Murder over Kodiak

by Robin, Barefield

  “I didn’t say that I thought this was a terrorist act, Dr. Marcus. Most bombings are personal crimes. Bombs may soon be the lethal weapon of choice in this country. The number of bombings per year is escalating at an alarming level, and often the inexperienced bombers don’t realize how much damage their weapon will do.”

  “I think anyone who places a bomb on an airplane knows what the result will be,” I said.

  “Yes,” Morgan said and stood again. “But maybe the bomber didn’t think about the pilot or the other passengers. If it was a personal vendetta, the killer could have been mentally imbalanced or too focused on his prey to think about all the consequences of his actions.”

  I nodded. “I think Toni Hunt could be that imbalanced, and she knows how to use explosives.”

  Morgan sat in the chair across from me again. He leaned forward. “We consider everyone in this country a capable bomb maker.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “I don’t know the first thing about building a bomb.”

  “Because you’ve never wanted to blow up anything,” Morgan shrugged. “If you wanted to build a bomb, you wouldn’t have any trouble finding the instruction book and the raw materials.”

  “I’ve heard you can learn how to build a bomb on the Internet,” I said.

  “Yes, and bomb-making manuals as well as videos have been available for years. A guy from Arkansas made a fortune with his series of bomb-making manuals. The most popular is called The Poor Man’s James Bond. His books show you how to make a bomb with items that most people have in their homes.”

  “Really,” I said. “That’s unsettling.”

  “It isn’t difficult to get dynamite,” Morgan continued. “Most places you just have to fill out a couple of forms and show identification. Anyone can buy it.”

  “I had no idea. I associate bombs with sophisticated or fanatical terrorists.”

  “I hope this was a personal vendetta,” Morgan said. “A crime committed by one person against one intended target is much easier to solve than a crime committed by members of a large organization. I’ll take one lunatic over a group of fanatics any day.”

  “Have you spoken with Jack Justin?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Morgan said. “Why?”

  “I think he believes that someone found his father’s briefcase at the crash site. I tried to explain to him that everything was blown apart in the explosion; his father’s briefcase would not still be intact if it was on that plane.”

  Morgan folded his arms across his chest. “Mr. Justin described the briefcase to me, and I checked with our explosives experts. They think the case would have survived.”

  “I didn’t think anything was that tough.”

  Morgan was quiet for a moment, and then he seemed to phrase his words carefully. “Did Jack Justin tell you why he is so interested in finding that briefcase?”

  “He said he wanted his father’s business papers.”

  “Hmm.”

  “He did seem more concerned about the briefcase than his parents’ remains,” I said, “but I just met the man. Maybe that’s the way he is.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Justin has told us everything, but I doubt he knows anything about the bomb. I plan to question him further, though.”

  “Has the FBI taken over this investigation?” I asked.

  “We’re in charge, but there are several agencies involved, including the Alaska State Troopers.” He dropped his pen and notepad back into his briefcase. “The FBI has an excellent laboratory and one of the best explosives experts in the world. He only had to look at the plane wreckage for a few minutes to determine that the small pockmarks in the metal were the result of high-speed particle penetration.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When a bomb explodes, it hurtles tiny fragments of itself and anything in its way at speeds of thousands of feet per second. The fragments stick to their depth in whatever they hit. A piece of luggage can become embedded in part of the plane. A really good investigator can also pick out craters left in the metal by hot gasses given off in the explosion. These craters are unique and are not found in any other kind of impact.”

  “And the FBI has the best explosives expert?”

  “One of the best. There’s a guy with the FAA who is also very good, and he’s been brought in on this, too. This was a small plane crash, but because explosives were used, and I won’t lie to you, because a U.S. senator was on the plane, it’s a big deal. Homeland Security, CIA Counterterrorism, and the State Department Bureau of Intelligence and Research have their fingers in this, too.”

  “With all that expertise,” I said, “someone should be able to get to the bottom of this.”

