Unpunished

by William Peter Grasso

  The dispatcher decided to make friendly conversation. “Business or pleasure?”

  With a frosty glare, Fred replied, “Is that any of your business?”

  The dispatcher cringed, wishing he had never asked that innocuous question. Jesus! What’s wrong with me? These big union guys are no different from gangsters…Mind your own business and don’t piss them off! Flustered and intimidated, he dialed the phone to file Fred O’Hara’s flight plan.

  There was a news program playing softly on the radio. Something the announcer was saying caught Fred’s ear:

  With the Wisconsin primary just days away, a shocking development from across the sea. The Swedish Ministry of Justice has announced that they are investigating the allegation by former American airman Anthony Moscone that presidential hopeful Leonard Pilcher committed murder while in Sweden during World War Two. A second witness, a Swedish national whose identity is being withheld for the present, has come forward to support the charge that Congressman Pilcher killed a fellow interned airman, Sergeant David Linker…

  Fred O’Hara found himself not surprised at all by what he had just heard.

  Climbing toward 5000 feet, Fred realized he had been too optimistic about the weather forecast. Dark, towering clouds were building in his flight path. His plane bumped along in worsening turbulence. I’ll never get over that stuff. I’ve got to stay low and pick my speed up. If I can’t outrun it that way, I’ll have to turn back.

  He eased the control column forward and readjusted the throttles for fast cruise. The altimeter on his instrument panel reversed its increasing trend at 4900 feet and began to creep slowly downward. Hidden in the aft fuselage, the altimeter on the saboteurs’ thermite bomb started to wind down, too. The detonator contacts, which had been set to make their deadly connection at 5000 feet, had been only a millimeter apart before beginning to separate again.

  Keep the nose down for a bit…pick up all the speed I can get.

  Grabbing the microphone, Fred briefed Air Traffic Control on his new plan. “It’s looking pretty crummy up ahead. How about I stay at 4000 feet and deviate around it?”

  “9184 Kilo from Center…you don’t want 8000 anymore?” the voice in Air Traffic Control asked.

  “That’s affirmative, Center. 9184 Kilo is looking for 4000.”

  “9184 Kilo from Center…that’s approved.”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  The scene at Leonard Pilcher’s Wisconsin Primary headquarters was sheer chaos. The press conference was to begin in five minutes. Campaign staffers scurried about in panic.

  Tad Matthews was no less panicked. He was trying desperately to brief an indifferent Leonard Pilcher. “Remember, Leonard…Wisconsin is loaded with Swedes. Say nothing, and I mean nothing detrimental about them, or you can kiss this state goodbye. And remember…you’re not much of a comedian. Don’t even try to make any jokes. Just stick to the script…like glue!”

  A disdainful look on his face, Pilcher said, “Keep your drawers on. I know what I’m doing.”

  A few minutes later, in front of the reporters, things were going fairly well. Leonard Pilcher had not gone off script once. He was delivering his lines with conviction and just the right touch of righteous indignation. On the new Swedish murder allegations, he said, “This is an example of campaign lies and distortions of the lowest, most outrageous form. The allegation is completely false and no doubt instigated by my opponents.”

  He paused and surveyed the crowd, trying his best to look presidential. Then, launching into his closing remarks, it all fell apart. “I know the good people of Sweden and King…umm…King…ahh…Adolph will quickly put an end to these ridiculous allegations.”

  A sea of hands shot up as the reporters, like sharks to prey, smelled blood. “King WHO?” several shouted, without waiting for the invitation to speak. A horrified Tad Matthews rushed to the podium—his only hope at this point was damage control. “That’s all we have time for, ladies and gentlemen,” Matthews said, nudging Pilcher away from the microphones. As he escorted Pilcher from the stage, Matthews hissed, “It’s King Gustav, you fucking idiot!”

  Outside the auditorium, a large, enthusiastic crowd had gathered. Many were carrying PILCHER FOR PRESIDENT signs. A male reporter for a radio network approached the crowd and picked out one man not carrying a sign to interview. He asked the man one question. The response was emphatic: “Of course I believe Congressman Pilcher! Hell, them Swedes wouldn’t even fight Hitler! Where do they get the balls to screw with a real live American hero?”

