Flight 7 Is Missing

by Ken H. Fortenberry

  I don’t know where Gene got the blasting powder or where it is now. We have looked and searched the basement and Gene’s workshop with the two Civil Aeronautics Board men who were here but could find no trace of the blasting powder.

  (Signed)

  Peter Stub

  Witness: Claude M. Schonberger

  C.S. Collar

  The investigators are on to something big.

  The disclosure about the blasting powder and the fact that no trace of it can be found are the best clues yet to strengthen a possible case of sabotage against Crosthwaite. But they need more—much more. A day or so later Schonberger and other officials open the glove compartment of the purser’s car, parked near the airport, and discover this:

  LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF

  OLIVER EUGENE CROSTHWAITE

  IN THE NAME OF GOD, AMEN:

  I, OLIVER EUGENE CROSTHWAITE, a resident of Felton, County of Santa Cruz, State of California, being over the age of twenty-one years and of sound and disposing mind and memory and not acting under duress, menace, fraud or the undue influence of any person whomsoever, do hereby make, publish and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament.

  FIRST: I hereby revoke all other and/or former wills and/or codicils to wills by me made.

  SECOND: I hereby direct my Executor hereinafter named to pay all my just debts and funeral expenses as soon after my death as can conveniently be done.

  THIRD: I hereby declare that I have been twice married; that my first wife was THELMA MAY CROSTHWAITE and that we were divorced by Final Decree of Divorce in that certain action entitled “In the Superior Court of the State of California, in and for the County of San Mateo; Thelma May Crosthwaite, Plaintiff, vs. Oliver Eugene Crosthwaite, Defendant; No. 36998,” on November 19, 1945. I further declare that there was one child the issue of this marriage, to-wit, BILLIE JOANN CROSTHWAITE WITHROW, residing in Modesto, California.

  I further declare that my second wife was JULIA MIHAILOVNA PAVLICHENKO CROSTHWAITE and that she is dead, having died on August 12, 1957, and that under date of February 7, 1949, I adopted the said TATIANA PAVLICHENKO as my child and that she is now known as TATIANA EUGENE CROSTHWAITE, and that said adoption was made by order of Court. She was adopted in that certain action entitled “In the Superior Court of the State of California, County of San Mateo; In the Matter of the Adoption of TATIANA PAVLICHENKO, a Minor; No. 47658,” and that the said TATIANA PAVLICHENKO, now known as TATIANA EUGENE CROSTHWAITE is of the age of sixteen years, having been born on December 11, 1940, in Shanghai, China.

  FOURTH: I hereby give, devise and bequeath all of my estate, whether the same be real, personal or mixed, of whatever kind or character and wheresoever situated, of which I may die seized or possessed or in which I may have any interest or right of testamentary disposition or power at the time of my death, as follows:

  A. One-half (1/2) thereof to my daughter, BILLIE JOANN CROSTHWAITE WITHROW, or, if in the event she predeceases me, then the interest hereby devised to my said daughter, BILLIE JOANN CROSTHWAITE WITHROW, to her daughter, JACKIE LYNN WITHROW, and to any issue of my said daughter, BILLIE JOANN CROSTHWAITE WITHROW, living at the time of my death, share and share alike; and

  B. The remaining one-half (1/2) of my estate to my daughter, TATIANA EUGENE CROSTHWAITE; subject, however, to the following conditions:

  1. That she not be married before attaining the age of twenty-one years; and

  2. That if she has married after attaining the age of twenty-one years, that said marriage has been performed in and sanctioned by the Roman Catholic Church.

  If either or both of the exceptions 1. and 2. of subparagraph B hereof have not been complied with, then and in that event, I hereby give, devise and bequeath the interest in my estate which I have bequeathed to my daughter, TATIANA EUGENE CROSTHWAITE, to my daughter, BILLIE JOANN CROSTHWAITE WITHROW, in accordance with subparagraph A hereof.

