The Last Monument

by Michael C. Grumley

  Rickards reached for the phone in the deputy’s hand and read the message again, more carefully this time. He then passed it to Dana, who read while Rickards wrote some things down on a palm-sized notepad.

  “Pilot’s name was Jim Huston,” Gutierrez said. She peered closer at the screen. “Says the guy was eighty-six years old. What the hell is an eighty-six-year-old doing flying a plane?”

  Rickards shook his head, watching the technicians approach toting a heavy duffel bag. “Don’t know. But something tells me he hasn’t flown in a long time.”

  ***

  Contrary to large commercial crashes requiring a major investigation with multiple teams, small private aircraft accidents required only a “limited” investigation, along with a limited amount of data collection and analysis, until a reasonable conclusion was formed--unless something unusual stood out to the investigators.

  In the case of the Cessna 182, rough weather and poor judgment were both likely culprits. Why someone would take a plane out in the middle of the night like that made no sense. It indicated both people on board were exercising not only poor, but possibly compromised, judgment. It was not a huge leap for Rickards, given that the pilot was just a few years shy of ninety, which left him wondering if some forms of medication may have been involved.

  He watched Gutierrez circle the smoldering wreckage, recording a detailed video on her phone, before he turned back to take several more pictures of the remaining fuselage. Large sections of its thin, white-painted aluminum skin were torn and ripped from beneath the frame.

  The coroner’s technicians had already extracted and bagged the remains, leaving him and Gutierrez to finish some documentation before the NTSB cleanup crew arrived.

  If Rickards had to guess, rime ice, a form of ice created by supercooled vapor or droplets quickly freezing on hard surfaces, had played a part in what had gone wrong. An occurrence not entirely common, but deadly for small and medium-sized aircraft in unusually cold conditions. Most pilots were aware of the risks and avoided situations prone to creating it, making this particular crash even more puzzling.

  Rickards scanned for more pieces and spotted a dark blue duffel bag crumpled on the ground, ripped and soaked from the moist snow beneath it. He walked over to it and took a picture before unzipping the pack and pulling out several pieces of clothing, followed by a bundle of documents, a vinyl case of personal items, a smaller black case containing bottles of pills and several books. Finally, to Rickards’ surprise, he removed a thick stack of cash, which fell out when he unfolded the documents.

  He was examining the bills when Gutierrez approached behind him.

  “Smugglers?”

  Rickards looked around and shook his head. “Not unless we find a hell of a lot more.”

  “How much is there?”

  He flipped through several hundreds and fifties. “I don’t know. Maybe ten grand.”

  “Maybe on their way to buy something?”

  “Like what?”

  Gutierrez shrugged. “I don’t know. A car? Lot of these old guys like to pay for things in cash.”

  “Maybe.” Rickards shrugged, then stood up and examined the rest of the papers. Without looking up, he handed something to her.

  “What’s this?” Gutierrez asked, flipping the small item over to reveal the front cover of a passport.

  “It’s our passenger.”

  4

  Formerly known as the Tri-County Airport, the newly designated Erie Municipal Airport was north of Denver and situated less than forty miles from the crash site.

  Rickards and Gutierrez arrived to find it home to dozens of small private airplanes, all carefully covered and winterized to protect them from the elements. The airport itself was little more than a cluster of individual buildings and hangars. A single fuel tank and pump sat nearby, covered in a thin white layer of snow.

  According to the sign, it was closed during the peak winter months, and both agents had to squeeze through an opening near the gate--a feat easier for Gutierrez than Rickards.

  Once through, Gutierrez answered her phone as they plodded forward toward the airport’s small administration building.

  After a short exchange, she ended the call. “The guy who runs this place is evidently out of town.”

  “For how long?”

  “Till March.”

  Rickards rolled his eyes and continued forward, reaching the structure to find the door and windows covered from the inside. Outside the building, next to the entrance, hung a glass cabinet, enclosing a cork board covered with dozens of flyers and notifications.

  Together, they turned and looked out at the tiny runway.

  “No tracks.”

  “Covered up by now. When did the snow start falling last night?”

  “After midnight, I think.”

  Rickards nodded. “Which means they probably took off before that. And still in the dark. Otherwise, the crash would have happened early enough for people to see it.”

  “So, they take off in the freezing cold and in the middle of the night?”

  After a few minutes, Rickards sighed and stepped out from beneath the building’s overhang. Snow crunching with each step, he walked out several feet and did a full 360-degree scan, his glance stopping again on the administration building.

  Then something caught his eye.

  An old, dull yellow light illuminated the wall just below the roof’s ledge. And below that, a large round dial with big numbers. An outdoor thermometer, its red arm pointing at forty-four degrees Fahrenheit.

  Rickards studied it curiously before withdrawing his phone from his coat pocket. He scrolled past several icons and tapped the weather app.

  He stared at his phone for several seconds, then looked back up at the wall. He gave a sidelong glance at Gutierrez and walked forward again. Stopping under the light, he reached up and tapped the plastic face of the thermometer. When nothing happened, he hit it again, harder. This time the pointer suddenly jumped from forty-four to twenty-three degrees.

