Voodoo Daddy
A Virgil Jones Mystery
G & W
Godbold & Whiteman
Manufactured in the United States of America
A Godbold and Whiteman First Edition
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, private organizations, governmental bodies and/or positions, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author and publisher.
Copyright © 2012 by
Thomas L. Scott
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without the prior written consent of the author and publisher.
June 2012
Visit the Author’s Website at:
www.thomaslscott.com
Voodoo Daddy
A Novel
by
Thomas L. Scott
For Debra
One Love
Always
Prologue
October, 1987
Indianapolis, Indiana
Nine people have less than sixty seconds to live. They are strangers to each other, but death will unite them in a way life never did. From the time it becomes apparent that they are among the helpless and doomed, a span of only a few seconds, some will hunch their backs and cover their faces with their hands as if to shield their eyes from a sight that must surely belong to someone else. Some will not utter a sound as they remain defiant of their immediate fate, while others will remain oblivious to the end, their bodies turned away from death in ignorance as their clocks come to an end on a final tick or a tock they otherwise would have never bothered to notice, much less count.
Some will scream.
Together they will die in what the media will later call, among other things, a ‘horrific and largely unavoidable tragedy.’ In the aftermath investigations will take place, witnesses will be interviewed, evidence will be examined, blame will be assigned, lawsuits will be filed, stories will be written, and groundless accusations will fly. All of that will follow what happens less than a minute from now.
Nine people have fifty seconds to live.
Eight of the nine people stand in the lobby of the Airport Ramada Inn at the Indianapolis International Airport. Six are guests waiting to settle their account and check out of the hotel. Two are hotel employees. The remaining victim is a taxi driver dispatched to the hotel to take one of the waiting guests across the street to the departure area. Were it not for the weather this October morning—patchy fog and a persistent mist—the hotel guest could have easily walked to the departure area instead of taking a cab. Had the weather cooperated and the passenger decided to walk, the record would show only eight deaths this October morning and the cabbie might still be alive today. But weather rarely cooperates, bitch that she often is, and so the cabbie makes nine.
Nine people now have thirty seconds to live.
One of the hotel guests at the front of the line is disputing a charge on his itemized bill. The hotel clerk tries to reverse the charge but fails in her efforts to do so. The computer tells her she needs authorization from the manager to complete this task. She tucks a lock of red hair behind her ear and smiles at the man on the guest side of the counter and informs him the manager is on the way. The man consults his watch and smiles back at the pretty red-headed woman. He wonders how old she is. He notices the name badge on her jacket. Sara. He also notices the plain silver wedding band on her finger and feels his face flush just a bit as she catches his silent inquiry of her marital status. He clears his throat and then glances at his watch once again. He tells her it’s alright. He has plenty of time.
He is, of course, mistaken.
Nine people now have only twenty seconds to live. Somewhere overhead, the sound of an aircraft’s jet engine can be heard. But the sound is ignored by the people in the lobby the way one learns to ignore such sounds. It is an airport, after all.
The hotel manager appears from her office around the corner from the reception area, greets the guest at the front of the line by name, then offers her apologies at the delay as she inputs her approval code into the computer. From the time she comes around the corner, inputs the code and reverses the charge, a mere eighteen seconds have elapsed.
It has already started. The cabbie sees it.
In two seconds nine people are going to die.
* * *
Captain Hewitt McConnell, USAF, needs his three and three. Three take-offs and three landings within thirty days to stay current. He isn’t due to fly this day, except one of the pilots in the rotation has called off sick, so that bumps McConnell up one spot in the line. He sits on the corner of the desk in the ready room, the way pilots do, and listens to his commander’s final instructions before heading out to the flight line at Grissom Air Force Base, in Peru, Indiana.
“We’ve been having a little trouble with some of the new fuel control units, Captain. Be sure you’ve got a steady state of fuel flow before you depart. I don’t want anything going wrong on a simple three and three.”
“Don’t worry, Major,” says Captain McConnell. “I’ll keep it right side up.”
“See that you do, Captain. You’re loaded with two five-hundred pounders. They’re dummies, but try not to lose them.” He smiles at his own joke. “Call sign today is ‘Voodoo.’ Designation is Solo, flight of one. Report back to me upon return.” The Major tosses a casual salute to Captain McConnell who returns it in kind. He walks away to leave the pilot to his pre-flight routine.
Captain McConnell files his flight plan, then walks out across the tarmac at Grissom Air Force Base and climbs aboard the A-7D Corsair jet. The ground crew members remove the ladder and un-chock the wheels as Captain McConnell starts the jet’s massive engine and runs through his pre-taxi checklist. He pays special attention to the fuel flow meter but sees nothing out of the ordinary. He pulls the canopy shut, checks that the latch is secure and then keys the microphone button on the joystick, his voice calm, detached. “Grissom Clearance, Voodoo Solo, how copy?”
“Five by five, Voodoo Solo. Clearance when ready.”
