Flynn grinned as he hit the send button. It would surely raise Banks’ ire, but he figured he could smooth things over and avoid any long-term damage. He still had a job to do, which involved covering the story and gaining plenty of eyeballs on the magazine’s webpage. He wasn’t sure that he accomplished his main objective for the time being, but it would serve notice that The National was on top of the story and would be the go-to website for coverage of the crime.
He got up and wandered down the hall toward Banks’ desk. She was in her supervisor’s office, undoubtedly discussing the case. He looked around before he peeked inside the manila folder on her desk. He found a report detailing what investigators found in their initial search of the aft cargo hold of Flight #419. A plastic baggie full of Raleigh cigarettes. No hair fibers. No fingerprints. And a newspaper clipping from 1971 about D.B. Cooper.
And not a single viable suspect.
To Flynn, it sounded like 1971 all over again.
A loud commotion down the hallway snapped him out of his trance. He turned to look near the fracas and an elderly gentleman was waving his hands wildly and yelling at the security officers trying to turn him around and escort him out of the building.
Flynn was intrigued, as he knew stories like these brought all the crazies out. He wanted to further investigate but his phone buzzed, reminding him of a scheduled radio program appointment. “Beyond Words,” with Allister McKinley, was a popular nationally syndicated talk show that aired in every major market—and he’d been asked him to come on the air and talk about the heist. He determined not to say anything more than what he wrote in his online piece for The National to avoid further confrontation with Banks. But it was necessary. The public needed to know what was going on if law enforcement officials were ever going to catch Cooper’s copycat.
He dialed his phone while the mayhem at the end of the hall continued.
CHAPTER 6
HAROLD COLEMAN RESISTED the security guard who gripped his bicep while attempting to usher him down the hall. Though he appeared old and frail, Coleman wasn’t having any of it. He threw an elbow into the guard’s stomach and stood upright.
“Will someone get me the agent in charge of the Cooper copycat case?” he said.
The guard reached out to grab him when Brad Thurston walked up. Thurston put his hand up and shook his head, signaling the guard to leave the man alone.
Coleman snapped his head back over his shoulder and glared at the guard.
“Mr. Coleman, what can I do for you?” Thurston said as he placed a firm hand on Coleman’s shoulder.
“You know who I am?” Coleman sneered.
“I think the entire floor knows who you are by now—but I knew who you were the second I saw your face. I’ve seen that mug of yours on my television screen more times than I care to count during D.B. Cooper documentaries.”
Coleman forced a smile. “Good. Then I think you know why I’m here.”
“To relive the good ole days?”
Coleman furrowed his brow. “I want to help. And nobody knows this case better than me. Just bring me on as a special consultant.”
Thurston pivoted and gestured with an outstretched arm down the hall. “Let’s talk in my office.”
Coleman clenched his fists as he shuffled down the hall. He knew exactly where this conversation was headed. Thurston would pat him on the back, thank him for his service, and let him know that they had everything under control. But it’d all be disingenuous, patronizing, and untrue—in that order. If anything, Coleman knew what it was like to start digging for a pebble in a pile of boulders. That’s how cases like these started, especially in instances where no DNA was available.
When Coleman started working the original Cooper case, he struggled to determine a serious suspect. Making matters worse were the people who desired to claim credit for the crime as D.B. Cooper became more popular and a part of American folklore. And based on the amount of adulation heaped on Cooper by the public, who wouldn’t want to be him? Every jailed criminal who’d even thought about jumping out of an airplane and had visited Portland once in their lives tried to claim credit. Checking out every claim bogged down Coleman’s investigation.
He didn’t want to see the Bureau make the same mistakes he’d made. Above all, he wanted the bastard caught, if only to deter similar future criminal activities. But if he was honest with himself, there was another reason he wanted to be involved, even it was behind the scenes. He needed closure—and redemption. The Cooper case had always been a nasty mark on his career, one he couldn’t rub clean regardless of how hard he tried. Yet this was his chance to whitewash that blemish and find the peace he sought. Sure, he looked old and tired, but he still had his wits—and the Bureau could use every last one of them to catch a brilliantly planned crime.
“Have a seat,” Thurston said as he pointed at the chair across from his desk. He closed the door and sat opposite Coleman.
“I’m not interested in hearing some patronizing speech,” Coleman said. “I know that my failure to apprehend Cooper—even if I’m confident the scumbag died when he jumped from that airplane—is one of the biggest black eyes in the Bureau’s history. I doubt you have much confidence in me either, but let me assure you I have a wealth of knowledge that could be helpful to this case.”
Thurston’s eyebrows shot upward. “First of all, we’re not even sure that this is a Cooper copycat. I know that’s what the TV and newspapers are calling this crime, but they’d call a cat a horse if it would earn them more eyeballs on their product. Other than jumping out of an airplane with money, it’s not so similar. Secondly, I appreciate your candor, but you’re right—your inability to definitively solve the first case is not exactly something I’m interested in reintroducing to this case. It would be a needless distraction for our agents and the Bureau in general.”
Coleman leaned forward in his chair. “You have to let me help you.”
