by Tom Hansen
As Coach Berry frantically sprayed the wreckage with white foam, he knew the impossible nature of the task-at-hand would not prevent the inevitable death of his wife and unborn child. He ripped off his shirt and sprayed the remaining liquid from the extinguisher on it, completely soaking the cotton garment. He then tossed the extinguisher down into the ditch. Coach wrapped the wet shirt around his left hand and wrist, and hurried to the door while shielding his eyes with his right hand. As he fought back the intense heat while trying to rip open the crunched door frame, he could see through the window his wife’s head lying helplessly at a slant against the steering wheel. There was no hair or skin to be found, the white of the cadaver’s eyes staring directly into the coach’s. Coach Berry yanked on the door handle with a reserve of strength fed by pure adrenalin. The door was jammed and sealed tight and very difficult to maneuver due to the awkward angle from the truck’s vertical position. As the coach made one last futile attempt to disengage the door handle, the truck began to tip on its front fender and fall sideways toward him. Coach lost his footing on the oily culvert bank, and then slipped and fell on his back. The Ford truck’s 1,500-pound frame slammed on top of him and the flames instantly ignited his hair.
Willy saw what was happening and rushed back to save the town hero, but to no avail. He knelt down on the ridge of the embankment overlooking the debris of mangled steel and burning flesh, both inside the truck and out, and he grabbed the back of his head, sobbing uncontrollably. He heard the sirens in the distance, but the only thing Willy could do now was offer a prayer.
The next few minutes seemed like eternity for Willy as three red fire engines stormed the scene of the accident. Fire Chief Bobby Williams quickly directed his crew and within seconds, hundreds of gallons of water were emptying from the belly of the truck onto what was left of the Ford Pickup. Five minutes later, the entire crew of fifteen volunteer firemen hopped down into the culvert and pushed the truck until it rolled off Coach Berry and flipped into an upright position. The ambulance from Gregorson General had just arrived and two paramedics raced to the coach, who was lying motionless on his back, the skin on his face seared down to his skull. No pulse, no movement, no life.
Meanwhile, the fire crew had managed to pry open the door to the pickup. As they saw the ashen remains of the driver, three men pulled back and dropped to their knees, vomiting on the damp ground. Soon they would climb back up to their hoses and complete the soak down of the accident scene. Many of the firemen remembered back a few days earlier and thought about the eerie similarity of Calvin Pott’s death by burning flesh with what now lay before them in the culvert.
Too many coincidences lately for Willy Banks to believe and the common denominator was Roy Jackson. But the game was getting very dangerous and Willy knew others would get hurt and killed if he pursued Roy without a lot of caution and assistance. The legal system did not appear to be the answer because corruption was the tune singing throughout south central Florida. As much as it appalled him to do so, Willy knew he had to lay low until he found the solution.
The coroner pronounced Coach Berry and his wife deceased, with the time of death being only seven minutes apart. The basketball celebration in the gym was still going on. An autopsy would follow.
CHAPTER 23
Friday, February 19, 1982
11:00 a.m.
T he entire town and then some attended the memorial service for Coach Berry and his wife. Seemed like every high school basketball coach in southern Florida was there, as were several college athletic dignitaries from major Division I schools, including the University of Miami, Florida and Florida State. In his short time as the head basketball coach at Seminole Bend High School, Coach Berry had turned out top prep performers who were gobbled up at the collegiate level.
The Miami Sentinel printed a detailed description of the accident, a quarter-page obituary and a notice for the ensuing memorial service in their Sunday edition. The description of the accident by a beat writer would have been plenty, but several photos accompanied the write-up that left little to the imagination of the Sentinel’s readers.
The deaths of Brett and Sheryl Berry were given top billing and plenty of coverage by the state’s most widely read newspaper. Interestingly though, there was never any mention of Calvin Potts’ fatal accident on the same day his wife was murdered, or the snowbird who was run over in the BoldMart parking lot, or the huge, bloodied cowboy who found dead in the hardware store: all casualties that were considered “coincidental happenings” to everyone in Seminole Bend except for Willy Banks.
