The Cooper Affair

by Jack Patterson

  “On the contrary, Mr. Flynn, I did something Cooper never did: I stole money twice and jumped from airplanes—and never got caught.”

  “Not yet anyway,” Banks said.

  “Even if you catch me, I’ll be like Cooper in the fact that you’ll never get to take me to trial. Convicting me after I die would be a hollow pursuit.”

  “Suicide by law enforcement,” Flynn said. “Another original pursuit.”

  “Watch your tone, especially about things of which you don’t know.” He clapped his hands. “Now, I suppose you are both wondering what you’re doing up here and how you’re going to get down, so I’ll keep it simple by answering these questions in reverse order. First, you get down by jumping out of this airplane. Second, you’re both up here to disprove a long proffered theory by the FBI that D.B. Cooper died when he jumped into the dark just west of the Gifford Pinchot National Forest.”

  “What?” Banks asked. “I’m not some expert paratrooper like some people suspect Cooper was.”

  Gordon held up his index finger. “True, but your partner in crime here is, sort of.”

  “But I don’t have a parachute on, wise guy,” Flynn snapped.

  Gordon shrugged. “I know. Where would the fun be in that?”

  “I’m giving you a fifteen-minute head start. Good luck.”

  Gordon worked quickly to detach Flynn and Banks from one another and release Banks from the wall.

  “Bon voyage!” he said as he shoved her out of the plane.

  “What are you doing?” Flynn asked. “She’s got no experience.”

  “Trust me,” Gordon said with a wink. “This ain’t her first rodeo.” He released Flynn from his cuffs and pulled out a handgun, training it on his captive. He motioned with his gun toward the open door. “But you better get out there quick before she pulls the chord and you meet an untimely demise. Not that I care—I’ve never had much use for journalists, especially one who’s a snitch.”

  Flynn didn’t move.

  “Better move,” Gordon said, firing a shot through the opening. “In another minute or two, you won’t be able to see her.”

  Flynn shuffled sideways with his back to the cabin wall. When he reached the opening, he swallowed hard and did a backflip out of the plane.

  “Fly in a circle,” Gordon said to Spurlock. “I want to be over this exact same spot in fifteen minutes so I can jump.” He paused. “Nah. Make it ten. Gotta keep this interesting.”

  CHAPTER 35

  FLYNN COULD SEE BANKS flying through the air toward the ground in front of him. Though she’d admitted to parachuting once out of an airplane, he hoped she’d keep her cool and not pull the ripcord too early. He watched her sinking toward the ground, arms and legs flailing.

  Flynn tucked in his arms and held his legs tightly together. He was gaining on her, and he could only hope it would be in time.

  The ground rushed toward him as he tried to stay focused.

  Grab onto Banks, pull the cord—and pray.

  It sounded simple enough, but doing it at a speed of two hundred miles per hour increased the level of difficulty, especially when Banks was only traveling around one hundred and twenty miles per hour.

  Steady. Steady.

  Flynn could see her about fifty feet below him. He started to slow his descent by spreading open his arms and legs.

  Whoosh!

  Banks pulled the chute and her body lurched upwards toward Flynn.

  He opened his arms wide and reached for her, nearly sending her spinning when he did. His immediate need was to grab onto Banks, but his next priority was stabilizing the parachute.

  Banks screamed as he hit her, nearly knocking her horizontal. Flynn latched on just below her waist. He then slipped slowly down her legs about a foot to help stabilize her. The downward motion of his weight prevented her from entering into a spiral and killing them both.

  After it was evident that disaster had been avoided, Flynn wormed his way up Banks’ body until he could look her in the face.

  “Does this count as a second date?” she asked. “Because if it does, I really want to see other people.”

  Flynn chuckled as they drifted down through the chilled late autumn air. As they descended, he noticed snowflakes falling with them. “Don’t you find this somewhat romantic? You, me, snowflakes and—”

  “What’s that smell?” she asked.

  A sudden jarring motion stunned Flynn before he could answer and he lost his grip.

  His cries echoed throughout the woods and ended with a thud.

  “Flynn! Are you okay?”

  “Never better,” Flynn said, dusting off the dirt from his pants. “Just a short drop. You’re almost here.”

  Flynn spoke too soon.

  A gnarly pine branch snagged Banks’ chute, leaving her suspended in the air.

  “You got a knife?” she asked.

  Flynn could barely see her silhouette hanging from the tree. “If I had a knife, neither of us would be standing here right now. Just work your way out of the harness. I’ll catch you.”

  He estimated that she was about fifteen feet off the ground. If he could catch her and break her fall, she’d be fine.

  After a few minutes, she managed to loosen her harness and climb out by pulling up on the parachute straps. Once she shook her legs free of the harness, she looked at Flynn.

  “You ready for me?”

  “Make the leap.”

  She let go and fell. Flynn caught her initially but fell backward over a stump and tumbled to the ground.

  “Wuss,” she said. “I thought you were stronger than that.”

  “A thank you would be nice.”

  “From you, yes. It was my chute after all that saved you.” She stopped. “Again, what’s that smell?”

  Flynn wrinkled his nose. “I’m not sure, but it’s rancid.”

