While he was unconscious, two vans owned by a Union City, Tennessee, plumbing company arrived in his driveway. The plumbers walked around his house a couple of times, as if looking for leaking sewage or something, but they were really checking out the neighborhood. He lived on a two-acre lot near the edge of town. The nearest neighbor’s home could barely be seen. When they were satisfied no one was watching, they quickly entered the house and began searching drawers, closets, desks, anywhere Henry might keep records. Two agents wiretapped his phone and hid a transmitter in the attic. Another agent copied bank records with a mini camera. Another agent found a key ring and began trying locks.
A large shed in the backyard held carpet-cleaning supplies and lawn care equipment. A partially hidden door with a thick padlock concealed a ten-by-ten room where, evidently, the mad bomber did his mischief. Since none of the agents handled explosives, they were afraid to touch anything. They photographed as much as possible and left the room, leaving it for another day and another search warrant.
Back in Biloxi, Taylor’s Dodge pickup was also receiving attention. Careful not to rack up too many miles on the odometer, Jackson Lewis took it to a service garage on the Point and paid the owner a hefty fee to look the other way. Technicians installed a waterproof magnetic tracker between the radiator and front grille and wired it to the battery, none of which could be seen without a thorough search. The antenna was replaced by an identical one that not only received radio signals, so Henry could continue to enjoy his tunes, but also transmitted signals within a ten-mile radius.
If all went as planned, the tracking system would be periodically checked or even replaced in a month or so, one night when Henry was sound asleep.
He slept well after his surgery and finally awoke early on Monday afternoon. He accused the nurse of using too many sedatives and she threatened to juice him again. He was pleased to see a much smaller cast and claimed his leg felt great.
Tuesday morning his doctor made the early rounds and said he could be released. The paperwork was already prepared, and when everything was in place an orderly helped him into a wheelchair for the ride to the front door. There, the same two Biloxi policemen were waiting with a pair of crutches. They helped him walk a short distance to his beloved pickup, got him situated in the driver’s seat, commented on his wisdom in buying an automatic and not a clutch, and proudly said that they had filled the tank.
His leg was already killing him, but he smiled gamely as he drove away.
What a couple of dopes!
Other dopes followed the blue Dodge to the Beach Bay Motel where they observed the subject use his new crutches with great difficulty as he managed to waddle, limp, and lurch to the door of Number 19.
Inside, Henry seethed in pain as he pulled up the mattress and retrieved his wallet, cash, keys, pocketknife, and pistols. He had dreamed of them and couldn’t believe they had not been found by the housekeepers. He threw them in his duffel, along with his clothes, and was about to start wiping down the room when someone knocked. It was the manager looking for an extra sixty-two dollars for the past four nights. Henry hobbled to the credenza, got the cash, and paid him.
When he was gone, Henry locked the door, wet a towel, and began wiping every surface he might possibly have touched in the past week. Television controls, shades, doorknobs, faucets, commode, and shower handles, light switches, door facings, and toilet paper rack.
He was a bit late. The FBI team had lifted prints from the same surfaces, along with prints from his truck and his hospital room. Few suspects in recent history had provided such an incredible portfolio of fingerprints.
But he blissfully wiped away, smug in his cleverness and secure with the knowledge that he was outsmarting the bumpkins. When he was certain Room 19 was print-free, he threw the key on the bed, hobbled out to his truck, tossed his bag in the rear, wrestled himself into position behind the wheel, and drove away.
They followed him out of town, along Highway 90, then north on Highway 49. Another tail picked him up in Hattiesburg, another in Jackson. Six hours later, Henry was followed as he skirted downtown Memphis on the bypass and picked up Highway 51 north. In the town of Millington, he stopped to fill up his tank and buy a soft drink from the convenience store, hobbling painfully and trying to keep any weight off his bum leg. Two hours later, he was trailed at the edge of Union City and followed until he finally made it home.