5 - Choker: Ike Schwartz Mystery 5

by Frederick Ramsay

  Ike studied the map. The X covered an area a mile or two off the northwest tip of Kent Island, a heavily developed area. If the plane had gone into the water there, someone must have seen or heard something.

  “Nobody said anything about hearing or seeing a plane in trouble north of Kent Island?”

  “Nope.”

  “If his engine had stalled, how far could he have glided?”

  “It was a heavy Cessna, and at that point he’d still have most of his fuel, so not too far—a mile or more. It would depend on his altitude, of course.”

  “But still, there are several small strips on the island. Here and here.” Ike put his finger on the marks indicating landing fields.

  “The only real choice would be at the Bay Bridge field here.” Trent put his finger on a spot just south of the bridge. These others are private and not lighted. Add to that there was no moon. Nick knew the strips, but I don’t know if he could have found them in the dark, and if he overshot them he’d end up in the bay opposite Annapolis. He’d have to triple-click to get the lights on at the Bay Bridge field. If he was trying to stay aloft he might not have thought of that in time. No way, on a moonless night he’d have found the field otherwise.”

  “Triple-click?”

  “Yeah, they don’t light the field twenty-four seven. If you need to land after dark you raise their frequency on your radio and click the talk button three times, quick. The lights come on for fifteen minutes. It takes some practice.”

  “Had he ever done that?”

  “I made him do it once before I’d sign off on his ticket.”

  Ike studied the map some more. There had to be a glitch somewhere. “Is there a time stamp when he disappeared from the radar?” Trent pulled a sheaf of papers from a pile on his desk and withdrew a piece of foolscap.

  “Twenty-one thirteen.”

  Ike drummed his fingers on the desk. Twenty-one thirteen, Zulu, nine thirteen at night. He opened his phone and dialed Charlie on the private line he’d been given.

  “Charlie, is there a time stamp on the call your niece got from her fiancé?”

  “Geeze Ike, I don’t know. Hold on, I’m in the middle of something here. Is it important?”

  “Until we figure this thing out, everything is important. But in this case—yeah, very important.” Ike could hear drawers opening and closing and an exasperated Charlie searching for wherever he kept his information. Ike had visited Charlie’s office years before, remembered the confusion of papers and empty Styrofoam cups on his desk, and reckoned it might take more time than Ike had. He was wrong.

  “Nine twenty-five. Of course that’s not one-hundred percent reliable. The answering machine’s time stamp was set by my sister-in–law. Nice lady but…”

  “I got it. Thanks.”

  “Anything else you need, Ike?”

  “You can check that time stamp if you get a chance, but I’ll assume it is close enough.”

  Ike snapped the phone shut.

  “His plane was a Cessna 172, modified as a spotter plane, you said?”

  “Right.”

  “Any idea at what speed it cruised?”

  “Maybe 110 miles per hour. But he might have been going faster or slower. Like I said, he’s a baby pilot in a hurry to see his girl.”

  “But he dropped off the radar at twenty-one thirteen, right? And he made a phone call to his fiancée that night at twenty-one twenty-five. Allowing for some inaccuracy in the time register on the answering machine, he must have been in the air an additional ten to twelve minutes after he dropped off the radar. Where would that put him on your map?”

  “Ah! Now that’s interesting.”

  “How so?”

  “In a minute. First I need to tell you that his plane had a tendency to drift to the left. So he could have been off this line by a couple of miles by then. He’d be on the right heading, just running parallel to this one.”

  “He knew about that?”

  “Yeah, but in the dark he might have compensated for it—or not—or even over compensated a little.”

  “So he could have been several miles to the right and some distance to the left?”

  “Correct. Now, assuming he was cruising and not playing jet jockey, he’d be on the south side of Kent Island, somewhere over Eastern Bay.” Trent drew a large circle on the map.

  “So if they were looking for Nick north of Kent Island—”

  “They wouldn’t find anything.” Ike waited. Something in Trent’s voice indicated there would be more.