  Morgan smiled. “I think we will.”

  “Well, I can’t think of any more gossip for you.”

  “What about Maryann Myers? Do you know her?” Morgan stared at my face while he asked the question.”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t know her at all.” I remembered what Peter had told me about the Myers’ divorce, but I didn’t think the gossip of a bunch of poker players bore repeating to an FBI agent. “Have you talked to her?” I asked.

  “No. She’s out of town until Tuesday, but we’ll speak to her then.”

  Morgan stood and held out his hand. “Thank you, Dr. Marcus. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “As I said, I’m just repeating gossip, but for Craig’s sake, I want to get to the bottom of this.” Morgan’s hand was dry and warm. I reluctantly released it. “Please, call me Jane. Dr. Marcus makes me feel old and much wiser than I am.”

  Morgan nodded and grinned. “I’m Nick.”

  Morgan’s scent lingered behind him after he left my office, and as I slowly inhaled it, I hoped this man would be able to figure out who was responsible for Craig’s death.

  A thudding noise like a book dropping brought me to my feet. I remembered that the front door of the center was unlocked, and I grabbed my purse, turned off my office light, slammed the door shut, and hurried down the hall. I fumbled in my pocket for my keys. I heard a clicking noise that sounded like footsteps on the hard-tiled floors.

  I pushed through the front door, sucked in air to steady my hand, and locked the door. I ran to the parking lot and my Explorer. There were no other vehicles in the lot. Should I call the police, or had I imagined the sounds in the large building?

  Chapter Eight

  Dense fog smothered Kodiak Monday morning. I usually found fog mysterious and exciting, but as I drove to my office, I longed for sunshine. The fog only served to deepen a nightmare I felt never would end.

  I parked in the lot at the marine center, entered the building, and walked down the hall toward my office. I slowed at the main office and looked warily through the door—no sign of Betty.

  “Hello, dear,” Glenda said, looking up from a pile of paperwork on her desk. “Are you feeling any better today?”

  “A little, Glenda, thanks. Do I have any messages?”

  “Not a thing.” Her voice was high and pleasant, and a bright smile lit her face.

  I turned to leave, but then swung around. “Glenda,” I paused. I thought for a moment about what I wanted to say. “Why doesn’t Betty like me?” The question tumbled from my mouth and seemed to surprise me more than Glenda.

  “Oh, dear,” Glenda said. I expected Glenda to deny that Betty disliked me, but she didn’t. “Betty is my friend, but sometimes I don’t understand her. She is usually so generous and caring, but once in a while she takes a dislike to someone, and there’s no changing her mind. Don’t take this wrong.” Glenda leaned forward across her desk toward me, her small, round glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Betty has old-fashioned ideas. I don’t think she believes a woman should have your position, and she has trouble respecting a younger woman.” She waved her hand dismissively and sat back in her chair. “Now, please don’t tell Dr. Wayans I said that. I don’t want to get Betty in trouble. She is very good at her job, and maybe I’m wron
g. She hasn’t confided in me about her feelings for you, but I see the way she treats you.”

  “She was very rude to me Saturday,” I said.

  “Oh my. Try to ignore her, dear. I’ll talk to her.”

  I sighed. “I don’t want to get Betty in trouble, but I feel she thinks I’m responsible for Craig’s death, and that bothers me. I’m carrying around enough guilt already.”

  Glenda stared at her desk, her mouth pursed. Finally, she looked up at me. “Betty was very fond of Craig, and she did tell me once that she felt you worked him too hard.”

  I felt a sudden rush of temper. “That’s none of her business.”

  Glenda looked at the floor. “You’re right,” she said, “and I’ve said too much. I’ll speak with her, Dr. Marcus.”

  I turned and fled down the hall before I said something to Glenda that I would regret. By the time I reached my office door, the anger already was dissolving into guilt. Had I worked Craig too hard? Should I have given him a few days off and gone on the collection trip myself?

