let you know.”
    Adam took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then slowly released the trapped air. “This guy’s using some sort of vocoder system to distort his voice, isn’t he?”
    “He’s using something,” Carillo said, still visibly irritated. He then lowered himself onto the flimsy seat of the folding chair. The metal frame creaked under his weight.

    The mail-sorting room at the Cocoa Beach post office had a familiar stale scent that Wilkerson recalled from his college days working in the student union building post office.
    The postmaster had set up a simple system with four large wooden tables placed side by side, and two plastic bulk-mail carts positioned in front of them. Each of the four men snapped on rubber gloves, took one of the canvas bags from the stack in the corner of the room, and dumped it on a table. Letters of no interest went into the gray plastic cart and packages into the blue one. They worked fast but carefully, checking each piece of mail. Packages and letters crisscrossed each other en route to their destinations.
    It took less than an hour to find it. The postmaster held up a letter with his latex-gloved hand. “Got it,” he shouted.
    The envelope was white and addressed in printed letters to the Rileys. There was no return address. Wilkerson gently took the envelope from the postmaster, slipped it into an evidence bag, and headed for the police station.
    It almost felt too easy. The envelope lay in its clear plastic bag on the seat beside him. I wonder what’s in the letter. He wanted to pull over and rip it open. Instead he popped a toothpick in his mouth and punched in Carillo’s number on his cell phone. The display said 5:27 am. He glanced over again at the letter in the plastic bag, mesmerized by overpowering anticipation.
    “Carillo.”
    “Peter, this is Glenn Wilkerson.”
    “Did you find the letter?”
    “Yup,” Wilkerson said, glancing at the seat beside him to make sure the