The Program

Chapter thirty-eight

For a rail-thin postal inspector, Owen B. Rutherford was surprisingly intimidating. He wore a perpetual half scowl, half squint, as if braced for an imminent fight. The federal-issue Beretta 92D strapped to his hip provided backup for a stubborn jaw and determined eyes. Comb marks had fossilized in his fine, dark brown hair, which he kept in a knife-edge left part. His skin, pasty and speckled with moles, was flushed to an inhuman shade of magenta in twinning ovals on his cheekbones. His irritation at being roused from bed had dissipated immediately when he'd been apprised of the situation.

Tim and Winston Smith sat on either side of him. Tannino looked on from behind his imperious desk, waiting for Rutherford's livid silence to give way to words. Bear had taken up his usual post, leaning against the wall by the door, blending into the wainscoting.

"What we have then" – Rutherford spoke quietly, restraining his rage – "is willful, systematic obstruction of the mails. What you're telling me is that at least sixty-eight individuals forward their mail to a P.O. box and this man has it picked up and somehow disposed of, day after day, week after week?"

"Yes. None of it gets through." Tim realized he was employing the mollifying voice he usually reserved for interviewing family members of victims.

Rutherford fanned his flushed face with his open notepad.

Tannino spread his hands, then folded them. "What's that give us?"

"What's that give you?" Rutherford shot a glance at Winston, who nodded him on severely. "Most obviously a Title 18, Section 1708 -theft or receipt of stolen mail matter, generally. But between theft, obstruction, and destruction, we could have over two hundred federal, criminal, and civil statutes."

Bear chuckled, a low rumble. "There's your probable cause."

"We still have the hostile-witness problem," Winston said.

Rutherford's tone was sharp, annoyed. "What hostile-witness problem?"

"They're cult members. Maybe they don't mind not getting their mail. Maybe they'll say they gave Betters permission to destroy it or whatever he does."

Rutherford regarded Winston like something he'd picked out of his teeth. "This is not a crime committed against the addressees, Mr. Smith. Do you know what a thirty-seven-cent stamp buys you?"

A wrinkled V appeared between Winston's eyebrows. "I, uh…"

Not only was Tim glad to be out of the line of fire, but seeing Winston Smith off his game was not without its own satisfaction.

"Not just delivery service. Oh, no. The thirty-seven cents buys you a fiduciary relationship with the United States Postal Service. We are custodians of private property. Namely: the mail. That private property belongs to the sender until it comes into the hands of the intended recipient. These jelly-spined bliss ninnies can't grant the right for their leader to destroy incoming mail before it comes into their actual possession – it isn't their mail to relinquish. First-class mail must be delivered, forwarded, returned to sender, or sent to the mail-recovery center." Rutherford ticked off the points on his fingers. "Any other act is a violation of the rights of the sender. A violation further of the sanctity of the mail and – make no mistake – it is as such a felony in its own right."

"What does Betters do with the mail?" Tannino asked.

Tim said, "Let's get a warrant and find out."

"We trust this kid?" Winston asked. "Maybe she's teeing us up for Betters."

"I trust her."

"It's a big ranch," Tannino said. "I don't want to play Hans Blix."

"Then send me back in," Tim said. "I'll come back with on-the-ground intel. We have the Arrest Response Team serve the warrant, I'll steer them to evidence like a guided missile" – a nod to Winston – "ensure you can make a case even if the Dead Links don't yield."

Tannino frowned thoughtfully but didn't respond. Winston rose and whispered in Tannino's ear like a defense attorney. He returned to his place on the couch and repositioned his hat on his knee.

Hurwitz, Gregg – Rackley 02 the Program (2004)

"Hey," Tannino said in a self-mocking monotone. "I just had a great idea. Maybe we could send out a mailing to various cult members from my office – phony flyers for a seized-car auction or something – documented and sent first class."

"I think that's a fine notion," Winston said.

Bear grinned at Tannino. "Feel like being a complainant?"

"He violates that mail, the federal government is the complainant," Winston said. "Then we'll see about indicting him under RICO, getting him more time on the charges."

Rutherford referred to his oversize digital watch. "Tomorrow's Friday. If you get the flyers to me by nine A.M., I can arrange same-day delivery."

"That works out fine," Tim said. "Betters is expecting me back Saturday."

"I don't know about this," Tannino said. "Your cover's getting thin. You go back up, you'll have to sign the financial docs. These guys don't sit on their hands – they'll want to start digging into the financials first thing Monday. Even with my hooks in place, no way we can stall them out without them realizing Tom Altman's all smoke and mirrors. They'll make you within forty-eight hours."

"Then give me forty-eight hours."