Eleven by Carolyn Arnold

when we interrupted him. There it was larger with more swirls. This change showed that Moore had closed emotionally from what we told him.
    “When was the last time he received mail?”
    “If you’d excuse me for a moment.” Moore picked up the telephone receiver and hit a few buttons. He spoke into the receiver, “Anita, I need to know the last time inmate,” Moore rhymed off a number. “That’s right, Lance Bingham. When did he last receive mail?” Moore cupped the receiver and said to us, “It should only take her a few sec—” He spoke back into the receiver, “Today...okay and it hasn’t been distributed yet?” Moore shot a glance at Jack.
    “Have her bring today’s mail to us.”
    “I need you to bring it to my office...yes...I know it’s not the norm...thank you.” Moore hung up. “That was the mailroom supervisor, and she’ll be here in a few minutes with it. She had said the last package before today was March ’08.”
    Sally Windermere went missing February eleventh, 2008. Bingham was booked in January of that same year.
    “She’ll need to know the details of your investigation as well.”
    “Not going to happen. And you’re not going to tell her either. The fewer people who know, the better.”
    “But if we have him in pr-prison, what is the big deal? What is the leak y’all are worried about?”
    Jack relayed the fact we suspected the use of Twitter to communicate with another killer.
    “We’ll remove his right to access the Internet.”
    “You’ll leave everything the way it is. If you take the privilege away, it will only tip off the unsub and make them run. Did she say what type of package came in today?”
    “Just an envelope that would fit a greeting card. We open all the mail and when deemed safe, it’s approved and forwarded to the inmate.”
    “Wonder if it’s a photo.” Jack turned to me, and I knew what he was thinking. The mail from 2008 wasn’t a coincidence. The unsub had sent the photo of Sally Windermere to let Bingham know that the job was done. Did that mean all the people in those pictures were dead or were some intended targets?
    “Did she say where the package came from?” I asked.
    “Every piece of mail has to pass certain requirements such as having a postmark and a full return address. We’ll see when she gets here.”
    Jack addressed me, “We know not all those pics were mailed, so how did Bingham end up with more photos?”
    “His sister visited not long after he was booked,” I said, glancing to Moore, then back at Jack. “She could have brought them when they met.” Back to Moore, “Is that possible?”
    Two raised palms in the air. “It’s possible. Like I said it’s confidential what happens in there.”
    “So people could bring in whatever they want to? Weapons, drugs,” Jack said.
    “All our visitors are checked, but photos wouldn’t get our attention.”
    “You said that conversations aren’t recorded, correct?” I reeled the conversation back.
    “Correct and we don’t video tape them either. The only person who could say would be the security guard and that’s if he stayed in the room. It’s that name I gave you before.”
    “We saw him and he didn’t remember any of their conversation.”
    “Well, then I’m sorry but y’all are out of luck.”
    A rap on the doorframe caused us to look up. A woman stood there. Her dark hair was drawn back into a neat ponytail that reached her shoulders and bangs framed her face. Her figure was trim and her clothing fit snugly, hugging her curves. “I have what y’all are looking for.”
    My stomach turned, fearing it contained another photo. Had we delayed too long, was another life lost?
    “Gentlemen, this is Anita Abrams.”
    She stepped into the office and extended a hand, first to Jack and then to me. She smiled.
    “These men are Special Agents of the FBI.”
    Anita withdrew her hand from mine but held eye contact.
    “I’m Special Agent Brandon Fisher and this is