A grin flickered across Thurston’s face. “At this time, I’d like to open the room up for questions regarding this case.”
For the next hour, Thurston answered what questions he could, while deflecting other questions toward Banks and Coleman. They managed to keep quiet the details of what really happened the previous night. Speaking in vague generalities was enough to assuage a media corps hungry to let the world know that a man portraying himself as the second coming of D.B. Cooper was vanquished.
***
AFTER THE PRESS CONFERENCE, Flynn slipped up next to the FBI official pushing Coleman down the hall.
“Mind if I take over?” Flynn said, flashing his credentials.
“Be my guest,” the man said, giving way to Flynn.
Coleman cranked his neck at the sound of the familiar voice. He then looked straight ahead and sighed. “Mr. Flynn, to what do I owe this honor?”
Flynn laughed. “No, sir, Agent Coleman. The honor is all mine.”
“So all it took for me to gain your respect was dragging these old bones to the middle of nowhere and waving a gun around?”
“You had my respect a long time ago—I just wasn’t sure I believed you.” Flynn paused. “But I most definitely do now.”
“I hope you never know what it’s like to go through life living under a cloud of suspicion and doubt,” Coleman said as he shook his head. “I can deal with criticism, but I have a hard time with mistrust. And ultimately, that’s what led to my demise within the Bureau. Nobody believed me—even when I knew I was right.”
Flynn guided Coleman’s wheelchair to the right. “I can’t imagine.”
“No, you can’t. It’s a living hell that someone has to experience in order to understand.”
“But I do get being maligned and dismissed.”
Coleman nodded knowingly. “Your time in the CIA?”
“Yeah. I saw terrible things done in the name of this country on supposed missions of peace—that were anything but peaceable.”
“At least you got out with your dignity intact.”
Flynn grunted. “Some people would question that assertion—I’m in journalism now.”
“Good point.”
“However, journalism does present some unique opportunities.”
“Such as?”
“Such as a platform for you to tell your story—the whole thing.”
Coleman shook his head. “I don’t know if I want to do that. It might be too painful.”
“Whoever said healing is pain free?”
Coleman sighed. “Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll tell you everything—just don’t leave anything out, okay?”
“I’ll tell it in your words, like a first-person article. Harold Coleman as told to James Flynn. Fair enough?”
“I’d be game for that.”
“Excellent. However, I do have one question right now for you—not for print, of course.”
“Fire away.”
“So, do you really think the original D.B. Cooper is dead? Or was that your defense mechanism against all the criticism?”
Coleman took a deep breath as Flynn stopped outside an elevator and pushed the button. He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. At the time, the facts seemed to align that he didn’t make it out alive. I mean, what criminal steals two hundred thousand dollars and vanishes. He didn’t spend a dime of it—at least, not that we were able to track.”
“And what about the money you found on the Tena Bar in 1980?”
“A distraction, perhaps? I don’t know. That never made sense to me—and that money remains one of the biggest mysteries surrounding the case since we never recovered any of the other bills.”
“So because the money never appeared in circulation, you’re sure he died?”
“Sure as I can be. I mean, who steals all that money and never spends any of it?”
“Carlton Gordon.”
“He’s a megalomaniac, for sure. And that’s the only reason why he never spent any of it. He wanted to be worshiped and adored like D.B. Cooper so he salted CenturyLink Field with it. That guy was destined to fail before he started.”
Flynn chuckled. “Well, have you got a few minutes?”
Coleman nodded.
“Good. I want you to come with me and Banks to deliver some good news to our friend, Carlton Gordon.”
Several minutes later, Flynn stood behind Coleman and his wheelchair along with Banks.
“Would you like to break the news to him?” Banks asked.
Coleman shook his head. “Nah, that’s your job. I just want to watch.”
“Suit yourself,” she said.
The guard buzzed them into the holding area and they approached Gordon.
“What are you all doing down here? Did you come to gloat?”
Coleman smiled. “We just wanted to make sure everything was going well for you.”
“Piss off, Coleman,” Gordon growled. “Go catch a real criminal, one who’s still out there—unless you’re still pedaling that story about Cooper being dead.”
“I’m looking at a real criminal,” Coleman said, eyeing Gordon closely. Coleman then wheeled himself closer to Gordon. “But Agent Banks here has some good news for you, perhaps even unexpected.”
Gordon sat up straight. “Oh?”
“Yes,” Banks said as she slid a manila folder across the table toward him. “You’re not going to die.” She paused. “Well, not any time soon. In fact, you’re going to be plenty healthy and live a long life—behind bars.”
Gordon’s eyes widened as he opened the folder and stared at its contents.
