by Jake Aaron
“Well done… Sorry to hear about your dad,” Zach offered in a softened tone.
“Oh, he’s fine. My retired lieutenant colonel pop could whip your sorry ass. He works out two hours every day — pretty good for a dead man.”
“You continue to amaze me. You didn’t learn that at the Air Force Academy! I mean the comforting counselor routine.”
“My mom and I learned that technique when we were stationed in Hawaii. The Hawaiians treated us as haoles until we learned to ‘talk story’ with them. Somehow getting personal seemed to increase the melanin in our skin. Before we returned to the continental United States, I thought I was a native Hawaiian, I was so well accepted.”
“I’m starting to like you — not much — but a little, Air Force Brat.”
“Drive, Fish!”
_______________
After returning to FBI headquarters, both investigators were mentally exhausted by their intense, long Sunday. Zach announced he was headed home to run four miles. Barbara departed in her blizzard pearl Toyota Prius. Though she told Zach she was also going to work out, instead she departed for a soup kitchen in the District of Columbia. Peeling off her suit jacket and putting on worn Nikes, the reenergized young lady served food and then visited the tables with inspiring charisma. She exuded enthusiasm and compassion. A rose in the weedy garden of life. No condescension, she was the real deal, offering up a sincere listening ear and heartfelt encouragement to the less fortunate. Her parents were proud.
_______________
A nondescript figure had watched Zach and Barb enter the former congressman’s house. He had a stake in the progress of the investigation. For starters, he wanted to see whether the government took his message to the Log seriously. While not prone to navel gazing, he was struck with the contrast of the agents’ personas versus his. Their professional attire and bearing made them stand out, as if they were in uniform. They frequently presented badges for identification. They did many things repetitively and by routine. They acted natural within narrow bounds of behavior. In contrast, he varied his clothes to avoid being recognized. He carried false identifications and documents to mislead. He varied his hours, routes, and schedule to avoid predictability. He tried to act natural, depending on what role he chose. Yin and yang.
So far so good. It had begun.
Congress must stop overspending.
Chapter 9
September 17
FBI Headquarters
The investigation progressed with the agents checking leads. It had been a long day. Zach had set a 4:30 P.M. goal to give an interim report to Director Sam Vincent, so he and Barbara reviewed the case over takeout. Their late lunch began at 2:00 P.M. over General Tso’s chicken, spring rolls, brown rice, and iced green tea. Zach groused over Barb’s not bringing fried rice and Coca Cola. “I need the sugar and fat for bowling night this evening,” he teased.
“You are welcome, Zach, she parried. “And just for you, I kept the optional MSG in.”
“I appreciate that, Barb. You know, some experts think preservatives like that may actually extend life… Bet you didn’t know that I’m a health nut.”
“I think I’ll just ignore that soft ball… Again, you’re welcome!”
“All morning in trivia that may add up to truth, boring details that constitute a great investigation. ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…’ Where are we? Let’s see.” Zach threw in a little Dickens to see whether Barb was awake.
“A little Agatha Christie might be more appropriate… I talked to Zimmer’s chief of staff on my cell waiting for the Chinese food. Troy Carlson really did not have much more information than Mrs. Zimmer had,” Barbara announced. “No standout threats, but a higher number of the generalized ones as Rachel implied.”
“While you were picking up lunch, I touched base with Ralph over at the Log. When I mentioned Custos,” he wanted to know my source for that. I told him I couldn’t reveal it, and I thanked him for confirming his source.” Zach basked in the irony. “I also reminded him to keep the kibosh on sharing his Custos source… We still have unknowns with Mort Zimmer’s death. As you know, Rachel thought she might have heard some sound at night that woke her. Mort’s skinned up knees, elbows, and palms could hide an injection site. Very iffy.
“All in all,” Zach continued, “we either have somebody assassinating the Congressman — perhaps by inducing a heart attack or organ failure, or we have someone claiming credit for a natural death… Any second thoughts about Rachel Zimmer? Did she take her husband out for one reason or other — maybe unhappy marriage, insurance, wanted her husband’s job? For me, I can’t rule her out.”
