by Bill Doyle
I stepped out in the night air. The wet grass instantly soaked through my shoes. The light of the moon illuminated the dramatic scene. But the only sound I heard was the pattering of water as it dripped from the eaves of the mansion.
The crowd was gathered around the plane. But there were no cheers. No shouts of congratulations. The flashbulbs of newspaper photographers remained dark.
Why aren't they cheering? I wondered. I walked closer, politely pushing my way through the crowd.
When I saw the plane, I understood.
Judge was staring at the cockpit with confusion and fear on her face.
“Where is he?” Mr. Hatherford shouted. “Where is my son?”
Judge took his hand and answered, “He isn't here”. I gazed long and hard inside the small, battered plane. It was completely empty. There was no sign of the pilot.
Jumpin' John Hatherford had vanished.
Mr. Hatherford collapsed.
June 13, 1925
12:00 Midnight
“John! Johnny!” Mr. Hatherford's voice cracked as he shouted his son's name. Stunned, the crowd watched in silence as the big man banged on the side of the plane. “John, come out of there right now”.
He broke off. The reality of the situation registered on his ruddy face. There was not a living soul on board that airplane. But how could that be? I had watched the plane land myself. My eyes had gone directly from the Great Hall window too the door— they had not left sight of the plane long enough for someone to sneak away.
Mr. Hatherford seemed to be thinking the same thing. He turned to look at us, if searching for some-one in the crowd who was pulling a prank. “Airplanes cannot land by the themselves! He must be on board! This isn't funny. I want whoever is involved in this to stop it, right now. John, this is not a game—“
Mr. Hatherford's words broke off agin— his face crumpled in pain as he collapsed against the plane. One hand flew to his chest then grasped his left arm. Was he having a heart attack?
Judge sprang into action. She touched his shoulder. “Hiram, breathe deeply.”
“This…is…not…,”he wheezed.
“Juts breathe”, Judge told Mr. Hatherford in a soothing voice. “You must come with me, Hiram”. Still bracing John's dad, Judge leaned in closed to me. “G. Codd, I have to take Mr. Hatherford back to the house. The police will not be able to arrive until the stormy seas die down. In the meantime, I need you to help me. Do you know what to do?”
It took me a moment to realize what she meant. “You want me to start the investigation?”
“Yes”, she answered. Her bright eyes scanned the area, probably looking for signs of foul play. “I hope this will turn out to be a joke, and John will show up at any moment, but I'm not sure…”
“Not to worry”, I told her. “I know exactly what to do”. That might have been overstating things, but I wanted to comfort her.
She gave me a nod that said “Then get to it!” and led Mr. Hatherford back to the house.
Now it was my turn for action. Careful not to disturb any possible evidence, I moved in front of the cockpit door so the guests gathered around could all see me. “Ladies and gentlemen!” I called out. “We need to close off this area. We have a missing person and a possible kidnapping. Right now, you could be trampling evidence we'll need to find John Hatherford!”
No one was listening. Guests were chattering away, throwing out wild speculations about what might have happened to John. Mrs. Kartier was talking about creatures from Mars.
I shouted, “Excus me!” and whistled with tow fingers like Judge had taught me years ago. But still, the crowd acted as if I wasn't even there.
Through my growing frustration, I spotted Asyla in the crowd. She was smiling so pleasantly I thought, Good, an ally!
But then she turned to the feathered woman. “He's only fourteen, you know”, Asyla said loudly, pointing at me. “Just Fitz Morgan's child playacting as a grown-up.”
If for some reason Asyla had wanted to discredit me, he words had the opposite effect. “Didn't that kid solve the mystery of that bank robbery in Tulsa, Oklahoma?” the woman next to Asyla asked. “His parents have cracked more cases than the Secret Service!” someone else commented.
A ripple of excitement ran through the crowd. Faces turned toward me and everyone stopped talking.
Suddenly, I had the entire crowd's attention.
I mouthed the words “thank you” to Asyla. The smile stayed on her face, yet her dark eyes had turned cold. What did she have against me? I wondered. But I didn't have time to worry about that now. I had work to do!
Everyone was looking at me.
TEC TIP
SO YOU WANT TO BE A DETECTIVE!
The crime scene includes the exact spot where the crime took place and areas from which the site can be entered or exited. Here's how to seal off a large crime scene:
Cordon off, or close, the crime scene using rope, large objects, or people
Only individuals who are absolutely necessary to working the scene are allowed in. Keep track of everyone who enters or leaves.
Watch out for nosy neighbors and members of the press–they have ways of gaining entry!
Walk through the area–careful not to disrupt evidence–and get a feel for how to approach the scene.
Document all evidence by keeping notes, drawing sketches, and taking photographs(if a camera is available).
Living with my parents, I had learned how to investigate a crime scene. I knew the first thing was to secure the area.
Raising my voice again, I told the crowd, “I want everyone to leave the scene at once, except for you four”. I pointed to Charles, the man with the fur coat, Mr. Kartier, and the feathered woman. these four people stepped forward. The feathered woman was smiling as if she'd just been named Miss Hunter Island. The other guests, including Asyla, wandered back to the mansion.
