Illinois Man Mails Fake Anthrax to Congress, Signs Every Envelope With His Own Name and Home Address in Case the FBI Wanted to Write Back

The FBI has cracked many difficult cases. This was not one of them. This one came with a return address.

Federal prosecutors say Matthew Unglesbee, 36, of Quincy, Illinois, mailed four letters stuffed with a white granular substance to four members of Congress, then, in a burst of customer service rarely seen in crime, wrote his own name and home address on every envelope. Investigators checked it against government records. It matched. Criminology has a term for this, and the term is "thank you."

The substance was salt. Unglesbee allegedly told agents he chose it because it "kind of looks like" anthrax, which is true in the way a Roomba kind of looks like a getaway car. Sugar also looks like anthrax. So does flour. Only salt lets the lab report end with "needs pepper."

Each letter, according to the complaint, read "ha ha." The one sent to a senator upgraded to "Hah enjoy the gift," which is the closest American hoaxing has come to a Hallmark card. The note was handwritten. The address was handwritten. The alibi was never written at all.

He allegedly predicted the recipients would "take it serious" and that hazmat would "come in white suits." He wanted white suits. He got white suits. He also got an eight-page federal complaint, which is the longest anyone has ever spent reading his mail.

Not one staffer opened an envelope. Instead the offices warned each other to watch for mail with Unglesbee's name on it, making him the first sender in history whose signature was the security feature. Spam filters everywhere felt seen.

Agents then visited his home and found a fifth envelope, addressed to a congressional office in Washington, empty and unmailed. Prosecutors call it evidence. Hollywood calls it a sequel that went straight to streaming.

The motive should worry every diner in Illinois. Unglesbee told investigators he mailed the letters "after hearing someone in a restaurant mention the news story of other letters being sent." Somewhere, a stranger discussed current events over pancakes, and the man at the next table heard a career path. The case itself reportedly began when someone overheard him talking about the mailings. Quincy, it turns out, is a town where nobody can keep a secret, least of all the man who has one.

"Unglesbee claimed he was joking but recognized the recipients would not know he was joking and could perceive it as a threat," the complaint said. Comedy has rules. Rule one: the audience should not need a decontamination shower. Rule two: never sign the joke unless you want the FBI to ask for an encore at your house.

Ryan Presley, special agent in charge of the FBI's Springfield office, said the bureau is focused on "keeping our public institutions safe from intimidation." Fair enough, although this time the institution's main defense was literacy.

Unglesbee faces federal charges of mailing threatening communications and false information and hoaxes, with a detention hearing set for Wednesday in Springfield. The judge will weigh the evidence. The defense will plead for mercy. And in an FBI lab, a technician will finally label the exhibit: "Salt. Needs pepper. Return to sender."