“How can this be?” Gordon asked.
“Sometimes a test says you’ve got cancer. Sometimes, it is wrong. This is one of those times.”
“You mean, I’m going to live?”
Banks nodded. “Behind bars, that is. You’ve just got a stomach ulcer, one sure to get worse with time in prison. But nothing more. You’ll live.”
Gordon slammed his fists onto the table. “How can this be? I was going to die!”
“And now you’re not—at least, not a free man.”
CHAPTER 47
THE NEXT MORNING, Flynn knocked on Banks’ door while he juggled the two cups of coffee. After a few moments, the door swung open and Banks greeted Flynn with a smile—and a hug. She took one of the cups out of his hand and brought it up to her nose.
“Grande soy latte, no whip cream?” she asked.
“I never forget a coffee order,” he said.
“You’ve got my down, that’s for sure.” Banks ushered him inside and shut the door behind him. “So, what’s this big excursion you want to take today?”
He settled into her couch and propped his feet up on the coffee table. “You ever just get a nagging feeling that you can’t let go?”
She nodded. “Uh, huh.”
“So, I think you know where we’re going today, don’t you?”
She nodded again.
He jumped to his feet. “Good. Let’s get going.”
Flynn begged to drive, complaining that his rental, a Mercedes sports coupe, had almost been wasted on this assignment. “It was even a free upgrade.”
Banks playfully rolled her eyes. “If you insist.”
Within a few minutes, they were roaring south down I-5.
After a few minutes of silence, Banks’ spoke up. “So, what do you think you’d be doing if you never went into the CIA or journalism?”
Flynn shrugged. “I’ve never thought about it much. I always wanted to be a spy as long as I could remember. And I always liked writing, too. Everything I do now seems like what I was destined to do.”
“You never wanted to be a professional athlete or a doctor or a fireman?”
Flynn shook his head. “I always wanted to help people, but in a behind-the-scenes sort of way.”
“So, now you’re on television?” she said as she laughed.
“An unintended consequence of entering journalism in the twenty-first centur
y. I’d be writing in relative obscurity for a news magazine if this were thirty years ago.”
“Yet, here you are writing books and doing interviews all over the place.”
“It’s tiresome for me, that’s for sure.” He paused for a moment, lost in thought as he looked out at the Cascade Mountains surrounding them. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What would you do if you weren’t an FBI agent?”
“I’d teach kindergarten or first grade,” she said without hesitating.
“You’ve thought about this extensively, haven’t you?”
She nodded. “I love my job, but there are days—” her voice trailed off.
“There are days in every profession. The grass is always greener.”
“But I couldn’t imagine even the worst parents ruining my day like sometimes this job does.”
“Maybe you’ll get an undercover assignment one day and find out firsthand.”
She laughed. “I have a feeling that you’d be doing this, too, if you could.”
“Maybe, but I’ve got the best of both worlds right now. Consulting with you and writing for The National.”
Flynn pushed the Mercedes hard, somehow avoiding a ticket as he exited the Interstate. For nearly an hour, they bumped along a two-lane road until he finally pulled off to the side.
“You think this is it?” she asked.
He nodded. “Sure as I’ve ever been. We’ve got a little bit of a hike ahead of us, but I know where it’s at.”
Flynn locked the car and he led Banks through uncharted—though familiar—terrain. Remnants of snow still remained on the ground in the shadows, but the sun had sufficiently burned off the white powder along most of the forest floor.
After thirty minutes, Banks piped up. “Are you sure this is the right way?”
He nodded. “Just keep going.”
Twenty minutes later, Flynn walked up over a rise and stopped. Banks hustled up the hill and stood next to him.
“What is it?” she asked.
He pointed, speechless.
They both broke into a sprint toward the cabin.
“What happened?” Banks asked.
The cabin less than a hundred yards away in front of them was torched, blackened by a fire that was squelched yet still smoldering in some places.
They both sprinted toward it, trying to wrap their minds around the scene before him.
“Mark Justice,” Flynn said as he laughed. “What a name. Almost as good as Dan Cooper.”
He walked up the charred steps of the cabin and into the living room. The roof remained in place, but porous. Everything else appeared to be stripped out. No beds, furniture, appliances. Nothing. Just the empty shell of a cabin—empty except for a table.
“Would you look at this?” Flynn said as he walked toward the only structure in the room that wasn’t burnt.
“Oh, my,” Banks said, rushing over toward him.
A carton of cigarettes sat on the table along with a note.
Flynn picked up the note and read it aloud. “I’m glad you caught the copycat. He’ll never get it.”
“He’ll never get it?” Banks repeated.
