 How did the bomb get in Julia's suitcase?
So I returned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffed gray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seats before me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde. Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing I should be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angeles for, and not wanting to. It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explore the insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawers and—well, human beings. I didn't want her to think I had taken it while she was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, which she always kept in the upper right drawer of her desk. I had set my alarm for five-thirty because I had to catch the seven o'clock plane at San Francisco International Airport. This being earlier than I usually get up, it seems all I did during the night was feel my way past the escapement and balance wheel to see where the notch for the alarm was. I went through slips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and a ukulele. The bomb was in a small bag—a woman's bag judging by the soft, flimsy things you'd never find in a man's—and I didn't know it was a bomb right away.
 Julia's husband put the bomb in her suitcase before she left the house.
 Julia's sister slipped the bomb inside the suitcase before she left for the airport.  Julia put the bomb in her suitcase before she left home.  A terrorist at the airport grabbed Julia's bag at random and slipped the bomb inside.  Julia's husband put the bomb in her suitcase before she left the house.