The Flying Bandit

by Robert Knuckle

  Before closing his briefcase he threw in some reading material he had brought with him – a novel, a fishing guide, a travel book on the Bahamas, a mickey of rye. Then he tightened his tie, combed his hair, put on his suit coat and went out the door less than ten minutes after he entered his room.

  Down in the lobby he put his room key in the hotel’s quick checkout box and went over to the Air Express desk to make arrangements to fly home. Having determined yesterday there were no Pemair flights directly from London to his home town, Pembroke, he decided to buy an Air Express ticket to Toronto Island Airport. From there he would find a way to get home. At the counter the young clerk sold him a oneway ticket which he paid for with an En Route credit card registered in the name of Robert Whiteman. Then he asked her where he could catch a cab to the airport.

  “There’s no need to do that Mr. Whiteman. Our shuttle bus will be here in a few minutes to take you to the airport. I have to go out there myself.”

  “I think I’ll take a cab.”

  “There’s no charge for that service, sir,” she advised.

  “Thanks anyway but I think I’d rather take a cab. I’ve got some things to do.” Whiteman picked up his nylon garment bag and black briefcase and turned to leave.

  “See you later,” he said pleasantly over his shoulder.

  When he walked outside there were police cars in front of the bank and several policemen stationed along King Street. One of them was standing at the curb near the entrance to the Holiday Inn.

  Whiteman stopped and asked, “What’s all the commotion about, officer?”

  The policeman motioned to him to keep moving and replied, “Move along, please. There’s been some trouble in the bank.”

  Whiteman was happy to oblige. He went to the head of the taxi line and asked the driver in the first car to take him to the London Airport.

  “I got a flight at one o’clock.”

  The cabbie looked at his watch. It was 12:23 pm. “OK,” he said, “hop in. We can make it, but we got to get goin’.”

  As soon as Whiteman got in the car, he lit a cigarette. After a couple of deep drags, he asked the driver, “What’s going on out here?”

  “Bank robbery,” the cabbie replied as he angled the Aboutown taxi out into the traffic.

  “Really?” Whiteman asked as he looked back at the activity in front of the bank.

  “Yeah. I heard all about it. It was over real quick. One guy did it. I hear he got a couple of thousand.”

  “No kidding? Sure are a lot of cops out here.”

  “Yeah. But a lot of good those cops are going to do now. Shit, that bank robber is probably long gone by now.”

  Whiteman mumbled his agreement.

  “Not a bad day for a flight,” the cabbie commented.

  “Yeah, kind of overcast but it should be all right.”

  “You heading home?”

  “Yeah. I’m a computer programmer. Been working twenty-one days straight. Now I get seven days off, so I’m looking forward to going home.”

  The cabbie was driving as fast as the law allowed, heading up Wellington for Oxford Street.

  “You a married man?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I got one little girl and another one on the way.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. Well, you’ll be glad to get home then.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  All the way to the airport Whiteman and the driver nattered away, their conversation pleasantly straying from one inconsequential topic to another. Within twenty minutes they reached Crumlin Sideroad and Robert could see the airport buildings in the distance. There must have been eighty or ninety small planes scattered around the fifteen hangers. The main runway stretched off to the horizon like one long lonely road. It was an airport that could handle jets of any size; Robert had made it a point to learn that. The cabbie pulled up beside the brown brick airport terminal and helped his passenger out.

  “Nice looking suit you got there,” he commented.

  “Thanks,” Robert replied, “I bought it in Ottawa a couple of weeks ago. Fits like a glove.” He paid his fare with a twenty-dollar bill which left the driver a generous tip.

  “Thank you very much, sir. Have a nice day.”

  As the cab pulled away Whiteman went directly to the airport lounge. He sat at the bar, ordered himself a double rye and coke and lit a cigarette. He was feeling much better now. He figured if he wasn’t caught in the first three minutes of a robbery they would never get him. Although he liked to get out of the hotel fast, he didn’t like to go right home after doing a bank. Usually he would stick around town for a while, especially in smaller cities where there were limited flights from the local airport. It seemed to him that after a robbery the airport would be a natural place for the police to check for suspects. But, as far as he could tell, that wasn’t the case today.