  “See, after the kid disappeared, like I told you, I flew this course the next day. I fixed up this map and went down the line, so to speak. After I reached the area they thought he might have ditched, I kept on over Kent Island to make my turn. That’s when I thought I saw something—the ‘maybe’ I mentioned before.”

  “You thought you saw…what?”

  Trent pointed to a spit of land on the map. “This map isn’t the greatest, you know. The Chesapeake Bay is fickle when it comes to where the land is. Anyway, right about here there’s a little sandy beach that goes with a small house and pier. I thought I saw a piece of airplane there—like it washed up.”

  “A piece of—”

  “If I had to guess, tail section. But, see, it was in the wrong place, so I let it slide, but it has bugged me ever since. Now, it makes sense.”

  Ike punched the redial button on his phone.

  “Garland.”

  “Charlie, we have a satellite in synchronous orbit over the Washington, D.C., area and coast line, right? I need satellite photos of the Chesapeake Bay.”

  “We have the Littoral Scanning System, yes. What pictures exactly?”

  “I need distance and blow ups of the area known as Eastern Bay on the day before and the day after Nick disappeared. I might need more, I’ll start with those, as many as you can get.”

  “I’m on it. Have you turned up something?”

  “It’s just a maybe,” Ike said, and grinned at Trent. “I need those photos ASAP, Charlie. Can you messenger them to me at the beach?”

  “Can do. This is important, correct?”

  “I wouldn’t ask if they weren’t. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Ike ended the call.

  Trent frowned and studied the chart again. “If they were not even looking in the right sector…it’s no wonder they couldn’t find anything. What do you want to do?”

  “I want to study the photos as soon as they arrive, and then I’d like you to fly this line with me tomorrow. No, tomorrow’s Sunday. Maybe the next day and show me that beach.” Trent hesitated. “We’ll call it a lesson, and you can bill me at your hourly. That way you don’t use up your vacation time, tick off your boss, or both.”

  Trent looked relieved. Ike asked for a fuel top-off. When the refueler pulled away, he started the engine, adjusted his gauges and radio and, cleared by the tower, taxied onto the runway and headed south following the course Nick Reynolds flew in July. He wanted to see Eastern Bay while the light was good. Once he had a look, he’d turn eastward at Cambridge and go back to Delmarva Aviation.

  Chapter 8

  Blake passed along the row of kneeling communicants. Into each outstretched hand he placed a wafer and repeated: The body of Christ, the bread of heaven. The ritual had become rote and often his mind wandered as he looked into the eyes of one or another person, trying to read their thoughts. Indeed, parishioners sometimes assumed he must be able to read their minds. More than once he’d been confronted by one who complained he’d not visited them in the hospital. And more often than not they, or a family member, had neglected to tell Blake they were scheduled for surgery, or even had been admitted. So he studied each face seeking clues as to what they might tell him if he were to ask.

  While caught up in one of those mental tangents, he nearly missed the young man’s pendant. A heavy silver chain bore what appeared to be an over-large, upside-down cross. At the crux, instead of a crucified Christ or some other Christian symbol, he saw
a ram’s head, its eyes set with red stones that might have been rubies but were probably glass. Blake stopped in mid-sentence and stared at the pendant and then at the boy. He couldn’t have been much over sixteen. His hair, cut shaggy and moussed, had been dyed an unnatural black, which only emphasized the pallor of his skin and the rather prominent acne on his face. His clothes were ill-fitting—not that that was so unusual. Most boys who were dragged to church by their parents wore clothes that looked, to Blake, like they’d been rummaged out of their older brother’s closet or the reject pile at the Goodwill store. His eyes returned to the pendant. Lanny Markowitz, who had been trailing along behind Blake as chalicist, nearly bumped into him. The boy looked up and extended his hand forward to receive the Host.

  “Son,” Blake said as softly as he could, “I’m going to ask you to leave the church.”

  Lanny’s eyebrows shot up. The boy looked quizzically at Blake.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You can come back, but only after you’ve ditched that thing around your neck.”

  “What’s wrong with my cross?”

  “It’s not a cross. It’s a satanic symbol, and I won’t have it in here.”