  On the telephone in his Pittsburgh office, Max Pilcher was trying desperately to get a word in edgewise; the secretary of state was doing all the talking. When Pilcher finally got to blurt out a complete sentence, it was rife with petulance and disappointment. “Christian, I was expecting a little support from this administration.”

  Secretary of State Christian Herter was not moved to be conciliatory. “Let me spell it out, Max. Sweden has no love for you, Ike, your son, or the Republican Party at the moment. There’s nothing we can do.”

  As soon as the feigned cordiality of goodbye was complete, Max Pilcher slammed the phone onto its cradle, shouting the parting insult no one would hear: “Goodbye, you useless son of a bitch!”

  Quickly, he placed another call. This one also brought him no pleasure. In seconds, he was bellowing into the telephone: “I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT SOME BITCH REPORTER! IT’S THE WITNESSES THAT NEED TO BE SHUT UP. NOW, JUST WHO THE HELL IS THIS SWEDISH NATIONAL?”

  He scowled as he listened to the reply.

  “WELL, FIND OUT, GODDAMMIT! WHAT THE HELL AM I PAYING YOU FOR?” the elder Pilcher said, before slamming his beleaguered phone onto its cradle once again.

  A classroom full of chattering NYU students fell silent as their professor entered the room. Today, however, she was accompanied by a man: tall, blond, well-built, a stern expression enhanced by piercing blue eyes.

  Pola Nilsson-MacLeish introduced the tall blond man to her class. “Mr. Andersson is an associate who will be observing for a few weeks,” she said.

  As Lars Andersson settled into a seat at the back of the class, something became obvious to the students who turned to sneak a look: the man wore a shoulder holster beneath his suit jacket.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  The black limo was waiting on the Teterboro Airport ramp as Fred O’Hara shut his plane’s engines down. He had made it around the storms unscathed. It had added flight time, but he still got there with plenty of reserve fuel.

  Fred emerged from the cabin door and stood on the wing’s walkway, stretching the cramped discomfort of the flight from his body. The limo pulled up alongside. A rear window rolled down to reveal Lou DiNapoli’s smiling face.

  “Where’ve you been, brother? We’re late for lunch,” Lou said.

  Fred climbed into the limo and found Lou munching on a chocolate bar. With a laugh, he asked, “You couldn’t make it a couple more minutes without a snack?”

  “Hey, I’m fucking starving here, Freddy. You took forever.”

  “Sorry, man. Weather. You remember what that’s like.”

  Lou squeezed the chocolate bar wrapper into a brown and silver ball and tossed it to the foot well, where it joined several others. “Yeah, I remember all that shit…getting bounced around in that ball turret like some kid’s toy. Good times, eh, brother?”

  In a private area of the Italian restaurant reserved for VIPs, Lou DiNapoli chowed down heartily as Fred picked sparingly at his food. They had already waded through three courses: antipasto, calamari, spaghetti. Now the indulgent waiters were plopping plates of veal scaloppini before them. This was the type of food that put you to sleep, and Fred needed to be wide awake for the flight back to Pittsburgh later. He pushed his plate of veal away.

  The waiters rolled their eyes. Diners who did not gorge themselves at this establishment were a rarity. Some people just don’t know what good is was the only explanation that made sense to them. Now, Mr. DiNapoli…
he knows how to eat!

  A waiter made another of his many attempts to fill Fred’s wine glass. He covered the mouth of the glass with his hand and said, “Hey, pal, I told you…none for me. I’m driving.”

  Undeterred, the waiter topped off Lou’s glass.

  “Alfredo,” Lou said to the waiter, “you and the boys want to take a smoke break or something for a few minutes?”

  Alfredo got the message; Mr. DiNapoli and his guest wished to speak privately.

  Once the waiters scurried away, Lou asked, “So, you’re thinking Pilcher really killed Davey Linker?”

  “I don’t know, Louie. I wasn’t there, remember?”

  Lou took another bite of the veal. He seemed lost for a moment.

  “But what about Joey the Professor?” Lou asked. “He was there. What do you think he knows?”

  “Good question, Louie. Maybe we’d better ask him.”

  “He’s in Beantown, right?”

  Fred nodded.