“We’ll see. Not a bad analysis for someone who slept through college,” Barb shot.
“Oh yeah, MENSA lady, any suggestions on what to tell my boss about our tremendous progress on this case.”
“Tell him I’ve been carrying you, so far.”
“I’ll be sure to do that! Break a leg in yoga class tomorrow tonight — literally,” he jested.
_______________
For a finishing touch, Zach put the investigative details into the ViCAP program. The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program could be a useful tool. He really felt this was a stretch, but he knew he needed to cover all the bases. There might be some murders, solved or unsolved, that would shed light on the potential perpetrator of Mort’s death. In this case, the signature of the crime would actually be little or no signature. The database did not reveal any significant intelligence, nor was there a geographic pattern. That ended his mental checklist. He knew the Director would ask about ViCAP.
Zach put together a brief outline of their progress in preparation for his update with the Director: introduction, three main points, summary. ABC in the summary: Always Be Closing — the conclusion, where we should go next, listen for what the Director wants. He was now ready to call Director Vincent.
_______________
“… Thanks for keeping me up to speed, Zach. I want you and Barbara to stay on the case. No surprise on DNA not taking us anywhere without strong leads to compare against. As to Mrs. Zimmer’s possibly hearing something at night — could just be noise, pardon the pun. As you suggested, retrace Zimmer’s history over the last week with a microscope. Recheck enhanced photos of Zimmer’s scratched skin for needle marks. Keep the van monitoring that Log reporter. Don’t let the supercomputers sleep. Data mine key words before and after the time of death. Keep an eye out for any congressperson about to push big-spending legislation.”
The Director laughed, “That ought to keep you all busy… I’ve heard from the Speaker of the House and the President of the Senate — the Vice President— expressing concern over the safety of their congressmen. I told them their chiefs of staff could expect visits by you. I’m asking that after you meet with their chiefs of staff, personally pay a short visit to introduce yourselves to the Speaker and Vice President.
“One more thing, Zach. ViCAP give you anything?”
Zach pumped his fist for his successful anticipation, “Very little so far from ViCAP. If we get more data, we might have something to relate to cases in that system.”
“Looks like you’ve covered all the bases. I know you and Barbara have been hitting this very intensively. I appreciate your work. Pace yourselves; you may need some reserves if this thing goes further south. Gotta go.”
Zach felt tremendous mental and physical relief after successfully briefing the Director. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for checking off ViCAP before talking with the Director. Then he felt a little personal disgust for being reduced to a block-checking bureaucrat. It was a shame, he thought, that addressing a boss’s hot buttons overshadowed the major substance of what he and Barb had done otherwise. The substance fulfilled him; the box checking insured continued paychecks.
_______________
By 5:30 P.M. Zach was starting his Ford 350 King dark blue pearlescent pick up truck. He smiled as he checked in his rearview mir
ror. The empty gun rack behind him brought back waves of memories of hunting elk in the fall. He missed the crisp mountain air and sweeping landscapes under the ‘big sky’ of Montana. He liked the stalking and shooting parts of hunting. After the kill, not so much; that was mostly hard work. Yes, you can take the boy out of Montana, but you can’t take Montana out of the boy.
He loosened his tie, then donned his Osprey baseball hat and Maui Jim Kahuna sunglasses. He bought the hat last spring when the Missoula minor league team beat the Helena Brewers. He checked his rearview mirror again to make sure his hangered bright orange-yellow-white Hukilau Tiki aloha shirt on had not been left in his condo closet. It was his favorite bowling shirt — his dad’s lucky shirt. He never bowled without it. Always inspection clean, he hoped washing the shirt didn’t diminish its karmic power. His dad had bought it on R&R from Vietnam in Honolulu. His dad swore it was good luck.
He stopped momentarily abeam and opposite Barb’s Toyota Prius in the parking lot. He rolled the driver’s window down and leaned his head and elbow out. “You need a push for that roller skate?” he disparaged her car. His smile showed he cracked himself up. “Remember, I carry a pack of AAA batteries if you ever need a jump start for that thing.”