  As Whiteman was sitting there nursing his drink the Air Express clerk from the Holiday Inn got off the shuttle bus and came into the lounge area. She noticed him at the bar and nodded hello. He waved hello back to her. When his boarding announcement came over the PA, Whiteman remained at the bar drinking. Finally, one of the City Express supervisors came up to him and advised that it was time for him to board.

  Whiteman thanked her, got up and walked directly out to the Dash 8 turboprop with his suit bag and briefcase in his hands. He knew there was no security check on domestic flights. That was the reason he could travel undetected across Canada with his guns in his shaving kit.

  Twenty-five minutes after takeoff the aircraft was landing at Toronto Island. Robert looked out the starboard window and saw the impressive glass and concrete skyline of the city. Just ahead to his right he could see the CN Tower standing majestically alone beside the rising steelwork of the evolving Skydome.

  Once he got into the airport terminal Robert learned that getting home from there wouldn’t be as easy as he had hoped. Not only were there no scheduled flights to Pembroke, there were no charters available either. He went into the airport lounge and ordered a double rye and coke. Then he made a few phone calls. He thought he might be able to hire a limousine from Toronto to drive him home but soon learned they were all booked up. It was Friday night and a number of high schools were holding their proms that evening.

  A pilot sitting at the bar overheard Whiteman’s phone calls and suggested he try Buttonville Airport northeast of Toronto. He was sure Robert could arrange an air charter from there. Whiteman gave it a try.

  The Torontair flight coordinator at Buttonville told him he could provide a charter from Toronto Island to Pembroke with a pilot named Grant Milburn and his co-pilot, Ian Deacon. The cost would be $1,350.

  Whiteman did not flinch.

  “I’ve got no problem with the price,” he said. “How long will it take them to get here?”

  “They can leave right away. Should be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “You got a deal. I’ll pay them in cash when they get here.”

  “Alright Mr. Whiteman, they’re on their way.”

  Robert went to the bar and ordered another drink. Then, on the hunch that this might be his lucky day, he bought some Wintario lottery tickets. When he finished his rye Robert walked out to a small boutique in the terminal that had caught his eye earlier. Without much deliberation he bought himself a leather bomber jacket for $339.95 and a pair of Barnstormer leather gloves for $49.95. The clerk was impressed by his quick decisions and even more impressed that he paid for these items by cash from a huge roll of bills that he pulled from his pocket.

  Shortly after Whiteman completed his purchases he learned that Grant Milburn was easing his twin engine Piper Aztec down onto the Toronto Island runway. When it came to a stop, he went out to meet the plane and identified himself to the two pilots. Milburn and Deacon helped load his luggage on the plane and radioed the traffic agent that they were ready to take off. As soon as they were airborne, Robert Whiteman handed them the $1,350. in cash for the one-hour flight. Grant Milburn th
anked him and put the money in his wallet.

  Neither of the pilots found it unusual that a single individual would charter a plane at such a high cost. It happened quite often. Usually it was a businessman stuck in Toronto who needed a quick flight out. Whiteman told them he was a computer salesman and he was taking a small computer part to Pembroke for an emergency repair. The pilots were used to this. Often companies would send a technician or a mechanic to deliver a part to an industrial plant in another city. This ensured that the part would be quickly and properly replaced.

  During the flight the pilots noticed that Whiteman was very keyed up. He squirmed around incessantly in his seat and talked constantly. He asked question after question about the plane and its equipment. He wanted to know about their flight path, their altitude, their backgrounds, the places they had flown.