  “And if he knows anything, he wouldn’t bullshit us,” Lou said.

  Fred nodded again, then asked, “Maybe we give him a call?”

  “Nah, Freddy…this is too important. We’ve got to do it face-to-face. Can that flying piece of shit of yours handle two people?”

  Fred was half-serious as he replied, “Not if you keep eating like that.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  In another part of New York City, miles to the south, the hallways of academic buildings all around Washington Square were crowded with NYU students and faculty hurrying to be someplace else. Doctor Pola Nilsson-MacLeish was in this throng, with Lars Andersson close behind. They made their way to a down staircase.

  Across the hall, a woman in a floppy hat leaned against the wall, holding an open textbook as if studying. Concealed in the book’s pages was a photo of Pola. The brim of the hat concealed the woman’s face; if it did not, it would have been obvious that she was far too old to be a co-ed.

  As Pola reached the staircase, the woman dropped the textbook and raced at her from behind. Unseen by Pola, the woman’s arms reached out with palms open; she was intent on shoving the professor down that long, steep flight of stairs.

  But she was not unseen by Lars Andersson. He blocked her path just before she reached Pola. There was a struggle; the floppy hat fell off, revealing a face contorted not in fear, but in the grim determination of one used to conflict, locked in a life-or-death battle. She was tough, but no physical match for the tall, muscular bodyguard. He held her thrashing form fast with one arm around the throat; with his other arm, he pushed Pola MacLeish away from the staircase to safety. Bystanders who just a moment ago were lost in their own preoccupations frantically gave the melee some space while trying to make sense of this strange chaos before them.

  Lars Andersson never saw the woman produce the switchblade knife. She slashed at his restraining arm and was able to jerk away, prepared to strike at him again. He was startled for a moment but not hurt; the knife had only sliced into the sleeve of his thick woolen overcoat and not his arm. But now, the blade pointed straight at his midsection, made vulnerable by the unbuttoned overcoat.

  She lunged with the knife but never made contact. The force of the bullet from Lars Andersson’s .45-caliber pistol caught her in mid-lunge and at such close range it knocked her backward with great force. It was the would-be assassin, not her intended target, who tumbled down the staircase. The switchblade knife clattered after her. As the now-screaming bystanders clawed their way over each other to get to safety, the woman in the floppy hat lay dead at the base of the stairs. Her blood pooled slowly beneath her, its deep red in sharp contrast to the white stone steps on which it flowed.

  The uniformed NYPD cops who responded to the shooting at NYU were startled to find two homicide detectives already working the scene. The detectives were in a very foul mood and seemed to be going about their tasks in a great rush. “Just keep the gawkers back,” one of the detectives told the uniforms. “We’ve got this all covered.”

  “You’ve got the shooter?” one of the uniforms asked.

  “Yeah,” the detective replied, rolling his eyes. “Get this…he’s a fucking diplomat.”

  The detective’s partner had already searched the pockets of the dead woman at the base of the staircase. They were empty, just as they were supposed to be. But he got a surprise when he rifled her bulky handbag. Even though there was no identification to be found, a crumpled business card—his business card—was stuck in the bottom of a compartment. As he removed the card and palmed it like a gambler concealing a trump card, he mumbled to himself, “Damn sloppy of that stupid broad.” A few minutes later, that business card became just another scrap of trash in a Washington Square refuse basket.

  Later, in the coffee houses and taverns around Washington Square, still-excited students recounted tales of their brush with mortality on that staircase. One overwrought co-ed swore she heard the assailant shriek I’ll teach you to give me an F, you bitch, but it was all fantasy. The excitement those fantasies buoyed, coupled with the prodigious amounts of alcohol consumed, ensured that many more collegians than usual would get laid that night.

  Chapter Seventy

  It was a gorgeous afternoon for flying. The air over Long Island Sound was smooth; the only clouds were some patchy cumulus floating peacefully above 6000 feet. The storm front Fred O’Hara skirted earlier this day over central Pennsylvania had stalled in its journey to the northeast, leaving a sunny day along the Atlantic seaboard.