“Keep on truckin’, Cowboy,” she countered, trying to hide that she was flattered that he would stop. “You tryin’ to warm the world single-handedly with that gas guzzler?” she prodded, knowing his skepticism about man’s effect on global warming.
“Actually, I was thinking about trading this fuel-efficient beauty in on a Stryker vehicle.” Referring to the $5M, 36,240 pound, 8x8 wheeled armored infantry carrier vehicle, “You just can’t do enough to keep yourself safe, you know… As far as the environment, there’s scientific evidence of increasing ice at both poles. I’m at least doing my part to counter global cooling and a new Ice Age. What about you?… See you tomorrow!”
Barb knew better than to get into an argument over opinions. She smiled agreeably and shook her head in disbelief.
Zach leaned further out from his truck window, “You know I feel like ‘King of the Road’ sittin’ up here in this machine. And if life is a country song, this Custos case is a ‘Ring of Fire.’” He laughed as he slipped a country music disc into the truck’s CD player, expecting to get a rise out of Barb. He turned up the volume on Johnny Cash’s same-name hit. “Barb, go home, put on Chopin, and relax. This is shaping up to be a perplexing case.” Zach did not know how prophetic he was.
Chapter 10
September 22
Potomac Airfield, MD
Two weeks later Zach and Barb converged at 10:00 A.M. Saturday at the fixed base operation at Potomac Airfield in Maryland. Various single-engine aircraft dotted the tarmac of the airfield: mostly Cessnas, Pipers, Mooneys, and Beechcrafts. Zach got Barb there under false pretenses: “Casual clothes to blend in with a lead I just got.” Zach wore a plum Polo shirt, Levis, and snakeskin cowboy boots. Barb wore a tribal-patterned blouse, Chico’s white linen pants, and flats.
Barb greeted him with a cheery aplomb, “So where’s this ‘lead’ taking us?”
“We need a little team building, some time to clear our heads,” Zach smirked.
_______________
They took off in a Bonanza G36—a low-wing, single-engine, side-by-side cockpit aircraft. Zach retracted the landing gear, set climb power at 2500 rpm, checked the cowl flaps open, and retracted the wing flaps. He kept up his cross check of airspeed, attitude, altitude, climb rate, and engine instruments. He knew that a disciplined ongoing cross check is the life blood of good pilots.
After leveling off and running the cruise checklist, Zach relaxed a bit. The reduction of rpm to 2300 also relaxed Barb. The lowered noise level also made communication easier. “Where’d you get this plane? You must be making a hell of a lot more than I am.”
“Oh, it’s a loaner from a guy in my bag-piping group. He’s an attorney. Enough said,” Zach explained. “I fixed a ticket for him,” as if a federal agent could do such things.
Barb shook her head and smiled at the inside joke.
From the left seat, Zach made a trim adjustment for level flight over the Atlantic Ocean and puffed up a bit as he explained he was an instructor pilot. “Barb, Air Force Academy… how come you didn’t become a fighter pilot?”
She laughed. “Air sickness. Why didn’t you stay in the Navy?”
Zach paused. With a wry grin, he extemporized, “Sea sickness… Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor?… Sounds like two good reasons not to do any aerobatics today. And, I know you remember everything: I was in the Marines.”
Barb grinned at her joke, “Darn, I wish I could remember that! Maybe that short circuit in my brain over that issue is because Marines are Navy!”
Zach squirmed, “Actually it’s complicated. While the Marines are a component of the Department of the Navy, the Marines are a separate military branch.”
Barb laughed and opened her arms in triumph, “I get it, Marines are Navy, but they aren’t Navy.” She shook her head. “A distinction without a difference!”
Distracted from piloting the aircraft, Zach lost 100 feet of altitude and gained 10 knots of airspeed. “The difference may be too complex for a Zoomie to comprehend. Just remember I am and always will be a Marine.”
“How about my calling you a Marine every other time I mention your background?” Barb heckled.
Zach smiled in exasperation, “That would at least be an improvement!”
They cruised in cockpit silence for several minutes with only background air traffic radio calls reminding them they were still tethered to the earth. The ride was as smooth as teflon-coated skates on freshly Zambonied ice. The sun was gleaming brightly overhead. Little nimbus clouds seemed to gently hold them aloft, like pillows of white cotton candy. The sapphire ocean was blissfully smooth and glasslike. A great day for team building.