  Confused, the boy stood and walked back toward his pew. He started to sit. Blake pointed to the door.

  “Jesus,” the boy said, “what’s up with you?” Red-faced, he stomped to the narthex doors and exited. He was followed by his girl friend who, Blake assumed, had brought him to church in the first place. She, in turn, was followed by her parents.

  “What was that all about?” Lanny whispered.

  “Satan.”

  Lanny frowned.

  “Later.”

  The stir caused by Blake’s action carried over into the coffee hour. With reluctance, he slipped out of his robes and descended the back stairs to the basement which served as the church’s fellowship hall. Lanny sidled up to him.

  “Barbara Starkey is looking for you,” he said. “She’s the mother of Peachy Starkey, the girlfriend of the boy you bounced from church.”

  “I know who she is.”

  “Before she shreds you with her tongue, would you mind telling me what happened at the rail?”

  “The kid was wearing a satanic cross. Didn’t you see it?”

  “I saw an upside-down cross. I thought it was a peace symbol, or something like a protest deal. You know? Like flying the flag upside down—that sort of thing. Help, save the church from the House of Bishops, or whatever…”

  “Maybe that’s what the kid thought, too. I hope so. But the figure in the center was a ram’s head, not a peace symbol. I know about peace crosses. I wore one of those once, myself, back in the day. I’d know one if I saw one.”

  “Okay, so what’s the problem with the thing on the kid?”

  Blake spun and looked at his friend. Lanny hadn’t a clue. Like so many good church-goers, his idea of evil was largely cerebral. Yes, evil is real but…and there would follow a dissertation on a felon’s feelings of low self-esteem, an unhappy childhood, abusive parents, perhaps just the inevitable product of a dysfunctional family and a conflicted society. The list was endless and, in Blake’s view, made excuses for behavior that crossed the line, irrespective of its cause. He recalled an old seminary professor of his, near retirement, who described a trip to Nazi Germany in the late 1930s. He’d said that evil, real evil, was palpable in the air then. He was about to expand on the theme when Barbara Starkey braced him with a look that would etch glass.

  “Mr. Fisher,” she began. Blake knew he was in trouble when a parishioner addressed him as Mister. “Just what were you thinking about making Chad leave? In front of everybody. He’s very upset. So, I might add, am I. I have been a strong supporter of this church, both financially and personally. My ancestors were instrumental in building this—”

  “Yes, I know, Barb. And I appreciate all you’ve done. I told…Chad?…I told Chad that he could return if he removed his pendant and left it outside.”

  “His cross? I’d have thought you’d be pleased to see a young person wearing a cross to church.”

  “It isn’t a cross, Barb, it’s a satanic symbol, and it has no place in the church. Sorry.”

  “Satanic sym…oh, come on. Surely you don’t believe in all that mumbo-jumbo.”

  “I do, and so should you.”

  “Well, of course…I mean yes, there’s evil in the world, but what harm can come from a silly little cross thing. He just wears it, he said, because he thinks it’s cool. You know how kids are.”

  “I do know. And I know the consequences of well-meaning but dangerous behavior.”

  “Dangerous? Really! Chad isn’t a Satan person.”

  “Do you remember being in school and someone pinning a ‘kick me’ sign on another person’s back?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Chad’s pendant is a kind of ‘kick me’ sign. It’s an invitation. He doesn’t realize it, but he’s advertising for the devil, and in a way, inviting him in.” Barbara opened her mouth to speak, but Blake cut her off. “I am serious, Barb. It begins with ignorance and ends in tragedy.”

  “Oh, really, Mr. Fisher, I thought you were smarter than that. The Inquisition was in another century. This is not Salem. I think you owe Chad an apology.”

  “Send him around. We’ll talk, certainly. In the meantime, think about this—how would you have reacted to Chad if he’d first been introduced to you wearing a swastika…perhaps had one tattooed on his neck?”

  Barbara Starkey stared at Blake for a split second, her mouth agape, closed it.

  “I hardly think that’s the same thing, do you?”

  “I think it is exactly the same thing, as a matter of fact.”