  FIFTH: I hereby appoint BANK OF AMERICA NATIONAL TRUST AND SAVINGS ASSOCIATION Executor of this my Last Will and Testament, and in the event of my death prior to the attainment by my daughter, TATIANA EUGENE CROSTHWAITE, of the age of 21, I appoint BANK OF AMERICA NATIONAL TRUST AND SAVINGS ASSOCIATION Guardian of the estate of my daughter, TATIANA EUGENE CROSTHWAITE.

  SIXTH: I have purposely made no provision for any other person or persons, whether claiming to be an heir of mine or not, and if any person, whether a beneficiary under this will or not mentioned herein, should contest this will or object to the provisions thereof, I give to such person so contesting or objecting the sum of One Dollar ($1.00), in lieu of the provision which I have made or might have made for the person contesting or objecting.

  SEVENTH: I hereby authorize and empower my Executor to sell and dispose of any and all of my property, real or personal, wherever situate and however held, either at public or private sale, without notice or without approval of court, at any such times and upon such terms as it may, in its sole discretion, deem advisable; to execute any and all required instruments and documents; to settle and compromise any claims, either in favor of or against my estate, in accordance with its sole discretion; to distribute in kind or in money, or part in each, even if shares be composed differently; and generally, without notice, authorization or approval of any court, to do anything and everything it shall deem advisable, even though it would not be authorized or appropriate for fiduciaries (except for this specific power) under any statute or rule of law.

  IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand this 8th Day of November, 1957.

  (Signed)

  OLIVER EUGENE CROSTHWAITE

  What more could the FBI want from the CAB to open an investigation?

  Here was a man with motive: depression over his wife’s death, depression and despair over his relationship with his daughter, and anger at Pan American for wanting to fire him.

  Here was a man with opportunity: he boarded the plane long before passengers, knew he was going on the flight more than a week in advance, and could carry anything in his luggage with no one checking. He had unrestricted access to any location on the plane.

  Here was a man with knowledge: He knew when the plane would reach the point of no return, was a gadget maker, knew explosives and electricity, had been in possession of blasting powder, and knew what it would take to knock the airliner from the sky.

  Finally, he signed his will the morning the flight left San Francisco to exclude his stepdaughter from his estate unless she did as she was told.

  Although Collar and Schonberger learned a great deal about Crosthwaite while in California, they spent only four days on their investigation, and what they learned was not enough to persuade Hoover to put his FBI agents on the case or for them to convince higher-ups at the CAB to devote more time and resources to the purser.

  CAB and Pan Am continued to drift.

  Fifty-three-year-old Millbrae resident Emil Jacob Sorensen has no clue that his former employer has listed him as a suspect in the possible bombing of Flight 7, but his name has been sent to the FBI for a thorough background check. Pan American and Civil Aeronautics Board officials are now zeroing in on two people of interest: Oliver Eugene Crosthwaite and Sorensen.

  Officially and publicly the FBI is still not involved in the investigation of the crash, but behind the scenes field agents in California and some senior officers in Washington, including domestic intelligence chief Alan H. Belmont and the eagle-eyed Hoover himself, are monitoring what they are learning from Pan Am, the CAB, and Hoover’s carefully cultivated stooges in the press.

  Sorensen, a port steward with Pan Am for about six years, is appealing his August 2 firing for “physical incapacity,” and while there is no indication that he has had any involvement in the plane crash, Pan Am wants to alert the FBI of the possibility. The fact that he is Russian born makes him even more suspicious. Pan Am doesn’t know it, but the FBI is already aware of Sorensen—not as a sabotage suspect, but as a possible communist sympathizer or worse still, a ful
l-fledged communist.

  The FBI had opened a file on him in November 1950 on the authority of the McCarran Internal Security Act, or, as it was more commonly known, the Subversive Activities Control Act. President Harry S. Truman vetoed the bill, calling it “a mockery of the Bill of Rights,” but the Red Scare-sensitive politicians in the Congress overrode the veto, and the witch hunt for subversives or suspected communists was well underway. The act gives law enforcement authority for the mass roundup of political dissidents and allows it to detain suspected communists indefinitely without trial.