I placed each of the four people I had selected at different corners of the scene, creating a large box around the area.
“What are we doing?” Mr. Kartier asked from his corner.
“Don't let anyone by you until I say it's all right”, I answered. “Do you understand?”
They all nodded. The scene was now secure.
Next on my list of things to do at a crime scene:
Gather evidence.
I soon discovered the plane itself held no clues. I was, as I'd first observed, completely empty. There were no bags. No food supplies for a long trip over the Atlantic. No signs of life whatsoever.
Nothing.
I expended my search for clues to the area outside the plane. The squishy ground around the craft had been trampled by all the grests. But I could still make out the tracks left by the plane.
Realizing I was running out of time, I hunkered down for a closer look at these tracks. The storms clouds were Swirling overhead as if preparing for the next downpour. Another heavy rain could wash away even these deep tracks.
I took out my notebook and made this quick sketch.
The tracks were different.
Examining the tracks more closely, I saw they didn't match up with the landing I had sketched earlier. The tracks I was looking at ran from the wheels of the plane off to the side of the airstrip where they disappeared.
But how could that be? From inside the Great Hall, a group of people, including me, had watched the plane land. We had all seen the craft touch down at the back of the airstrip—not at the side—and roll to a stop.
Maybe I had sketched the landing wrong.
And how could a crime be committed in secret right under the noses of so many witnesses?
That's it! I realized. The answer could be with one of the other hundred witnesses. They might have seen something without knowing it was the key to solving the case.
Just then the rain started to come down again. Deciding I had gathered all the evidence I could, I called to the four people standing guard, “Thank you for your time! We can all go back inside now”.
The five of us rushed back to the mansion as the sky opened up. Inside the Great Hall, I stopped a tired-looking maid who was carrying a tray of dirty glasses.
“Have you seen Miss Pinkteron?” I asked her.
“She's upstairs with Mr. Haterford”, the maid said, stifling a yawn. “Poor aman says he's having chest pains”.
“Has anyone called for medical help?”
She shook her head. “The phone lines are down. And no help could reach us anyway until the waters calm.”
“One of the guests must be a doctor”, I said, thinking of all the swanky people at the party.
“Sure”, the sleepy-eyed maid told me. “But he's a dermatologist. Miss Pinkerton said she'd stay with Mr. Hatherfor until she can get him to relax”.
I thanked her, and the maid wandered off.
It looked like I would have to continue my solo investigation and that meant interviewing the guests— Who were not only witnesses to a possible crime but also potential suspects!
TEC TIP
GET RESULTS!
Interviewing suspects and looking to crack the case FAST? Then just follow LASTS:
Listen be an active listener. Really hear what people say and how they say it.
Ask! Your questions should always have a point, but shouldn't be too leading.
Shut up! Do not interrupt. Let the subject talk and talk–this can be the best way to learn information.
Train your eyes! Maintain eye contact. It's harder for someone to lie effectively when you're looking directly at him or her.
Stay awake! Be attentive. You don't want to miss a single twitch or word the subject says.
I created a comfortable space in one corner of the Great Hall. I placed two overstuffed chairs so that they faced each other next to a fireplace. Then, one by one, I started interviewing guests and staff members.
I invited each person to sit and offered him or her a glass of water. Many people, like Mrs. Kartier, didn't seem to grasp the seriousness of the situation. She just kept giggling, as if it were a game. Other people, like the man in the fur coat, seemed so eager to play detective that I felt certain they were making up or at least exaggerating what they had seen. Still others, such as Charles, provided excellent objective observations that helped me re-create events in my mind.
MY INTERVIEW WITH MR. VIRGIL GATES, 1:40 AM:
G. CODD FITZMORGAN: Why are you here?
VIRGIL GATES:(nervous laugh) You asked me to be.
GCF: No, Mr. Gates, not in that chair. I mean, why are you here at this party?
VG: I don't have to answer your questions.
GCF: Are you hiding something?
VG: Of course not. (pause) Fine. I'm an old friend of John's.
GCF: Really?
VG: (looking away) Well, maybe not a “friend”, but we do business together. In fact, I've hired John and Justine's delivery company to do some work for me.
GCF: And Asyla Notabe? Does she have any ideas about what happened to John?
VG: Who knows what that woman thinks.
GCF: Isn't she you girlfriend?
VG: Yes. But if you think that means I understand her, you've got another think coming.
GCF: What is your real name?
MANGZE MAGNIFICO: Monsieur Mangze Magnifico.
GCF: That's the name that appears on your birth certificate?
MZM: You are more zan velcome to fly to France and check.
GCF: Did you see anything odd?
MZM: I always zee ze odd somethings.
GCF: I mean especially odd about John Hatherford's airplane landing.
MZM: Jean-Claude, he iz unhappy. Ze spirit wants hiz answers, and he vaz interrupted by a little boy.
GCF: What technique do you use to speak with the spirits? Table turning or desk gyrations?
MZM: Ze desk gyrations.
GCF: Now that is odd.
MZM: Why, little boy, iz that?