Brett’s mom, Janet Berry, was devastated and extremely depressed. She told her husband, Lew, that she was too heartbroken to make the trip to Florida for the memorial service in the Seminole Bend gymnasium. The burial of what was left of Brett and Sheryl’s corpses would take place back in the Berry’s home state of Pennsylvania. But each time Brett’s father would call to make arrangements to transport the ashen remains northward, Seminole Bend coroner Cliff Sutton would delay the shipment.
“Something strange that I need to clear up before I can give the okay for release,” was Coroner Sutton’s latest response. Both Janet and Lew were miffed, but they were also beginning to form a variety of suspicions in their minds. They had been told by Sheriff Bonty that it was just an awful accident, so why another delay?
“What’s going on down there, Doctor Sutton?” Lew Berry asked into the phone.
“Well, Mr. Berry, this is difficult for me to tell you. As you’re probably aware, the only anatomical vestiges found at the scene were ashes and charred skeletal residue. Your son’s remains seem okay, however, Sheryl’s don’t seem quite right.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?!”
“Well, the length and thickness of the skeletal parts found inside the vehicle seem to fit a person who is in the six-foot range. I believe your daughter-in-law was about five feet, eight inches, isn’t that correct?”
“I guess so. So what are you trying to say?” Lew Berry asked with a puzzled look on his face that the good coroner could only imagine from a thousand or so miles away.
“Quite frankly, I’m not sure. At this point, I’m just curious. Experts from Tallahassee are coming down to measure what’s left of the bone residue. If they tell me the person in the car was six feet tall, well, you probably know what I’m saying.” The doctor hoped Mr. Berry was getting the picture.
“So what you’re trying to tell me is the person in Sheryl’s car may not be her? Do you know how confusing this is to me? What happened that night anyway?”
“I suggest you give the sheriff’s department a call to answer that question, Mr. Berry.”
“If what you’re saying is correct and the bones are enlarged, is it still possible it could be Sheryl’s body? I mean, with the intense heat, could the bones expand or something?” Lew Berry was trying his best to make this just a horrible accident and not something out of the occult.
“I’d rather answer that when I know what the experts have to say. They are coming today and may want to interview the emergency responders, however, all of them are at Brett and Sheryl’s memorial right now. With a rush, we should have the results in forty-eight hours or less. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know something.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I hear from you. Please call immediately!”
* * * * *
The final two games of the Warrior’s basketball regular season would be forfeited to the opposing teams. Greg James, the assistant coach, had reluctantly assumed the head coaching job left vacant by Brett Berry. He had the dubious duty of trying to assemble a group of heartbroken high school athletes and have them ready for playoffs. No doubt, Martin Park would once again be looming on the horizon during the sectional tournaments.
Following the memorial service in the gym, Tyrone Banks sauntered down the sidewalk to his Volkswagen Bug that was parked in the high school lot. Tyrone was still four months away from his sixteenth birthday, but he ha
d his driver’s permit, and because of his size, most of the lawmen around Seminole Bend figured him to be of age to drive alone. His uncle, Willy, knew better, but wasn’t about to spill the beans seeing he helped Tyrone pay for the Bug. Jenny Jackson jogged down the walk, grabbed Tyrone’s elbow from behind and whirled him about. “Hey big boy,” she smiled with a provocative look that gleamed from her sparkling blue eyes down to her glossy lips.
“Jenny, not here, not now. I’m sure your old man is watching somewhere.”
Jenny locked her left arm into Tyrone’s right one and led him down to his car. “Daddy’s not here. He wasn’t interested in the service,” she said, somewhat disappointed and somewhat embarrassed.
“I’m shocked, I mean I knew he didn’t give a damn about Coach Berry, but with all the university coaches hanging out, I just thought he’d be sucking up!” Tyrone rolled his eyes and looked away from Jenny.
Trying to get Tyrone’s mind off Coach Berry and his wife, Jenny said, “Come on, Ty. Let’s go down to the lake. Nobody’s using our pontoon. We can catch a few rays and a few crappies to boot.”