  “Oh Christ.”

  5

  “Looks like Jim Huston has no next of kin. Didn’t have any children and wife died a few years ago,” Gutierrez said, reading from her phone. Both agents were back in the warm car with the engine running. The younger read while Rickards stared ahead, watching fresh snowflakes dot the windshield.

  “Says he was a pilot in Korea, then a commercial pilot here in Boulder until being forced to retire. After that, he was a part-time flight instructor around here for the last twelve years. Lived in Arvada with his wife, who retired as a schoolteacher.”

  “What about the passenger?”

  “Gerald Reed. Ninety-one years old. Last known residence is a nursing home over in Wheat Ridge. Also a Korean War vet. And also a widower. Lived and worked in or around Denver his whole life. Looks as if he lost his wife several years back. Katherine Reed.”

  “What was the pilot’s instrument currency?”

  Gutierrez scrolled with her finger. “Last flight was eight years ago. Not current at all.” She turned to her left. “So, what do you think?”

  It took Rickards a minute to respond. “I think…we have a couple old geezers taking a trip under conditions the pilot thought were better than they were.”

  “Why would an eighty-six-year-old man still have a plane?”

  “Because he was a pilot his whole life. And their plane is the last thing they give up.”

  “Even if he’s too old to fly it?”

  Rickards shrugged. “Could have been renting it to the school as a trainer.”

  “Okay,” she said, following Rickards’ gaze out the front window. “So how far do you want to take this? It’s obviously a case of negligence. How deep do you want to dig before writing it up? I’ve got other cases waiting.” The young woman’s voice trailed off with her last sentence, forgetting she had other cases, but Rickards didn’t.

  If it bothered Rickards, it didn’t show. Instead, he continued quietly star
ing out the window.

  After a few minutes of waiting, Gutierrez raised her hands. “Hello?”

  Rickards was still going over the facts in his mind. There were only two reasons he could think of why two old men would have done what they did. The first was simple stupidity. The second was desperation.

  6

  To Rickards, the entrance looked more like a small hotel than a nursing home. With a large circular driveway snaking under four giant gray pillars, the name overhead engraved in dark lettering was all that gave the building away.

  Until they walked in.

  When the double glass doors slid open, Rickards and Gutierrez were hit by a wave of warm air mixed with the distinct smell common in many nursing homes--a stench most identified as urine, but that was, in fact, something known as nonenal, a smell related to a chemical change in body odor in elderly humans. The clinical explanation in no way helped allay Rickards’ distaste for the smell, and only partially distracted him from the short African American woman who quickly rose to her feet upon seeing them enter.

  Dressed in a charcoal pantsuit and white blouse, the woman straightened her clothes and exited the glass office with a forlorn expression. “Are you the investigators?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Gutierrez answered. She closed the distance and shook the woman’s hand before turning to Rickards. “This is my colleague Joe Rickards.”

  The woman nodded and shook again, clearly troubled. “The sheriff’s deputies just left. I can’t begin to tell you how upset we are to hear about Gerald. What a horrible tragedy.”

  “We couldn’t agree more,” replied Gutierrez.

  The woman shook her head. “We were afraid something might have happened.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Gerald’s been missing since last night. We filed a police report early this morning when we discovered he was gone. But we never dreamed…” She put a hand to her mouth. “We just never could have imagined…”

  “I know.” Dana Gutierrez laid a reassuring hand on the woman’s shoulder. “It’s a shock.” She looked at her badge. “Ms. Cannon, is it?”

  “You can call me Kelly. I’m the assistant director. Ms. Macdonald is not here.”

  “We’re sorry to bother you. We’re just trying to get some answers as to what happened here.” Gutierrez glanced back at Rickards, who was scanning the lobby. Well lit, it was filled with several brightly colored chairs, and tastefully painted pictures on the wall.

  “How well did you know Mr. Reed?”

  “Very well,” Kelly answered. “He’s been here for almost twenty years. One of our older residents. And very active. Everyone knew him.”

  “How did he disappear? Don’t homes like yours always lock their doors at night?”

  “He was a low-risk resident.”

  “Low risk?”

  Kelly took a deep breath. “We have a number of elderly patients who try to escape. But he wasn’t one of them.”

  Rickards turned around. “Escape?”

  She nodded. “Not in the sense of what you might consider an escape.”

  “Escape to me means trying to get out of a place where you don’t want to be.”

  “Of course. Forgive me. Escape was not the right word,” she said apologetically. “You have to understand that many of our residents suffer from mental…challenges. Things like Alzheimer’s or memory-related diseases, while others might struggle with accurate recall or mental anxiety. So, it’s not uncommon that some patients feel a sense of anxiety or confusion and experience symptoms of panic. Sometimes it’s because they haven’t taken their medication, other times it’s just part of…the disease itself. That’s why we have the bus stop outside now.”

  Gutierrez smiled and began to ask another question when she abruptly stopped. “Wait, what?”