“Go.”
“Voodoo Solo, you are cleared back to Grissom AFB via direct Indianapolis, direct Fort Wayne, then direct. Contact ground and have a safe flight.”
“Roger that clearance, Grissom AFB via direct Indy, direct Fort Wayne, then direct. So long.” Captain McConnell reaches down and twists a dial to switch frequencies then keys the microphone again. “Grissom Ground Control, Voodoo Solo, ready for taxi.”
“Good morning Voodoo Solo, this is Grissom Ground Control. Taxi to runway 23 via Gulf, then Alpha. Hold short and contact the tower when ready.”
“23 via Gulf then Alpha. Hold short, tower at the end. Voodoo solo.”
Captain McConnell bumps the power lever forward just enough to get the big jet rolling along the apron. He performs his pre-flight checks on the roll and when he approaches the end of the runway he stops short of the hold line as instructed by the ground controller and switches over to the tower frequency. “Grissom Tower, Voodoo Solo, holding short of runway 23 at Alpha, ready for departure.”
“Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower, good morning, sir. Winds are one-eight-zero at one four, gusting to two three. Fly runway heading, climb and maintain three thousand feet. Cleared for take off.”
Captain McConnell bumps the throttle again and gets the plane rolling. “Roger Grissom Tower. Any chance for an unrestricted to ten?” McConnell knew the after-burners would eat throug
h the fuel, but with both tanks filled to capacity he could afford a little fun, and there was nothing quite like pouring on the power and pointing the nose straight up.
“Voodoo Solo, disregard previous clearance, taxi into position and hold. I’ll check with departure. Repeat, position and hold.”
“Position and hold. Voodoo Solo.” Captain McConnell positions his A-7D Corsair along the center line of the runway and runs the engine up to fifty percent power while he waits for the tower controller. The fuel flow holds steady. He pushes the throttle to one-hundred percent and feels the aircraft strain against its brakes, but the fuel flow looks fine. Maintenance might be having trouble with the flow control units, but this one appears to be operating just as it should. When the jet starts to slide a bit against the power output, Captain McConnell backs the throttle down to twenty-five percent. As he does the radio chirps in his ear. It distracts him from the fuel flow meter and he misses the waggle the needle makes as the engine spools down.
“Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower.”
“Voodoo Solo, go.”
“Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower, winds are one-eight-zero at one five now, still gusting to two three. Fly runway heading, climb and maintain ten thousand feet. Cleared for take off. Enjoy.”
“Runway heading to ten, cleared to go. Voodoo Solo.” Captain McConnell pushes the power lever forward and holds the brakes. When the engine spins up to full power, he lets go the brakes and begins his take off roll. Seconds later he is airborne. He raises the gear and levels off at fifty feet of altitude. Once he has the proper speed, he pulls back on the stick and points the nose of his aircraft straight up. He is level at ten thousand feet before he reaches the opposite end of the runway.
“Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower. Nicely done, sir. Contact Departure and have a nice day.”
Captain McConnell clicks the microphone button twice in rapid succession as an acknowledgement, something that is generally frowned upon but often done anyway, then switches to the departure frequency. “Voodoo Tracker, this is Voodoo Solo, flight of one, with you level ten, requesting direct Indianapolis.”
“Voodoo Solo, Voodoo Tracker, good morning, Sir. Radar contact. Maintain ten thousand feet, fly heading one eight zero, radar vectors direct Indianapolis.”
“Level ten, one eight zero on the vector, Voodoo Solo.” Captain McConnell banks his aircraft to the left until the HSI reads 180 degrees, then runs through his after take-off and cruise checklists. His speed is four hundred knots and he will be ready for descent at Indy in no time at all. Because of this, he completes his descent checklist as well. Things happen fast in an A-7D.
As if on cue, the radio chirps in his ear. “Voodoo Solo, Voodoo Tracker, slow to 250 knots, descend and maintain five thousand feet, contact Indianapolis Approach Control on one-one-nine point three. Good day, Sir.”
“Two-fifty speed, down to five, approach on one-nineteen three. Voodoo Solo.” Captain McConnell pulls the power back to ten percent and drops the nose, then calls Indianapolis Approach. Approach Control gives him a heading direct to the airport and tells him to expect a visual approach once he is beneath the cloud cover. He turns to the assigned heading and when he is five miles out he contacts the tower to get clearance for his touch and go. He will not stop. Instead, he will just set the wheels down then power up and take off toward Fort Wayne and repeat the procedure there before heading back to Grissom AFB.
Still slightly high on the approach, he pulls the power back to idle for just a moment to slow the aircraft before dropping the landing gear. Once he has the proper speed he pushes the power lever back up to maintain his desired rate of descent. Traffic is light this morning and the tower clears him to circle in close to land on the active runway.
He has less than half a mile to go on his approach to the end of the runway when the fuel control unit fails and the jet’s engine spools down, then dies.
Nine people have less than sixty seconds to live.