  Sorensen was born in the Kuban River city of Krasnodar in southwestern Russia on April 11, 1904, grew up in Denmark, and has spent nearly all his adult life working on cargo steamships along a northern Europe-US route. He has also temporarily worked as a hotel waiter on some of his long-term visits to the United States. He joined Pan American in 1951 and almost immediately applied to the Immigration and Naturalization Service to become a naturalized citizen. Available records indicate that his request for naturalization was on hold until February 1956, likely because of the FBI’s interest in him.

  The FBI started its investigation of Sorensen based on information it had obtained from a confidential source who had met him when he was working as a waiter in a Washington, D.C., restaurant.

  “He appeared to be extremely interested in cities in the United States where large industrial factories were located, specifically Buffalo, New York and Los Angeles,” FBI records sate. “For some strange reason he was also interested in knowing whether Army tanks were made in Buffalo.”

  The next sentence in an FBI document goes to the heart of the agency’s concerns about Sorensen: “Information is in file to the effect that Sorensen said he was a communist.”

  The FBI file redacted large portions of the next section of its comments on Sorensen, but noted that he had been subpoenaed to appear before a supersecret federal grand jury in the Northern District of California for an undisclosed reason. Sorensen told the grand jurors he went to work for Pan Am because it allowed him to travel at greatly reduced fare, “thereby making it easier for him to return to his home in Denmark on occasion.” In fact, Sorensen has made many trips back to northern Europe in the years since joining Pan Am.

  The file stated that he was cooperative and furnished “detailed personal information” to the grand jurors, who apparently were trying to determine whether he should be arrested. He denied under oath that he was a communist, and apparently the grand jury believed him; Sorensen was not detained, and never seriously considered as a suspect in sabotaging Flight 7.

  My mother disapprovingly calls them “bang-bang-shoot-’em-ups,” and I have seen enough black-and-white westerns in my young life to know that when the good guys die their bodies are placed inside wooden caskets, lowered into graves, and covered with dirt as sad townspeople stand around with gloomy faces.

  This doesn’t feel like a “bang-bang-shoot-’em-up” to me.

  My mother, my brothers, and I walk slowly down the carpeted center aisle of Shoreview Community Methodist Church on Lindbergh Street in San Mateo shortly after 4 p.m. on Sunday, December 1, the appointed time and date for what I have been told will be something called a memorial service. Mom is unusually strong today, and for the first time in weeks I see no tears rolling down her face.

  There is an uneasy, quiet shuffling in the sanctuary, and for some reason people stand and stare blankly as we walk by. A tall, handsome Pan Am pilot dressed in a crisp black uniform with gold stripes on his coat sleeves towers over the others in a right-side pew. He nods and smiles weakly as we make our way to the front of the church. My mother must know him, because she looks his way and nods back.

  A hymn is playing on the church’s new organ, and I recognize the faces of J. Paul Coleman and Paul Nelson, both of whom are standing solemnly near the pulpit, their arms folded in front of them with that “preacher look” on their faces. Both pastors have been at our house many times during the past several weeks trying to soothe and comfort us during the worst days of our lives. Seeing their familiar faces is somewhat reassuring, but it is still a bleak and depressing scene in a place that I normally associate with interesting stories and good times.

  This is where I have heard exciting Sunday-school stories about a white-bearded old man named Noah and his gigantic floating boat filled with animals during a big flood. It is where I learned about Jonah being swallowed by a whale, and about the miraculous birth of the baby Jesus. This is where I have molded clay in my little hands, created scrapbooks from colored construction paper, and have sung “Jesus Loves the Little Children” and “This Little Light of Mine” so many times I know both by heart.

  This sanctuary is where I have heard our pastor talk about miracles and something called eternal life, but on this day there are no miracles or eternal life, only the shadow of death. Yet, this is our church. We belong here today, even though the most important member of our family is not here.