  “You think Gordon was kidding about giving us a fifteen-minute head start?”

  “I’m not interested in sticking around to find out.”

  “Agreed. And I’ll do anything to get away from that stench.”

  “That smells like raw meat or something.”

  They walked for a few yards, unable to escape the odor.

  “Where is that coming from?” Banks asked. “I think it’s you.”

  Flynn laughed. “Yes. It’s always the guy. Guys just stink, so it must be me, naturally.”

  She walked up to him and sniffed his shirt. “It is you.”

  He eyed her closely. “I don’t know. You got some funk going on yourself.” He walked up and sniffed her shirt. “Nah. I think it’s you.”

  She grabbed her shirt by the corner over her shoulder and inhaled a whiff. “Uhh. It’s on both of us. That is disgusting.”

  “Let’s just keep moving.”

  She stopped. “Do we even know where we are?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say we’re somewhere near Ariel, Washington.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because that’s where D.B. Cooper supposedly landed that night when he jumped out of the plane.”

  Banks’ eyebrows shot upward. “And you think he’s trying to recreate the experience?”

  “I think that’s what he’s been doing all along—and we were just a bonus.”

  “So where to next?”

  “If memory serves me correctly, I think if we travel along the water in a westward direction, we’ll eventually reach some civilization and get out of here.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said.

  They tramped off into the woods, searching for the water. Snowflakes continued to fall as they moved west.

  After twenty minutes of walking in silence, Banks stopped.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked.

  “Hear what?” Flynn said.

  A short low growl broke the peaceful evening.

  “That,” she said.

  “Yep. I heard it that time.”

  “What do you think it is?” she asked.

/>   “I don’t have to ask. I know exactly what that sound is—and you’re not gonna like it.”

  CHAPTER 36

  COLEMAN DIALED BANKS’ DIRECT LINE and waited as the phone rang—six times and then to voicemail. “You’ve reached the office of Agent Jennifer Banks. I can’t take your call right now, but if you’ll leave a voicemail with your name and number, I’ll be happy to call you back at my earliest convenience. Or you can send me an email at jbanks at FBI dot gov.”

  “Agent Banks, this is Harold Coleman,” he began. “I’ve called you and left you several messages. Please call me back. I want to find out what you learned last night. I’ve got a bad feeling about you right now and I want to make sure you’re okay. Please call me back.”

  He hung up but was startled almost immediately by Edith.

  “Harold, who are you talking to in there,” she yelled from the other room.

  “Oh, no one,” he said. “Just leaving a voicemail.”

  “For who? That FBI agent again? Will you please just give it a rest?”

  He loved Edith, but he resented the fact that—like most women—she had bat ears and could detect the slightest rise in anxiety from his breathing patterns. And if he was actually making intelligible noises? Forget about it. She’d be able to psychoanalyze his behavior from that alone.

  “No, just leaving a message for the body shop, asking about when we can bring the car in to get it repaired.” He lied. He felt guilty about it for a second. But when she finally stopped nagging him for a moment about his continued contact with Agent Banks, he took a deep breath and smiled. Peace. That’s all he wanted. The same feeling he had on the outside right now, he wanted on the inside, too.

  He hobbled down the stairs into the cellar to review his crime map. Despite retiring years ago from the FBI, he couldn’t break the habit of creating a visual map of any crime in which he was interested. Most of the time, it would be about a crime in some other part of the country and he’d never have any contact with the case. Edith hounded him about it until he agreed to stop making the maps in their bedroom and make them downstairs in the basement. It was a pain to climb the stairs, but not nearly as annoying as taking continued flack for it.

  Methodically, his eyes moved across the board he’d created. It was part historical record and part psychological profile. In order to know the why of the crime, he needed to know the who. And the who baffled him.

  Then a thought hit him and he started to piece it all together. This was a crime committed by a fan, a disgruntled fan—perhaps even a fan trying to one-up the original criminal. Carlton Gordon admired D.B. Cooper and his genius to pull off such a crime, but he also begrudged him for remaining hidden all these years.

  “What’s he afraid of?” Coleman asked. “Getting caught, of course.”

  Coleman thought for a few more minutes, trying to piece together the facts of the crime with his suppositions.

  “He’s going to do what Cooper never had the guts to do—expose himself for who he truly is.”

  But how?

  Coleman stared at the board for another fifteen minutes without moving.

  Then another thought hit him. He called up the FBI offices again. However, he’d filled up Banks’ voicemail so that the phone system returned him to an automated operator. Instead of giving up, he decided to spell Jones’ name on the directory tree and see if he could reach him instead.

  “This is Agent Jones.”

  “Agent Jones, this is Harold Coleman.”

  Coleman could almost imagine Jones’ eye roll.

  “What do you want, Mr. Coleman?”

  “I want you to connect me with Agent Banks. I’ve been trying to reach her all day.”

  “She’s probably avoiding you. Are you aware that we can get a restraining order against you if you keep this up?”

  “I need to talk with her.”

  “To be honest, sir, I haven’t seen her since early this morning.”

  “Did she check out Gordon’s alibi?”

