A man-or a woman; it was hard to tell-came through the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance ahead of a dozen or so tourists. He stood in line, speaking to no one. When he reached the Plexiglas, he handed the envelope to Briggs. He was wearing loose jeans, an FBI hoodie pulled up over his head, and sunglasses, all of which would have had to come off if he went through security, which he’d had no intention of doing. He, or she?
Roper said, “I had them filter out everything but Briggs’s voice and the man’s. Listen again.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“I found this envelope propped against the glass right outside. I brought it to you before it got trampled or tossed or whatever.” A low voice, not particularly deep, but clear as a bell. A nice voice, really, calm, unhurried. And young.
Briggs accepted the envelope, studied it for a second, and the man blended into the group of tourists behind him. They saw him walk out the Pennsylvania Avenue exit and disappear. Roper said, “All slow and easy, not a care in the world. And that’s it.” Roper turned off the video.
Dane Carver said, “You’ve figured out his size?”
Roper said, “He’s five-eight, weighs about one hundred thirty-five pounds. So what do you think?”
Ruth Warnecki Noble said, “I’d like to watch this a dozen more times, but first impression? He’s slight for a guy, but I’d say he’s male, twenty to twenty-five.”
Dane said, “Or a pretty average female. But I agree, the walk makes you think man. But who knows? He never took off his hoodie and sunglasses.”