  Kelly Cannon looked back and forth between them. “Pardon?”

  “You said something about a bus stop.”

  “Oh, yes. Outside. In front.”

  “What does a bus stop have to do with Alzheimer’s?” Gutierrez asked.

  This time the woman grinned. “Sorry. It’s new. Most people don’t know about it yet. It’s a type of safety measure.”

  Rickards raised an eyebrow. “A safe bus?”

  “It’s not a real bus stop.”

  This time Rickards stepped back and looked out through the double doors, spotting the small sign. He pointed to it. “That one?”

  “Yes,” she said, smiling. “Nothing actually ever stops there.”

  “Buses don’t stop here?”

  “No.”

  The agents looked at each other. “Why would you put in a bus stop if they don’t stop here?”

  Kelly walked forward and looked outside with them. “It’s to keep the patients here. All nursing homes have the same problem. Patients who become disoriented and frightened and try to flee. But they don’t know where they’re going. It’s more of an emotional trigger, still connected to old memories of having a home. We used to have to call the police once or twice a week to help find them. Often, they’d be found aimlessly wandering miles away. But since we put the bus stop in, we haven’t had to call them once.”

  “Why?”

  “Because what the patients are usually experiencing is fear, and short-term memory is often the part most affected with age. But long-term memories are still intact. And many have memory-association of waiting for a bus and going home. So now if someone manages to get out, that’s where we find them. Waiting for a bus. Then one of us goes out and sits with them long enough for the anxiety to pass and then coax them back inside.”

  Neither agent spoke. They simply stared at her, fascinated.

  “It’s a gentler and far less frightening way to bring them back than in a patrol car.”

  “Who…in the world thought of that?”

  “It started in Germany several years ago. Now a lot of homes are starting to do it. What can I say? It works.”

  Rickards shrugged at Gutierrez. “Wow.”

  The assistant director’s smile faded, replaced again by her frown. “But Gerald didn’t have that problem. His mind was as sharp as a tack. No mental health issues at all.”

  “So he didn’t just wander out?”

  “No,” she said. “He snuck out.”

  Rickards stepped forward, stopping next to Gutierrez. “Snuck out?”

  “Yes. When no one was looking.”

  “How?”

  “Through his room’s window.”

  “He climbed through his window?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time was that?”

  “We’re not sure,” Kelly answered. “But we found his room empty and window unlocked in the morning. After a complete search of the grounds, we called the police.”

  “And you didn’t know where he was until…”

  “Until the deputies showed up to tell us about the crash.”

  Rickards glanced over Kelly’s shoulder. “Anyone else working today?”

  “Yes. My staff is out double-checking the grounds. Including all the windows.”

  “Ms. Cannon,” Rickards asked, “do you have any idea why Mr. Reed—Gerald—would do that?”

  “I have no idea. No one does. He seemed fine. Happy. Especially lately.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that lately, he seemed quite chipper. Almost jubilant.”

  Gutierrez glanced at Rickards. “Jubilant? About what?”

  “I don’t know. I assumed it was because of the letter.”

  “Letter?”

  “The letter he got a couple weeks ago. We assumed it was just some old letter from a distant relative. Lost in transit for a long time, but they finally tracked Gerald down. They had a man from the post office deliver it personally. I think it was a fun PR thing for them to do.”

  Rickards’ expression didn’t change. “Who was the letter from?”

  “I don’t know who it was from or what it said. He wouldn’t te
ll anyone. But it was clear he was very moved. Most of us figured it was a letter from an old friend. Perhaps one who had since passed away. Maybe an old girlfriend? I really don’t know.”

  Rickards stared at the woman, then reached into his coat and pulled out an oversized plastic baggie. He opened it and reached in to retrieve the documents he’d recovered from the crash site. He unfolded them and searched through one at a time. Then shrugged at Gutierrez.

  No letter.

  “Ms. Cannon, is there anyone he would have told about the letter? Or shown it to? Friends or maybe family?”

  “I don’t know. I’d have to check. He was very good friends with Mr. Draper, but unfortunately, we lost him a couple months ago.”

  “What about next of kin?”

  She nodded and walked back around the long desk, stopping at a keyboard and monitor. “He has a granddaughter in the area who we were just about to contact. Would you like me to call her?”

  Rickards glanced at Gutierrez. “How about an address?”

  7

  “Anthropologists may differ in many subfields, but one commonly held belief is called…” The professor turned and looked back at her students. “Anyone?”

  When no one answered, she turned back around to write on a giant blackboard. “Human Universalism! The belief that all people today are fully and equally human. This posits that people from all societies of the world are inherently equal, and that all cultures have value.”

  The professor turned again and smiled at her class. “No matter how much you might personally disagree. And no matter what you may think politically.”

  The class laughed.

  “What I’m talking about is the belief that every human has the same physiology, dexterity, brain size and capacity for complex thought as anyone else. Which makes anthropology truly fascinating.

  “Because,” she said, pacing back and forth in front of her lectern, “if all anthropologists can agree on that, the true question then becomes: What then makes us all so different?