  “Yep. And he passed with flying colors. Said he was at a bar last night with some friends—and it all checked out. We even saw pictures of him with his friends.”

  “But—”

  “There are some things that are difficult to fake, Mr. Coleman, even in this day and age.”

  “But you don’t know where she is?”

  “Please, go enjoy your retirement in peace. We’ll handle everything from here. We’re not going to stop until we catch the bastard who’s done this.”

  “I’m afraid you’re—”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Coleman.”

  Click.

  Coleman seethed as he slammed his phone down.

  “Is everything okay down there, Harold?” Edith called from upstairs.

  “Just peachy, dear.”

  He picked up the phone book on the edge of his desk and thumbed through the pages.

  Something’s not right.

  He punched in the numbers and waited.

  “Northwest Aerial Services. This is Tommy,” answered the voice on the other end.

  “Tommy? Tommy Spurlock?” Coleman asked.

  “Yes? Who’s this?”

  “I’m Harold Coleman and I’m looking for a couple of friends of mine. And I’ve got a feeling you might know where they are.”

  “Who is this again?”

  “Harold Coleman—I know Carlton Gordon has been using your planes. He didn’t happen to stop by today, did he?”

  “I’m not at liberty to disclose—”

  “Cut the crap, Tommy. Did you or did you not fly them today?”

  Spurlock cleared his throat. “Well, since you’re not currently in law enforcement, I guess it’s okay to tell you that I did.”

  “And where are they now?”

  “They all jumped.”

  “All?”

  “Yes, Agent Banks, Mr. Flynn and Carlton Gordon.”

  “And where did they jump?”

  “Hold on a second. Let me get the coordinates.”

  A few minutes later, Coleman grabbed a few things out of the basement and stuffed them into a small backpack and stomped upstairs.

  “Going somewhere, Harold?” Edith asked as he reached the top of the stairs.

  “I’ve got to go check on the car—make sure the paint matches.”

  “You don’t need me to go with you?”

  “Not this time. I’ll be back soon, but go ahead and eat without me. Never know what trouble I might run into out there.”

  “Well, don’t go looking for trouble, Harold. It seems to find you on its own easily enough.”

  He climbed into Edith’s car and turned the ignition. The car’s engine came alive, but he kept it in park. Quickly, he dialed Jones’ direct line.

  Voicemail.

  “Agent Jones,” he said after the beep. “I know where Agent Banks is—and Mr. Flynn, too.”

  CHAPTER 37

  FLYNN TURNED AROUND SLOWLY and grabbed Banks’ arm. He held up his forefinger and mouthed, “Don’t move,” to her. He eyed the black bear lumbering toward him.

  “I want you to slowly walk backward,” he whispered in Banks’ ear.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “A black bear—but don’t panic.”

  Flynn kept his eyes locked on the bear, who stopped and raised up on its hind legs, sniffing.

  Think, Flynn. Think.

  It wasn’t enough that he’d just been hurled toward the earth without a parachute and managed to survive—and a crazy man was soon coming after him. But now he had to deal with a bear.

  The bear snorted again and took several more steps in his direction before stopping.

  Flynn went over the options in his mind, none of which assured him a positive outcome.

  They could run, but black bears were fast. And while he might outrun Banks, they both wouldn’t survive, which was the goal.

  They could swim, but black bears were good swimmers, contrary to popular belief. He considered the thought
of getting caught in the water by a black bear for a moment—and considered other options.

  They could climb a tree, but black bears were actually better climbers than other bears and would likely catch them before they reached a height that the bear would balk at.

  Finally, they could play dead—a tactic that works great with grizzlies but not with black bears.

  We’re screwed.

  He said a little prayer under his breath, as it was the only option that presented a ray of hope.

  Then a thought hit him.

  It’s our clothes.

  He inched backward while watching the black bear stand on its hind legs, sniffing the air. Flynn glanced over his shoulder at Banks.

  “Strip!” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “I said, ‘Strip!’ ”

  “Are you crazy? It’s snowing!”

  “So you want to be warm as this bear rips you limb from limb. Strip!”

  As Flynn continued to move backward, he took his shoes off so he could drop his pants. He ripped his sweatshirt off and unbuttoned his shirt as quickly as possible.

  “Why are we doing this again?” Banks asked.

  “Cheap thrills?” Flynn shot back.

  “This isn’t a time for joking around.”

  Flynn jammed his foot back into his shoes and kept edging backward. “That bastard Gordon rubbed raw meat all over us. We smell like a steak to him.”

  He looked over his shoulder at Banks.

  “Eyes forward,” she said.

  Flynn held out his hand and Banks understood. She placed her clothes in them—and he tossed them toward the pile of his clothes a few feet in front of him.

  “Think this is gonna work?” she asked.

  “I wish I could instill more confidence in you, but this is our only option. If it doesn’t work, we’re dinner tonight for that guy—at least one of us is.”

  “Good thing I won the state in the one hundred meters,” she quipped.

  “And I won the title of rock wall climbing champion for the Southeast Region when I was 18,” he snapped back. “Looks like it’s going to be a roll of the dice if this idea doesn’t work.”