Flynn shrugged. “He’ll never get why Cooper did it? I don’t know. It’s mind boggling.”
Banks stared at the note. “But why leave us this? Why risk us finding his DNA everywhere and figuring out who he is?”
“His DNA won’t show up in any database,” Flynn said. “He hijacked the plane, disappeared with the money, and he’s not interested in making a name for himself. The perfect crime.”
“One day he’s going to slip up—if he doesn’t die first,” she said, her voice trailing off.
“Well, at least we know what he looks like now.”
***
FLYNN SAUNTERED UP TO the corner of 22nd and Capp Street in San Francisco a mere two days later. He wanted to get home, but he needed to make a stop—a costly one that he hoped his editor would excuse on his expense report.
Resting against the wall of the drug store, the old man blurted out, “You got a cigarette I can bum off of ya?”
Flynn smiled. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Wait a minute,” the old man said. “I know that voice.”
“Yes, you do, Doc,” Flynn said. “It’s me. And I come bearing gifts.”
“Gifts? What did I do to earn a gift?”
“You helped us catch a thief.”
Doc broke into a deep laugh that devolved into a cough. “I did?” he finally muttered.
“Yeah, Mr. Money Bags—or Mr. Stallion Cologne. Take your pick, but either way he was our guy.”
“Really?” Doc said. “I never would’ve guessed.”
“Yep. He’s going to be behind bars for quite a while now.”
“You don’t say?”
“I do—and as a matter of fact, I’ve got more than just a gift—I’ve got a carton of Raleigh cigarettes.”
“Best damn cigarette ever made,” Doc said as he held his hands out.
Flynn placed the carton in Doc’s hands and patted him on the back. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”
Doc laughed. “You got a light? I can’t let these go unsmoked any longer.”
Flynn pulled out a lighter from his pocket and sparked a Zippo for his new friend. “For you, Doc, I’ve got whatever you need. Just say the word.”
The cigarette sizzled for a moment and began to smoke. Flynn patted Doc on the back.
Doc smiled. “They never think of everything,” he said as he took a long drag.
THE END
Acknowledgments
WRITING THIS STORY was quite possibly more fun that a writer should be allowed to have legally—both for the license that I took in crafting it as well as the hours of research I got to spend while plotting it. Getting to walk in the same forest as Dan Cooper did in late November of 1971 was a thrill as I attempted to imagine what it would’ve been like for him trying to escape under such a suffocating man hunt. Yet, all the while, the FBI never truly knew who they were looking for. It made for a fascinating re-imagining of this true event. And I couldn’t have done this alone.
For starters, without readers who have found my work—and enjoyed it—I never would have trudged on with the arduous task of writing novels. Just knowing that you’re out there, enjoying the diversions created by my books, inspires me to press on and work diligently to refine my craft.
As with almost all my writing projects, Jennifer Wolf’s editing helped make this a better story. Without her, this novel might be more confusing, not to mention full of female characters wearing horribly matched clothes.
Dan Pitts crafted and conceived another brilliant cover.
Bill Cooper continues to produce stellar audio versions of all my books — and have no doubt that this will yield the same high-quality listening enjoyment.
And last, but certainly not least, I must acknowledge my wife and her gracious soul for allowing me to once travel to Washington and immerse myself in a world of my own making while I wrote this story, one I hope you truly enjoyed.
About the Author
JACK PATTERSON is a national award-winning journalist and award-winning author living in the Pacific Northwest. He first began his illustrious writing career as a sports journalist, recording his exploits on the soccer fields in England as a young boy. Then when his father told him that people would pay him to watch sports if he would write about what he saw, he went all in. He landed his first writing job at age 15 as a sports writer for a daily newspaper in Orangeburg, S.C. He later earned a degree in newspaper journalism from the University of Georgia, where he took a job covering high school sports for the award-winningAthens Banner-HeraldandDaily News.
He later became the sports editor ofThe Valdosta Daily Timesbefore working in the magazine world as an editor and freelance journalist. He has won numerous writing awards, including a national award for his investigative reporting on a sordid tale surround
ing an NCAA investigation over the University of Georgia football program.
Jack enjoys the great outdoors of the Northwest while living there with his wife and three children. He still follows sports closely.
He also loves connecting with readers and would love to hear from you. To stay updated about future projects, connect with him over Facebook or on the Internet at www.IamJackPatterson.com.
THE COOPER AFFAIR
© Copyright 2015 Jack Patterson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Print Edition 2015
Cover Design by Dan Pitts
Published in the United States of America
Green E-Books
Boise, Idaho 83714
The Cooper Affair Page 20