Days later, after dozens of post accident investigative interviews, Captain Hewitt McConnell will tell his story for the final time to his commanding officer. He will tell him how, while on final approach to land, the fuel flow dropped off and the engine cut out. He will tell him that there just wasn’t enough time or altitude to attempt a restart. He will tell him that the only thing he could do was to point the aircraft away from the airport and toward the empty fields. He will tell him how it felt to reach down between his legs and pull the yellow loop that would fire the ejection seat and jettison himself from his crippled craft, something his commanding officer had never done. He will tell him he did everything he could, all by the book, to ensure his safety and the lives of anyone in the vicinity of his aircraft. He will tell him how his training kicked in, how he did not panic, and how he acted with professionalism and conduct becoming a flight officer of the United States Air Force during his emergency.
But mostly he will tell him again and again how it was just dumb luck that his knee knocked the stick sideways and sent the aircraft along the path it flew after he fired the ejection seat and punched out. Then in a voice so soft and quiet the commander would have to lean in close, the way a lover might as they listen to their mate’s most intimate desire, Captain McConnell tells him how relieved he was when he heard the pop and felt the chute inflate above his head even as he watched the horror unfold below him.
* * *
Watch now as the cab driver, the very first to die, exits his cab to open the trunk for the bags he’ll carry from the lobby. Watch as he unlocks the trunk then happens to look upward, across the street at the bank building. Imagine what thoughts must run through his mind as he tries to process what he sees. Watch the way his jaw unhinges and his mouth forms a perfect O so large you could fit three fingers in there and pull him away from the danger of the approaching aircraft if only there were enough time.
The jet is no longer flying—it is falling. It falls on top of the bank building and bounces upward slightly after this initial impact. It is this upward movement which causes our cab driver to make the O with his mouth. He turns his head toward the hotel, not in denial of what will come, but out of curiosity of what is about to happen. His life does not flash before his eyes, nor does he think with regret of the things not yet accomplished in his life so short. The last thought his brain processes is no more complicated than the shape his mouth has formed. It is simply “Oh.”
See the jet now, it’s fuel tanks ruptured from the impact with the roof of the bank building. Watch if you dare as it crosses the street and its kinetic energy seeks out the victims in its path. Observe the jagged edge of its broken wing as it decapitates our cab driver with such efficiency that for an instant, even while his head flies back toward the lobby his body remains standing erect as his heart refuses to go where the head knows it must. Feel the heat as the fire ball erupts and follows the twisted hulk of the aircraft into the lobby of the hotel as if the jet’s auto pilot and navigation systems were set to home in on a free continental breakfast. See the looks upon the faces of the victims as their clocks come to an end on a final tick or a tock. See it, and feel the flash of pain the way the victim’s family members will feel it most every waking moment for the rest of their lives.
Watch the news stories as the days turn to weeks, then watch as the story, sensational as it may have been in the moment, is all but forgotten. It is, off the radar you might say.
But you would be mistaken.
CHAPTER ONE
Present Day
As far as the Sids were concerned, there really was no other way they could do it. Their target, Franklin Dugan, CEO of Sunrise National Bank in Indianapolis, Indiana was just too private, too protected, and too damn stubborn to vary from his routine. So in the end they said fuck it and did it the hard way.
At forty-two years old, Sidney Wells Sr. had planned, waited, prepared, and dreamed of this moment for half his life. He raised Sid Jr. in the same manner, which is to say he raised her to hate. Worse still, he raised her
to hide her hatred from those with whom she sought her revenge. “Raised her right,” he’d say, if anyone ever asked him. No one ever did.
Morning came, and the light of a cloudless dawn filtered through the windshield of the Sid’s van. They were parked about a block and a half away on a side street that cornered the property line of the Governor’s mansion. Sid Jr. was checking the time on the dashboard clock while alternately looking through binoculars at the State Police cruiser parked across the street from the mansion. Junior made sure the time on the dash matched the wrist watch Senior had bought just yesterday. It did. They had twelve minutes to go.
“You ready?” Senior said.
“Yep. Pull around the corner so I can get out without Barney Fife up there seeing me. You sure you’re up for what you have to do?”
“I’ve been waiting for this for almost twenty-five years,” Senior said. “I’m more than ready. Just make sure you do your part.”
“Don’t worry, Daddy-O. I’ve got the easy part, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember,” Senior said. He dropped the transmission into gear and they turned the corner and stopped the van again so Sid Jr. could get out. “You sure the timing’s right?”
Junior shut the car door then leaned down into the open window on the passenger side. “Never more than a minute off. If I come in from the south, which I will, I’ll be able to adjust my pace and time it just right. Don’t worry about a thing. Just make sure you’ve got the angle on Barney over there. And try not to miss. Missing would be bad.”
“I won’t miss, for Christ sake. I never miss,” Senior said. Then he said something that both surprised and shamed him, though he couldn’t explain why. “I love you, Sidney.”
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