“It clears the mind, doesn’t it? My kind of meditation,” Zach observed. “I could get used to this.”
“This is not bad. Of course, you know I had to cancel a picnic with my folks. They’re visiting from California. They’re quite disappointed they came all this way to see me, and I’m not there.” That was not true. Her mother and dad were still in California, but Barb thought Zach deserved the discomfort.
“Well… I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know they were in town.” Zach felt ill at ease.
“I just thought you should know…” Barb twisted the knife in false martyrdom and looked pained.
Zach was at a loss for words. After a long pause, he managed, “Well, we won’t be out here too long.” His high spirits ramped down. “I guess we should turn back soon.”
“If you wouldn’t mind… Mom was crying when I told her I had to work today. Dad just fumed. I just hope they’re not too disappointed.”
_______________
Periodically, Zach turned control of the aircraft over to Barb. Each time within forty seconds, Zach was about to explode. “What the hell are you doing? Set the power, fly the plane… wait and see what power change you need to make. You don’t pump the throttle back and forth. Make smooth power changes… and not very often! Here let me show you.” Frustrated, he sounded like a broken record after four iterations of his coaching.
“Let me guess, Instructor Pilot Zach. Your students are saints or mute. You need to be more patient! Failing that, duct tape would be a great alternative, Drill Sergeant Bridger.”
“Some people just aren’t cut out for this, you know!”
“I’m glad this relaxes you,” Barb replied sarcastically.
The ice was not outside, but in the cockpit. As they neared Potomac Airfield at 8500 feet MSL after a little over an hour of flight, Zach checked the landing lights on for recognition by other aircraft. He pulled back on the throttle to 20 in Hg, set the propeller control at 2100 rpm, closed the cowl flaps, selected the fuller tank, put the mixture at full rich, and set the flaps for 10 percent. He looked at Barb and said, “What wou
ld you do if I died right here and now and the engines failed? Your aircraft!… Maintain 100 knots. Try not to add any power.” Zach thought this might shake Barb out of her sulking.
Barb reached for the yoke in front of her with her right hand, left hand on the throttle. She expertly lowered the nose of the aircraft down as airspeed dipped below 120 knots. There was very little noise with the engine producing only a modicum of power, just the whoosh of outside air around the canopy.
In the left seat, Zach remained super vigilant as he waited for some parameter to go out of limits — airspeed too low, over banking, getting too far afield. He made appropriate radio calls. But Barb appeared to be lucking out. She was definitely flying down the “chute.” Zach was awestruck with her natural ability — “golden hands” aviators call it.
Just as Barb moved her left hand for the gear handle on a perfect final approach, Zach took over the controls, “I’ve got it!” He dropped the gear and flaps, slowed to 80 knots, rounded out, and touched the G36 down flawlessly. Normally, he’d be basking in the seamless transition from flight to rollout, but Barb’s unexpected performance disturbed him. His mind raced.
Taxiing in to the ramp, Zach turned his head to the right. “You’re a ringer! That power thing earlier with the throttle — that was a put-on, wasn’t it? You must have a thousand hours in these things. You set me up. Am I right?”
“Nope. Just lucky, I guess.” Barb did not tell him that she had over 50 hours of flight time in the TG-10B two-place tandem sailplane back at the Air Force Academy. “Dead-sticking” any aircraft was a piece of cake to her. It was in that glider that Cadet Symanski determined she would not become a jet fighter pilot as she had planned since high school. The low-level turbulence, so-called “chop,” around the southern Rocky Mountains near Colorado Springs had given her vertigo. She had experienced that on her first flight in the TG-10B, but her tenacious character made her keep trying. She pushed through that agony for too many flights over time with no let up. Ultimately, she silently opted out of ever experiencing that vertigo in a single-seat F-16. She never told a soul — best to keep the flying option open if something should change. What hell had she avoided by not fighting that for twenty or more years? She knew she would have been a career Air Force officer if she’d endured pilot training.