“Do I really look like a tan is going to do me much good, Jenny?” Tyrone chuckled as he brushed his ebony skin with his fingertips.
Jenny hopped in the front passenger seat of the tiny car and both doors closed simultaneously. Jimmy Jackson happened to notice his sister and Tyrone getting into the Volkswagen as he walked out the gym door and peered down the sidewalk through the array of black suits and dresses of those folks just leaving the service. He shook his head and walked down to his own car, certainly wondering what Jenny was up to.
CHAPTER 24
Friday, February 19, 1982
8:00 p.m.
V isibility was near zero as the Trans South Airline’s jet taxied to Runway 36R at Miami International Airport. In the winter and spring tropical southern Florida rarely saw a torrential downpour like the one today. Those types of cloudbursts usually saved themselves for the summer months when immense precipitation became an almost daily late afternoon event. Air Traffic Control advised a delay, but did not demand it, thus the pilots could choose their own course of action. Captain Harry Hutter, best known by his aviator colleagues as “Hurricane Hutter” due to his enjoyment of gliding several tons of metal through dark, cumulous clouds for the shear purpose of providing a terrifying turbulent landing to high paying customers, was at the controls. Tonight, Harry thought he could stir up some excitement by initiating a thrilling takeoff into the wet and wild southern Florida atmosphere. Harry said many folks pay astronomical prices at amusement parks to ride roller coasters that dip and dive and twist and turn at heart attack speeds, so why not put a little fun into business travel?
* * * * *
Following customer complaints, Harry had been written up for several company violations in the past, but Trans South execs knew damn well he was the best pilot they had. His planes never arrived late to their destination, which made corporate travelers ecstatic, unless ground control forced a delay in the departure city due to mechanical problems. The Federal Aviation Administration could never ground Harry because when air traffic controllers required a certain path or route be followed, he did so without argument. But when the ATC’s merely suggested a smoother altitude, he knew he had the option to follow their directions . . . or mix up a few drinks in the coach cabin with the kind of turbulence that only the Florida prevailing winds could provide. Not many pilots had the self-confidence that Harry had, so Trans South assigned him to primarily short flights in and out of the southeastern United States where the weather could be a challenge in any season.
Three years ago, Harry was deadheading in an exit row seat to West Palm Beach from Atlanta when the jet he was riding in nosed-dived somewhere over the Okefenokee Swamp in southern Georgia. He knew right away that major engine failure had occurred and amidst the screams of all 108 passengers and dangling oxygen masks, he made his way through the cabin and noticed the pilot lying face down in the galley and the copilot in the cockpit with his head resting on the steering wheel. The airplane was on autopilot at 38,000 feet when the copilot had become ill and passed out from some bad fish he had eaten a couple of hours earlier in an airport restaurant. Knowing the flight attendants were busy serving up passengers, the pilot left the cabin to grab a bottled water from the galley for his partner when he heard a loud “bang” and the plane began to free fall. An unsecured coffee pot landed on the pilot’s head knocking him unconscious, and nasty hot Maxwell House began rolling down the back of his neck. Harry quickly jumped into the captain’s seat and noticed engine number one was on fire. Something had triggered an automatic shutdown of all three engines and Harry couldn’t get them restarted. He grabbed the controls and pulled up on the flaps while depressing the right rudder and the plane began to level off. Harry radioed the Valdosta Control Tower and mandated them to get the Georgia State Patrol to cordon off a five-mile section of Interstate 75 and to do so pronto! As red lights and sirens were scattering cars down into the ditches, he glided the aircraft to a smooth landing, however, the reverse thrusters were not operable. Remaining calm in the face of horror, Harry veered the jet into a muddy field of cotton on the east side of the freeway. After bouncing belly first from the ditch to the field, the plane’s landing gear snapped, but the plane slid to a halt and no one was injured . . . at least not physically! Members of the Georgia house and senate discussed petitioning Harry for a Congressional Medal of Honor for saving the lives of everyone onboard, including seven passengers who were Navy seamen. Unfortunately, the Georgia State Patrol wanted to hang him from the closest tree for endangering the lives of everyone on the road. The Atlanta Constitution printed a front page story that made Harry out to be such a local hero that President Carter invited him to the White House for a little southern hospitality and a huge thank you for saving all those Georgia citizens. The National Transportation and Safety Board didn’t want to ruin a presidentially-endorsed, heartwarming story, thus the investigation was closed in two days and Trans South quickly dismantled the aircraft. To this day, no one knows what happened to the plane’s engines or why it went into a nose dive, but Trans South reservation agents received an idiotic request from several customers: “Book me on a plane that Harry Hutter is flying!”
