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Authors: Buck Sanders
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check that safe if you like,
just to make sure all those tags are accounted for.”
“Not just yet. Tell me something first about the workers’ tags. Can they be duplicated?”
Tolson beamed. “Glad you asked,” he said. “Glad you asked.”
Slayton was taken to Tolson’s own office, which was in a separate building adjacent to the one they had just been in. When
they were inside Tolson’s private quarters, Tolson opened his safe and removed a small box. He opened it and showed Slayton
an ultraviolet marker and light-detection device.
“We got security gadgets just like the government,” Tolson said. “In fact, you might be interested to know that we just instituted
this ultraviolet marking system last week. All the workers’ tags are marked, though they don’t know it. That way, we can tell
which tags belong to us and which tags are counterfeit, in the unlikely event that any are.”
“Very good,” Slayton said, trying to sound impressed, but becoming more impatient with Tolson’s almost ebullient attitude
at the sight and sound of what would surely become one of the most tragic mine disasters in American history.
Slayton thought quickly, trying to figure a way to shorten the time he would have to spend with Tolson. He might have to return
to him for questioning, but time was now precious. He had none to waste on someone
too
helpful to official investigators, a common problem to all police agencies.
“I already told the FBI about the ultraviolet marking procedures,” he said, thrusting forward his chest as if he expected
Slayton to pin a medal on it.
“You what?”
“As soon as I heard of the blast, I naturally telephoned the FBI.”
“How does one ‘naturally’ telephone the FBI when a mine explodes?”
“Well, I was informed that the business with this Johnny Lee Rogers—”
“What?”
“Well, all the radio stations have it. At least the one I listen to.”
Slayton hadn’t thought to monitor the media. He wondered if anyone in Washington had thought to do so.
“What does the radio report say?”
“It says that somehow, Lovebridge was going to explode as a protest against the imprisonment of Johnny Lee Rogers.”
“How does the radio station know that?”
“All I heard is that someone was supposed to have called the Associated Press office in New York and said so.”
Slayton was somewhat relieved. Most broadcast outlets wouldn’t use the material, not right away. Sure, West Virginia stations
would use it, even though the AP probably marked the news item “advisory only.” Most likely, editors across the country would
think it too preposterous a connection, merely the telephone call of a crank, the sort that happen every day in any large
city. Fortunately, Slayton thought, there was no word about Nixon in any of this second-hand report. Another Presidential
assassination attempt was not what the country needed, even if it was directed at Nixon.
It was important, Slayton knew, to keep events such as this as quiet as possible for as long as possible. That way, the terrorist
wasn’t tipped off in any way as to the direction of his pursuit. Too often, when news media got hold of an exciting story,
the authorities would become excited during interviews and spill too much information about the investigation in process.
Criminals in general, and terrorists in particular, read such interviews very carefully.
Slayton suddenly thought of the obvious.
“What about attendance sheets?” he asked.
“You want today’s?”
“Of course.”
NEW YORK CITY
The mobile forensic unit at the Nixon house finished testing the envelope addressed to the former President for any indications
of a bomb or poison.
Using a pair of razor-thin steel tweezers, one of the examiners opened the envelope, the one not cleared by postal investigators
as usual. The message was neatly typed on a piece of white eight-and-a-half by eleven-inch paper:
The Führer is to be
just to make sure all those tags are accounted for.”
“Not just yet. Tell me something first about the workers’ tags. Can they be duplicated?”
Tolson beamed. “Glad you asked,” he said. “Glad you asked.”
Slayton was taken to Tolson’s own office, which was in a separate building adjacent to the one they had just been in. When
they were inside Tolson’s private quarters, Tolson opened his safe and removed a small box. He opened it and showed Slayton
an ultraviolet marker and light-detection device.
“We got security gadgets just like the government,” Tolson said. “In fact, you might be interested to know that we just instituted
this ultraviolet marking system last week. All the workers’ tags are marked, though they don’t know it. That way, we can tell
which tags belong to us and which tags are counterfeit, in the unlikely event that any are.”
“Very good,” Slayton said, trying to sound impressed, but becoming more impatient with Tolson’s almost ebullient attitude
at the sight and sound of what would surely become one of the most tragic mine disasters in American history.
Slayton thought quickly, trying to figure a way to shorten the time he would have to spend with Tolson. He might have to return
to him for questioning, but time was now precious. He had none to waste on someone
too
helpful to official investigators, a common problem to all police agencies.
“I already told the FBI about the ultraviolet marking procedures,” he said, thrusting forward his chest as if he expected
Slayton to pin a medal on it.
“You what?”
“As soon as I heard of the blast, I naturally telephoned the FBI.”
“How does one ‘naturally’ telephone the FBI when a mine explodes?”
“Well, I was informed that the business with this Johnny Lee Rogers—”
“What?”
“Well, all the radio stations have it. At least the one I listen to.”
Slayton hadn’t thought to monitor the media. He wondered if anyone in Washington had thought to do so.
“What does the radio report say?”
“It says that somehow, Lovebridge was going to explode as a protest against the imprisonment of Johnny Lee Rogers.”
“How does the radio station know that?”
“All I heard is that someone was supposed to have called the Associated Press office in New York and said so.”
Slayton was somewhat relieved. Most broadcast outlets wouldn’t use the material, not right away. Sure, West Virginia stations
would use it, even though the AP probably marked the news item “advisory only.” Most likely, editors across the country would
think it too preposterous a connection, merely the telephone call of a crank, the sort that happen every day in any large
city. Fortunately, Slayton thought, there was no word about Nixon in any of this second-hand report. Another Presidential
assassination attempt was not what the country needed, even if it was directed at Nixon.
It was important, Slayton knew, to keep events such as this as quiet as possible for as long as possible. That way, the terrorist
wasn’t tipped off in any way as to the direction of his pursuit. Too often, when news media got hold of an exciting story,
the authorities would become excited during interviews and spill too much information about the investigation in process.
Criminals in general, and terrorists in particular, read such interviews very carefully.
Slayton suddenly thought of the obvious.
“What about attendance sheets?” he asked.
“You want today’s?”
“Of course.”
NEW YORK CITY
The mobile forensic unit at the Nixon house finished testing the envelope addressed to the former President for any indications
of a bomb or poison.
Using a pair of razor-thin steel tweezers, one of the examiners opened the envelope, the one not cleared by postal investigators
as usual. The message was neatly typed on a piece of white eight-and-a-half by eleven-inch paper:
The Führer is to be
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