  An usher leads us to the first pew at the front left of the church, and Jerry and I slide down the polished wood and into our places. My mother gently places two-year-old Craig down beside her and brushes his blonde curls away from his chubby, pink face. Daddy calls him “Little Man,” but he has just started walking, has no idea why he is here, and is certainly no Little Man today. It is past Craig’s nap time, and he lays his head down on Mom’s lap as she turns her face to the left and softly smiles at Jerry and me. We can feel her love even as the tears finally start to fall from her face and turn into tiny black streams of mascara. Her big, brown eyes—usually sparkling like stars over Disneyland and full of life—are sad. She looks worried.

  She is surrounded by a roomful of people, but she is alone.

  We are all alone.

  I glance at a wooden table in front of where the pastors are standing. It is piled high with pretty flowers—white lilies and red carnations—and is inscribed with the words “This Do in Remembrance of Me.” For the first time since we walked into the sanctuary, I realize there is no casket.

  This “bang-bang-shoot-’em-up” is real, but the ending is not what I am expecting.

  Songs are sung. Prayers are prayed. Words are spoken about the wonderful, loving daddy we will never see again. I look at the mimeographed, Carolina-blue memorial-service program that was handed to us as we entered the church and I slowly read the words to myself, trying to understand what they mean:

  “I cannot think of them as dead who walk with me no more

  “Along the paths of life I tread, they have but gone before.”

  Then, it’s over.

  No casket. No grave. No dirt. No tearful farewells as we walk away from a final resting place high on a western hill. Daddy’s casket is the crumpled cockpit of a Boeing Stratocruiser. His watery grave is at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, and his final resting place is thousands of miles away from us, a place we will never see, a grave we will never visit.

  Someone drives us home to a house that is not nearly as full of people as it had been for the past several weeks, and by nightfall reality sets in. The people leave. The house grows quiet. Mom puts Craig to bed, and not long afterward she tells Jerry and me it’s time for us to go to bed too. She tucks Jerry in and kisses him good night. He’s older and tougher than I am. He keeps his heartbreak inside, but his eyes show his deep pain.

  Mom then walks over to my bed and kisses me on the forehead. It feels good, but it’s not the scratchy feel of Daddy’s whiskers. I feel that lump in my throat—that lump that seems to never go away—and it grows even bigger as she slips out of our bedroom.

  It nearly chokes me.

  I close my eyes. Tighter. Tighter. Then I see Daddy’s face as plain as day. I see that big, wide, toothy smile, and he looks directly at me with his deep-blue eyes. It is a sunny day with a clear sky and a few puffy white clouds. He is wearing flowery colored swim trunks and is on a beautiful island with tall coconut trees behind him. Daddy loves coconuts. He tries to reassure me an
d tells me that he is OK and that he will be home soon.

  I try to believe him, but I just can’t.

  I cry. And cry. And cry.

  Washington, D.C.

  The Civil Aeronautics Board is in a bind and under considerable pressure to determine the cause of the crash of N90944. It is now Tuesday, December 3, and nearly a month has passed since the airliner plummeted to the bottom of the ocean, and the CAB is no closer to solving the case today than it was weeks ago.

  Sixty-year-old board chairman James Randall Durfee, a Wisconsin lawyer appointed by President Dwight Eisenhower to the role just a year earlier, has just concluded a meeting of the CAB and has been instructed to contact FBI director Hoover or Attorney General William Rogers in another attempt to persuade the agency to enter the crash investigation. Durfee makes a phone call to Hoover’s office and learns that he is out of town, but three senior FBI officials, including J. A. Sizoo of the Domestic Intelligence Division, meet later that day in Durfee’s office in the Commerce Department building and listen to his urgent plea.

  Durfee briefly reviews the facts of the case and gets right to the point. He tells the FBI agents that the CAB is in an “awkward position” because it cannot determine why the plane went down and is under tremendous pressure from the press and members of Congress for a solution. He acknowledges that no new facts have arisen since the CAB made its last futile attempt, on November 21, to get the FBI involved, but states that the CAB is stumped and desperately needs the FBI’s professional investigative assistance.