  Barbara Starkey marched off, her back stiff, head held high, a vision of moral rectitude. Lanny, who’d stayed to listen to Blake’s explanation, squinted at him, a frown on his face.

  “You meant all that, didn’t you?”

  “Every word.”

  “I don’t know…” Lanny looked doubtful.

  “Lanny, maybe this is a better example. Suppose you lived in a very tough section of town, gangs, crime, all that. Would you leave your front door unlocked and open at night? I guess you might never be bothered. Years could go by and nobody would attempt to hurt you. But would you risk it?”

  “No, I guess not. No, definitely not. So the kid may not have any investment in the thing around his neck but why take the chance.”

  “Exactly. And in the example I just gave you, would you advertise the door was unlocked?”

  Lanny squinted at the ceiling for a second as if trying to remember something. “It’s funny, you know,” he said.

  “Funny? How funny?”

  “Up at the school the kids talk, you know, brag about this and that and…”

  “And?”

  “I hear rumors that some of them are into that kind of stuff. The Goths, mostly but some other kids as well. You’re serious about this aren’t you?”

  “Serious as a heart attack.”

  “I need to think about it. Could you meet with the principal, if I set something up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ram’s head. Why do I think I’ve heard that before?”

  Chapter 9

  Good to his word, Charlie had the photographs delivered to Ike in the morning—Sunday morning at that. Ike spread them out on the kitchen table and studied them. The resolution was remarkable. In addition, Charlie had sent three blowups of random shoreline. In them, he could even see bits of driftwood on sandy beaches. He made a mental note to ask for a blowup of the area where Trent Fonts thought he’d seen the piece of tail assembly. It might be helpful, particularly if he also could get a tide chart for that day. Trent said it wasn’t there the next week so why, he wondered, hadn’t someone reported finding it? Given the fact that the missing plane was on the news for days, you’d think a piece of tail section, if that is what it was, would at least generate a call to the police if not the FAA. Strange
.

  He shuffled through the images. He didn’t really know what he was looking for, but he hoped something would jump out at him. Nothing did. Just boats and ships—big ships, little ships. Ships sitting or moving—ships at anchor, cargo ships and container ships waiting south of the Bay Bridge for a pilot to come aboard and take them into port. Boats sailing, boats motoring—nothing out of the ordinary. He lined up the pictures of successive days side by side and compared them. Except for one small freighter that seemed to have repositioned itself in the night, the pictures for the morning of the fifth of July were not remarkably different that those for the fourth.

  He turned his attention to the shoreline of Eastern Bay. It was formed by the southern peninsula of Kent island on the east and the shoreline of Delmarva Peninsula to the west. As with most coastlines in this part of the country, it was characteristically erose. Inlets, rivers, creeks, and small harbors increased the total shoreline measurement by a thousand-fold or more. No wonder sailors and watermen loved this country. There must be thousands of fishing spots, hunting grounds in any one of those rivers, and they were not the only ones around. What he couldn’t see was the water’s depth. That would be important if he ever hoped to locate Nick Reynolds’ plane. He locked up and went to breakfast.

  As a breakfast venue, The Avenue Restaurant compared favorably with his usual haunt in Picketsville, the Crossroads Diner. He maintained, as a faith statement, that no one but a culinary incompetent or a drunk could possibly ruin breakfast. On reflection, however, he remembered one he’d been served in Grants, New Mexico, that qualified as a breakfast disaster. But those experiences were rare. Breakfast was one of America’s great achievements and a major contribution to the world. Gourmet or Denny’s, one was rarely a disappointment. For Ike, the advantage of the Rehoboth facility lay in the fact that it was not run by Flora Blevins, the proprietor of the Crossroads, and, therefore, Ike could order anything he wanted without her vetoing his choices or lecturing him on the benefits of deep-fat frying in bacon grease.

  He slathered butter and syrup on a short stack with scrapple on the side. A fruit cup was his nod toward good nutrition. He might or might not eat it. A vision of Flora rose up in his subconscious and he felt guilty—for about two seconds. Three cups of coffee and a block of green melon, which he assumed was honeydew, and he was on his way.