  I inserted the key into the lock on my doorknob, and was surprised when the knob turned freely in my hand. I stepped back from the door and then remembered my hasty retreat from the building the previous afternoon. I’d been so anxious to get out of the building, I had forgotten to lock my door.

  I turned on my office light and looked around. Everything was how I had left it. I shook my head and shut the curtains, blocking out the dismal fog. I now was certain that I had imagined the noises in the building. If I hadn’t imagined the sounds, I knew if I looked long enough, I would find the logical sources for them. I had to get a grip on myself; I was losing control.

  I sat in my desk chair and forced myself to think about my day. I needed to prepare the exam that I was scheduled to give my class on Wednesday. I usually spent a week making up an exam, but I hadn’t even thought about this one. I opened the class folder on my desk and tried to concentrate. The class had performed badly on my last test, so I planned to make this one a little easier. I couldn’t understand why these brilliant chemistry students had difficulty with biology, a subject I considered infinitely more understandable than chemistry, but they seemed to struggle with my class. Maybe it was me. Somehow, I hadn’t captured their interest.

  A sharp knock rattled my door. “Hey, Doc. It’s Geoff.”

  The door opened a crack, and my spirits rose at the site of smiling blue eyes and long red hair. “Come in, Geoff.”

  Geoff lumbered into my office and sprawled in the chair in front of my desk. He studied my face. “How you doing, Doc? You look tired.”

  “I’m better, Geoff. I talked to the FBI yesterday, and I think they’ll figure this out.”

  “I almost called you the other night to find out how your meeting with that Justin guy went. I was a little worried about that.”

  I smiled. “You have good people instincts, Geoff. I wish I could say that about myself.”

  “What happened?” Geoff sat forward.

  “I think the guy believes I stole his father’s briefcase from the plane wreckage.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  I shrugged.

  “Did he threaten you?” Geoff asked.

  “Not really, but I don’t think he believed me. I probably haven’t seen the last of him.”

  “Be careful, Doc. You don’t know what you’re into here.” Geoff stood and leaned over my desk. “I understand that you want to know why Craig died, but there’s at least one and maybe several very dangerous people involved in all of this. Keep your distance from it.”

  I’m not sure if I said anything else to Geoff, and I was only vaguely aware of him leaving my office. His words chilled me. Was I in danger?

  I couldn’t concentrate on preparing exam questions and turned instead to my lesson plan for the day. At 10:00, I headed downstairs to the classroom and unenthusiastically delivered a lecture. Whether they were picking up on my mood, or they were still thinking about Craig, the students seemed listless and asked few questions. At the end of the class, I watched them file out of the room and felt as if I had failed them.

  I wandered slowly back to my office, staring at the floor, wondering when I would get back on track. As I turned the corner by the central office, I saw a man standing in the hall. I didn’t look up until a familiar voice said, “Hello, Jane. I need to talk to you.”

  My heart began to race even before I placed the voice, and when I glanced up and saw Jack Justin, I stepped back against the wall. He looked as if he hadn’t slept since the night we had dinner together. His hair was uncombed, and dark stubble covered his face. His blue eyes were rimmed with red, and the tan had faded to a mustard color. He wore blue jeans and a stained sweatshirt.

  “What happened to you?” I asked. I thought maybe he had been in an accident.

  He didn’t answer my question. Instead, he walked toward me, hands outstretched. “Jane, you’ve got to help me.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, and I noticed scratches on his right hand. “I need my father’s briefcase. I’ll give you whatever you want for it.”

  I wrapped my arms around myself and backed two steps down the hall. “I told you, I don’t have it.”

  “Please,” he said, continuing toward me. “It contains some very important documents. They won’t do you any good, but they could incriminate some powerful people. Don’t you understand?” His eyes pierced through me. “Those people want them back.”

  “Listen to me, Jack.” I spoke slowly, hoping it would sink in. “I do not have your father’s briefcase. I did not see it at the crash site. I would give it to you if I had it.”