Thurston shook his head. “No, I have to do what I feel is in the Bureau’s best interest. I must do whatever gives my agents the best shot at solving this crime. Bringing you onboard wouldn’t do that, which is something I hope you can understand. It’s nothing personal, truly.”
Coleman slammed his fist down, partially anger but mostly to help himself stand up. “Your arrogance will be your downfall.”
Thurston stood up. “I have more than capable agents. And that’s not arrogance—that’s a fact.” He waved dismissively with the back of his hand. “Now show yourself out.”
Coleman turned and shuffled toward the door. He turned and looked over his shoulder, glaring at Thurston. “You’re going to come to me begging for help. Mark my word.”
Thurston rolled his eyes and gave Coleman another derisive look. He pointed again at the door. “Go.”
Coleman swung the door open and entered the hallway, muttering a string of expletives under his breath. Despite his unusual presence, most agents were too busy to notice him—or his smooth swipe of an agent’s security access card off her vacant desk.
Coleman almost made it to the elevator when a man grabbed his arm. He withdrew and stared at the man. “Who are you?”
The man offered his hand. “I’m James Flynn, a reporter for The National.”
Coleman rubbed his forehead and sighed. “Oh, great. Another media member. Are you here to drag my name through the mud again?”
Flynn drew back. “Actually, no. I want to know what similarities you see between the two cases and why you think this may or may not be a Cooper copycat crime?”
Coleman’s face lit up. “Walk with me. There are a few things I’ve never told anyone about the case—but it’s about time.”
CHAPTER 7
WHEN GORDON ARRIVED IN HIS OFFICE Tuesday morning, he looked both directions down the hall before closing the door behind him. He wanted to catch all the latest news on his escapade from the previous day—a virtual scrapbook, of sorts. Of course, he needed to search other news as well. If the authorities ever c
ombed through the search history on his computer, he wanted it to be uninteresting.
By his best guess, half the people in Seattle who worked in front of a desktop were reading about the story at the same time. His interest in the case meant nothing. But just in case, he clicked on a few stories about how the city’s new $15 minimum wage regulations were hitting the restaurant industry hard as well as another story about the Seahawks’ struggles on offense against the Packers in the Monday Night Football game a day ago.
Just another Tuesday in Seattle. It was an endless cycle of complaining, moaning, and blaming. Whether the topic was weather, sports, or local politics, there was always something to gripe about. And Gordon would appear to be armed with all of the hottest topics—though he suspected the only thing anyone would want to talk about was the Cooper Copycat still on the loose.
He meandered down the hall a few minutes shy of 10:30 to confirm his suspicions. Carl Jaworski’s voice could be heard halfway down the hall.
“Does this guy really think he’s the second coming of D.B. Cooper?” Jaworski asked his disciples circled near him in the break room. A few of them nodded in approval and mumbled their agreement.
Gordon detested Jaworski’s brash attitude, but he couldn’t justify firing him since he was such a meticulous worker with an admirable work ethic.
“Times have changed,” Gordon said as he slipped past Jaworski and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Aside from the fact that hardly any Boeing 727s with aft stair access are in use today and that you couldn’t get a bomb through airport security if your life depended on it, the days of D.B. Cooper have been gone for years. But this guy is definitely the next generation of skyjacking.”
“What? Hiding like a coward in the cargo hold and jumping out when it’s dark? Yeah. Sounds like a real brazen criminal to me.” Jaworski shook his head. “Just another example of the wussification of America. Hell, even our criminals don’t have balls any more.”
Gordon held up his hand. “Come on, Jaworski. There are ladies present here.”
“Yeah. And the ladies here are tougher than our criminals. What do you think that says about the future of this country?”
The other workers backed off slowly as Gordon trudged toward Jaworski. He poked his subordinate in the chest. “You, my friend, have a warped mind. Trying to determine the future of America based off criminal activity? Besides, when did we start detesting the criminals who were doing what we all wished we could do and stick it to Uncle Sam?”
Jaworski pulled back. “No disrespect, but that’s messed up. D.B. Cooper isn’t some hero—and neither is this guy desperately trying to imitate him, as poor of an imitation as it might be. Both of them are thugs who stole the hard-earned money that you and I forked over through our taxes, not some folk hero to be celebrated.”
Gordon sighed. “Times were different back then.”
Jaworski waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard all the spin and seen the documentaries. Times were tough in the area, the logging industry was under attack, and everybody hated the government. Blah, blah, blah. It doesn’t change the reality of what he did or what this wannabe did. They’re both thieves.”
“I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree then.”
Jaworski chuckled. “And you accuse others of being a wuss? That’s the wussiest way out of an argument. It’s what people say when they realize their argument is riddled with holes.”
Gordon eyed him closely. “Don’t you have some loans to approve?”
Jaworski shook his head and walked toward the door. Then he stopped. “I know you don’t agree with me, but think about it. Don’t try to canonize this guy. I’m sure you wouldn’t try to make a hero out of anyone who robbed our bank—no matter what the reason.”