* * * * *
For a second time, Miami Air Traffic Control advised Harry to delay the stormy evening departure and Harry’s reply was, “Is that a suggestion or an order?”
Mustaf Dasani, an old Egyptian fighter pilot, currently the head of air traffic control in Miami and Harry’s golf partner every Thursday at the Doral Country Club, put Harry on a private frequency and responded, “Who can overrule Hurricane Hutter? I believe that would only be Allah, no?”
“Thought so.” Back on the required public broadcast frequency, Harry adjusted his headset and proffered, “Trans South 256 requesting a thumbs up for departure on Runway 36R.”
A second glance at the atmospheric conditions on the tower’s weather radar showed severely threatening thunderstorms with lightning bolts, hail and high cyclonic winds moving rapidly over land from the Gulf of Mexico, approximately seventy-five miles east of Marco Island. That put the storm front only twenty-six miles from MIA. Mustaf sensed imminent danger lurked to the west, but wasn’t sure he could wrestle control of TS256 from his stubborn friend Harry while it sat on the runway ready for takeoff.
“Roger, 256. Advise winds swirling in a southeasterly direction between twenty and thirty knots. All inbound flights are now on a holding pattern until the weather relaxes. Bayou 667 heavy has been diverted to Orlando. You’re clear for takeoff, but we strongly suggest a temp delay 256.”
“Roger, tower. But a little drizzle won’t ground this bird. Got ZynzoTech Corporation boys and girls on board who need to make their Frankfurt connection by 10:30. Can’t have Big Zee twiddling their thumbs on the Miami runway when the Germans need a little technology on their desks, now can we?” Harry pushed down the throttle and the turbo
engines lurched the jet westward down the barely visible runway. “140 knots, roll back, Johnny.”
Johnny Berger was the only copilot who enjoyed riding with Harry. He was a single, recently retired Navy F-16 pilot who thought flying upside-down was the ultimate life experience. Johnny said someday he would ask the passengers if they wanted to try that trick and see if they could all agree! But today, even Johnny was leery about taking off in this weather.
Johnny lowered the flaps while Harry pulled back on the yoke lifting the nose off the runway. Ominous black clouds blanketed the horizon with frequent lightning bolts illuminating the night sky. Harry radioed Mustaf as the back wheels lifted off the runway. “Miami Tower, this is Trans South 256 requesting a radar lock to get us through the burnt marshmallows up ahead. Can’t imagine any other brave soul trying to fly in this weather, though.”
“Roger, 256. We detect a small northbound aircraft about fifty miles south-southwest at 3,000 feet and heading in your direction. It appears to be gaining altitude to try and get above the weather. We’re attempting to hail it as we speak.”
“Roger, Miami. I see a bleep on our screen, too. I’ll go with your lock.”
Wind shear caught the jet’s right wing and caused the airplane to dip during its incline, which of course caused hands to be folded on the passenger’s laps. The all-powerful ZynzoTech execs who control most everything that exists in the modern technological world were suddenly at the mercy of one Harry Hurricane Hutter. But a little turbulence is Harry’s joy in life, and all he could do was chuckle at the utter quietness that had engulfed the passenger cabin as the plane soared towards the heavens. He thought about doing a little shaky-shake, rock and roll maneuver, but didn’t really want the smell of vomit penetrating into the cockpit. Thus, he stabilized the jet back on track and radioed to Mustaf.