  Fred was relaxed at the controls, happy to be in the air again. Lou DiNapoli filled the front seat to his right, enjoying the sights and munching on a chocolate bar. As Lou took the last bite, Fred pointed to a trash bag between their seats and played the scolding elder: “Put the wrapper in there, Louie, not on the floor. I don’t want any crap getting into the rudder pedal linkage. This girl ain’t your fucking limo.”

  Lou balled up the wrapper and pretended to toss it at Fred. “Keep your shirt on, Lieutenant,” Lou said, with all the theatrical insolence he could muster. “I was aircrew, too, remember? I know the drill.” He placed the wrapper in the trash bag with an exaggerated flourish of his arm.

  The altimeter on Fred’s instrument panel wound upward through 4000 feet and kept climbing. In the aft fuselage, the altimeter on the hidden thermite bomb did the same.

  “We’re headed for 8000, right?” Lou asked.

  Fred nodded, adding, “We’d climb faster if you weighed a little less.” Lou responded only with a raised middle finger.

  After a few moments of amiable silence, Fred asked, “So what if Joey says that Pilcher really did kill Davey Linker?”

  Lou broke into a smile. He patted Fred on the shoulder as he replied, “If that’s what Joey says, my friend, I just might have to help you out with that little promise you made to Pilcher.”

  “You mean you’d help me kill him?”

  “Absolutely, Freddy. Absolutely. That would change everything.”

  It was time to report to Air Traffic Control once again. Fred picked up the microphone and began the position report: “9814 Kilo to Center, we’re through 5000, going for 8…”

  His words were cut off by a blinding flash. The cabin became oppressively hot and filled with acrid smoke that burned their eyes.

  “I CAN’T SEE A FUCKING THING, LOUIE! POP THE DOOR…WE GOTTA GET RID OF THIS SMOKE!”

  Without having to leave his seat, Lou heaved his considerable girth against the cabin door, overcoming the force of the slipstream pinning it closed. The door opened a crack, adding the deafening roar of engines and wind to the chaos. The cabin began to clear as the smoke was sucked out through the thin opening and joined the slipstream.

  Watching the path of the smoke as it exited, it became obvious to Fred and Lou that something behind the rear cabin seat was burning.

  “WHAT THE FUCK, LOUIE! THERE’S NOTHING BACK THERE TO BURN! IT’S NOTHING BUT METAL!”

  Despite this implausible calamity, th
e plane was still flying normally. Fred scanned the instruments: Everything looks normal…

  With a SPRONG that was more felt than heard, the control yoke went limp in Fred’s hands—its fore-and-aft tension was gone. The plane’s nose began to drop with a stomach-wrenching lurch. What had been a steady climb rapidly decayed to a brisk descent. Fred instinctively pulled back on the yoke, but something was desperately wrong. It came all the way back into his lap with no effort at all.

  Something’s broke bad here, Fred told himself, belaboring the obvious in his confusion. That much elevator should stand her on her tail! But nothing’s happening! I can’t stop her…We’re still going down!

  Not believing his own eyes, Fred moved the yoke back and forth through its full range of travel. There was no response from the airplane. They had dropped to 3000 feet already.

  Another SPRONG—and the rudder pedals kicked, then went limp beneath Fred’s feet. Fred and Lou exchanged bewildered, frightened glances.

  “LOUIE…WE’VE GOT TO PUT OUT WHATEVER’S BURNING, THEN SORT THIS SHIT WITH THE CONTROLS OUT! TAKE THE EXTINGUISHER…GO BACK THERE!”

  Lou was already out of his seat, fire extinguisher in hand, and moving aft before Fred could finish speaking. He yanked down the backrest of the rear seat and stared in disbelief at the sight that greeted him in the aft fuselage: intense, compact flames—like a 4th of July sparkler but 100 times brighter, so bright you could not look directly at them—were burning away the tail of the airplane.

  They had dropped to 2000 feet.

  Shielding his eyes, Lou blasted away with the fire extinguisher—but the flames did not subside. “I CAN’T PUT IT OUT, FREDDY! IT’S LIKE THAT THERMITE SHIT WE HAD IN THE SERVICE!”

  Tossing the empty extinguisher aside, Lou grabbed his overcoat and began to wedge his bulky frame into the aft fuselage, a space so confined that a man of normal dimensions could only fit on hands and knees. Lou’s barrel-like physique made entry a most daunting task.