Gordon poured himself another cup of coffee and looked at the rest of the workers lingering in the break room. “Do all of you feel this way?”
A few shrugs, a couple of mumbled responses.
Gordon decided it wasn’t worth his breath. He marched back to his office and sat down.
How can they not cheer for me? I’m doing the same thing Cooper did.
He shuffled through a few papers and stared at his to-do list for the day. It was lengthy and tedious. He put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. All he could think about was what he had to do next.
A soft tap on his door snapped him back to his senses.
“Come in,” he said.
His secretary, Patti Thomas, poked her head in the door. “How are you, sir?”
“It’s a Tuesday,” he said.
She handed him a stack of documents. “I was wondering if I could get your John Hancock on these files.”
“Certainly.”
She didn’t move.
“Anything else?” he asked.
She furrowed her brow and cocked her head to one side. “Are you feeling better today, sir?”
“Better?”
“Yeah, you didn’t seem to be yourself yesterday. Something just seemed off.”
He picked up a medicine bottle on his desk. “Maybe it’s these new pills I’m taking.”
She nodded.
“Why? Did I say something out of line?”
She grimaced. “That’s one way of putting it.”
He stood up. “Patti, tell me what I did. You know how I sometimes say things without thinking.”
She bobbed her head back and forth. “Well, since you asked.” She paused. “Do you remember talking with Trisha Heidkamp yesterday?”
He squinted. “I think so.”
“Well, you invited her to go swimming at your heated indoor pool sometime and told her to bring the whole family.”
Gordon’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yeah. I’m sure you weren’t thinking, but since you asked,” she said as her voice trailed off.
“Okay. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll make a point to apologize to her.”
She slipped out of the room without another word.
Gordon rubbed his face with both hands as he leaned back in his chair again. Trisha’s son drowned four months ago in her hot tub. It was a tough few weeks in the office as Trisha and plenty of other workers shed tears with her.
He pulled out a piece of paper and made a note.
This isn’t going to be as easy as I thought.
CHAPTER 8
“WE NEED TO TALK,” Banks said as she grabbed Flynn by the back of his collar and forced him down the hall. He went willingly, though not as fast as Banks preferred. He stumbled after a few steps until she released him at the threshold of her office.
Flynn scooted inside and turned around to watch Banks slam the door behind her and storm around her desk. He sat down gingerly.
Banks slammed her first on the table. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Flynn shrugged. “My job?” He paused. “I’m not quite sure why you’re upset.”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” she said as she rested on her knuckles while leaning over her desk. “I’ve agreed to let you tag along on this case because I think your expertise could be helpful—but it’s not helpful when you write stories like the one you just wrote. We need to control the information that gets out of here so we can control the investigation. If the wrong piece of information slips out, it may give our thief the advantage he needs to elude us or get rid of potential evidence.” She paused and then waved dismissively at him. “You already know all that—and I shouldn’t have to be here telling you this.”
Flynn nodded. “Can I make it up to you by taking you out to dinner tonight?”
She rolled her eyes and sighed. “The only dinner I’ll be eating tonight is take out. And you as well, if you want to stick around and be helpful. We’ve got a lot ground to cover, and fast.”
Flynn was pleased with his ability to avoid further trouble with Banks, especially since he didn’t even have to use his nuclear option—what Coleman had told him. At least not yet anyway.
H
e smiled at her. “Whatever you need.”
“Grab your coat. We need to get started.”
***
THEIR DRIVE TO THE Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge, where early eyewitness reports of a man parachuting out of a plane correlated with the time of the plane being robbed, was largely uneventful—and unfruitful. However, it had taken several days for the tips to roll in and the FBI to ascertain the landing zone, and the scene appeared cold when it came to evidence.
Flynn tried to press Banks for her best theories on who and, more importantly, why. Flynn insisted that the why of a crime always led to the who, particularly in the conspiracy cases he’d covered. By the end of the drive, it was clear to Flynn that Banks was truly starting at ground zero on this case.
But Chase Jones, Banks’ partner for the investigation, was full of ideas about why and who. In the backseat, he leafed through a folder full of documents detailing people who’d made threats in the past against the government from both the San Francisco and Seattle areas.
“Wait a minute,” Flynn said. “How exactly did the Seattle field office get to take the lead on this case? What about San Francisco?”
“Technically, the crime was committed here, so we get to take the lead,” Banks said. “We’re working closely with the San Francisco office. But all the evidence is here—the money, the plane, the suspect.”
“We’re not sure about the suspect,” interrupted Jones. “He could be anywhere by now. Maybe even in Canada, if he’s smart.”
Banks pulled into the parking lot and stopped. She leaned over her shoulder and shot Jones a look. “Let’s stick to facts, not conjecture. He could still be in this park for all we know. We don’t need to turn this into an international manhunt yet.”
They got out of the car and Flynn slapped Jones on the back. “Something tells me this case is more about the thrill than the loot. And thrill seekers like attention.”
Jones shrugged. “Maybe. Time will tell.”
Banks led the way as they ambled down a dirt path where a Bureau forensics team was already at work.
The Cooper Affair Page 3