GCF: Because I just made desk gyrations up. It doesn't exist.
MZM: (stands up and leaves the interview area)
Here are two of the interviews I recorded in my spiral notebook.
Who should I interview next? I wondered, looking around the Great Hall. I spotted Asyla, munching on spoonfuls of caviar at a food table.
It was clear she had something against me and might be tough to interview. But again reminded myself that a good detective has to deal with the good and the bad. so I made my way over to her.
Asyla loves caviar.
“Miss Notabe”, I said politely, “can I ask you a few questions?”
She smiled at me with her bright red lips and popped a mound of caviar in her mouth. Her perfectly shaped eyes squinted in delight. She chewed, swallowed, and finally answered my question. “No”.
Once again I was confused by her. “What?” I asked.
“Honey, you don't have the authority to make me do a thing.” She picked a piece of lint off the shoulder of my tuxedo. “I'll tell you what. You can ask me one or two questions if you let me interview you first”.
I noticed she never made direct eye contact. “Why?” “I'm bored”. She shrugged.
Bored? A roaring party in a mansion, a violent storm, a dramatic landing after a historic flight, and the disappearance of the pilot—and she was bored?
“What would you want to know about me?” I asked her. “You don't seem to like me much”.
Her lower lip jutted out slightly. “Why would you go and say that, silly boy?”
Because it's true, I thought. But I said aloud, “The séance, the landing strip, the way you've been speaking to me”.
“Oh, that. To be honest, I'm a little out of sorts here. You dear friend Justine Pinkerton and I go way back. Did you know she was on that same train where I met your parents? I wasn't sure how she'd react to me showing up at her fancy party”.
“I'm sure that Judge is glad you're here.”
”Is that so?” Asyla's face still had the sweet smile, but I wondered if it was honey for a trap. Then again, what choice did I have? She might have witnessed something important to the investigation.
“Okay, you can ask me questions first”, I agreed.
“Let's go over to the chairs I've set up.”
Asyla said, “I'd rather stay here, next to the caviar”. Other people in the room were now looking at us curiously. With all these celebrities around, glamorous Asyla was choosing to chitchat with me. It was exciting! “Let's start”, she said. “I adore the way you put that awful Mang in his place. How does a child know so much about Houdini?”
I hesitated before answering her. “I used to have claustrophobia. It started when I was six. Small rooms, snug blankets, tiny automobiles—stuff like that could send me into fits of panic. I felt like I couldn't get out. Then my mom showed me that I was smart enough to ‘detect’ my way out of any situation”.
“Ah, your mom”. Asyla's face remained frozen in a masklike smile. “Please go on”.
“She told me I didn't need to panic. I have sleuthing skills in my blood. I'd never find myself in a jam I couldn't get out of. So I started training to be an escape artist. My mom would stay close by, and I'd lock myself in rooms and attempt to ‘escape’. After a few years, it got awfully hard to find any locked room that could hold me”.
I can get out of anyplace!
Asyla clapped her hands together. “I get it. So Harry Houdini, the master escape artist, is your hero! Your mother is very clever. Is that why you use her name as your last name?”
“The name on my birth certificate is Godfrey Codd Moorie”, I said.
Asyla let out a giggle that sounded like a wind chime and then covered her mouth. “Oh. Did I just laugh out loud? So sorry”.
Shrugging, I said, “I got used to other kids making fun of my name. When I turned twelve, my parents told me I could choose my own name”. I spoke quickly now, eager to get to the part where I go to interview her. “I decided if I was going to be a detective I should have a name that sou
nds mysterious. I shortened Godfrey to G. For my last name, I put together my mom's first name, Fitz, and her her maiden name, Morgan, into my new last name, Fitzmorgan”. “Your father must have been hurt that you didn't choose his name”. She giggled again, but this time the sound had a few false notes.
I was starting to feel pretty uncomfortable. “Actually, Dad congratulated me on my choice. Now, I just have a few questions”, I said before she could ask me anything else.
Asyla beamed at me. “Two”.
“What?”
“I said I would answer one or two questions, not a few”, she told me.
“Since I'm feeling kind, I'll answer two.
Let's test your detective skills. Make the questions good ones”.
Only two questions allowed.
For the first time during our conversation, her eyes met mine. I could see something prowling around behind her gaze. She made me feel scattered, and I blurted, “Did you notice anything strange tonight?”
Asyla held up one finger and mumbled something through a mouthful of fish eggs.
“What?” I couldn't understand her.
She triumphantly held up two fingers as she swallowed. “We're all done. I answered your first question, ‘Did you notice anything strange?’ with a ‘No’. And I'll answer your second questions, ‘What?’ with, ‘I said no’.
This was unbelievable! Before I could protest, Asyla had turned her back on me. “Thanks for the fun chat”, she said over her shoulder. “Beat it”
And that was that. The interview was over, and I was left with no answers–just one more question. Was Asyla involved in John's disappearance?
Someone was skulking around outside!
June 13, 1925
2:30 AM
Before questioning the next witness, I moved the chairs a little away from the fire. It was very late, and the warmth of the flames was making me drowsy. I needed to stay alert!