  David Hihn, an associate professor of nutrition, opened his office door and stared at us. “Is everything all right, Jane?”

  “Fine, David. Thanks.”

  I turned to Jack. “Maybe we should go into my office.” I wasn’t anxious to have a conversation with this man in the confines of my office, but I didn’t want to make a scene in the hall. My colleagues didn’t need more cause to gossip about me.

  “Please, sit down.” I pointed at the chair in front of my desk. I pulled the door part-way shut, leaving it open far enough so that I could call for help if necessary. Justin sat and then stood again. I leaned against the closed window blind.

  Justin took a deep breath, and I could see him strain to talk in a level tone. “Jane, dangerous people want this briefcase. You have no idea what they will do to get it.”

  “Then tell the FBI about them,” I said.

  He kicked the chair, and it crashed to the floor. I edged toward the door.

  “Don’t you get it? These are the people who planted the bomb on the plane. They will do anything to get what they want. They will kill me if I talk to the FBI. They’re dangerous, Jane.”

  I sidestepped to my chair and sat down, hoping the move would calm Justin. “I believe you,” I said. “You have my full attention, but please listen to what I’m saying. I don’t have your briefcase. I think it’s in a million pieces, and you’re not going to find it. You say it is indestructible, and maybe it is, but I saw the wreckage of that plane, and everything was blown to bits.”

  His eyes were glazed, and I didn’t believe he’d heard a word I’d said. “Either you or Steve Duncan has that briefcase. I know that.”

  “Why? Why would we keep your briefcase and not tell you or the FBI we had it? Think about it, Jack, you’re not making any sense. We’d either give the briefcase to the authorities, or we’d blackmail you for it, and we’re not doing either.”

  “You know as well as I do why,” Jack said.

  I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. I didn’t know what else to say. There was no reasoning with the man.

  He leaned over my desk, lowering his head to mine. He didn’t smell like the same man I’d met a few days ago. The pungent aroma of sweat cloaked any lingering cologne.

  “Listen to me,” he said, breathing stale breath in my face. “If you don’t give me what I want, I will t
ell these people that you have the briefcase and you can deal with them, instead of me. I’ll tell them that I believe you plan to blackmail them.”

  Sweat trickled down my forehead. “Who are these people? Are they part of a drug cartel?” Jack pulled back, stood upright, and began to pace. “Jack,” I searched for reason in his face, but didn’t see any. “If you know who planted the bomb, tell Agent Morgan. He can help you. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  Jack turned toward me. “I’ve been to the crash site,” he said. Now I understood why he and his clothes were such a mess. I wondered how long he had crawled through the thick brush looking for the briefcase. “It wasn’t there, so you must have it.”

  There was no getting through to this guy. “Maybe the FBI or the troopers have the briefcase, Jack.” My head was beginning to ache. “Speaking of the authorities, how were you able to wander around the crash site? Isn’t it secured?”

  “It’s taped off, but no one is guarding it. I had a pilot drop me off and camped there overnight. I searched for ten hours but didn’t find any part of that briefcase.”

  I shrugged. “I can’t help you, Jack.”

  Jack slapped the door frame and then rushed across the office toward me. I wheeled my chair toward the corner of the room. His face burned crimson and his eyes bulged. He stopped on the other side of my desk and leaned across it again.

  “This is no game,” he said. “If you know where that briefcase is, tell me. You’re going to get us both killed.” His red eyes danced back and forth, focusing on nothing. He punched my desk with his balled-up fist and then turned and hurried from my office. I could hear my heartbeat in the silence that followed.

  I believed Jack Justin. His thoughts were muddled to the point of derangement, but he had said that his life and now mine were in danger, and I didn’t doubt the veracity of this. Either he had been taking mind-altering drugs, or he truly was frightened. I believed it was the latter.

  My hand was shaking as I lifted the telephone receiver. I dialed Agent Morgan’s number. I was sent straight to voicemail and left a message for him to call me as soon as possible.