  Every once in a while he poured himself a drink of rye from his mickey but it was nothing to cause the pilots any concern. Milburn figured he just loved to talk. He seemed to know something about everything. Deacon found him delightful. Both pilots were convinced he was a technician as he claimed. From their experience, senior executives were courteous but aloof. They seldom engaged in small talk. Middle managers often put on airs and professed to be more important than they really were. They found that service people were usually chatty and down to earth. They didn’t play roles or pretend to be something more than they were. Whiteman was anything but pretentious. He was just a normal pleasant person who was very inquisitive. The lively conversation he generated helped all three of them enjoy their flight to Pembroke.

  Shortly after four o’clock Whiteman asked, “Hey, do you guys have a telephone on board?”

  “Yes, we do,” Milburn replied.

  “Can I use it for a minute? I’ve got to call home.”

  “Sure,” Milburn said, “give me the number and I’ll dial it for you.”

  Whiteman gave him the phone number and a twenty-dollar bill to pay for the call. Milburn handed him the phone.

  “Hi!” Robert said into the phone, “it’s me. I’ll be home in about twenty minutes. I’m calling from the sky on a chartered airplane. It’s the only way I could get home in time. Can you meet me at the airport?”

  Janice was surprised to hear he was calling from an airplane. She told him she would be happy to meet him at the Pembroke Airport. They chatted very briefly about a few other things and then Whiteman said goodbye. After handing the phone back to the pilot, Whiteman launched into a new series of topics that rekindled their animated three-way conversation.

  Ten minutes later Whiteman listened intently as the pilot made radio contact with the Pembroke traffic office. Milburn identified his aircraft, advised the traffic agent of his approach and asked for landing instructions. The radio crackled as the agent gave them the wind speed and direction. The Aztec was cleared for an uncomplicated landing.

  For the first time, Robert was quiet as the pilots focused their attention on landing the plane. When the wheels touched down he felt a sense of relief. As the craft taxied along the runway he peered out the window to see if he could spot his car in the parking lot. It was a black Chrysler 5th Avenue with a spare tire mounted on the outside of the trunk. As far as Robert knew, it was the only car of its kind in the Pembroke area. The airplane hangers and airplanes parked on the ground made it difficult for him to get a clear view of the parking lot but Robert had no reason to suspect that he wouldn’t get a warm welcome home. Although he couldn’t see his wife he was confident she was there to meet him.

  Once the plane came to a stop and the silver blades of the props stopped whirling the two pilots removed their head sets and prepared to disembark. They obligingly offered to help Robert carry his luggage into the terminal.

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate that,” he said.

  The three men stepped out into the humid air of the warm June afternoon and headed towards the terminal, laughing and joking as they walked. Robert was happy to be home. He had big plans for the future.

  CHAPTER 2

  Pembroke

  The city of Pembroke lies beside the mighty Ottawa River, 100 miles upstream from Canada’s national capital. The community got its start as a supply centre in the late 1800s when logs cut from the surrounding hills were floated down the Ottawa River to the sawmills of Montreal.

  Today Pembroke is a city of over thirteen thousand. Its downtown has a quaint and antique air about it. The main street is lined with rows of interesting little shops under sturdy Victorian store fronts. Most of the city’s modern buildings and its two new shopping malls have been relegated to the outskirts of town.

  Although Pembroke has retained some remnants of its once flourishing lumber industry, it has primarily evolved into a major goods and services depot for the farmers of the lush Ottawa Valley and for the five thousand Canadian military personnel at nearby Camp Petawawa.

  As the last major community on the route from Ottawa to North Bay, 130 miles to the west, Pembroke is a vital cultural and communications link along Highway 17. The significance of its location is enhanced by the Pembroke bridge, the only one for miles that crosses the Ottawa River and connects eastern Ontario with the Gatineau Hills of Quebec.

  Because of its strategic location there is a significant police presence in Pembroke. As well as having its own police force, the city has a twenty-five member detachment of the Ontario Provincial Police stationed in the heart of town. The OPP are responsible for policing beyond the city limits. The RCMP also has a small representation in Pembroke to enforce federal law. It is ironic that so many police are stationed in Pembroke because this is a very gentle, law abiding community.

  Pembroke is certainly not a pretentious place. It has few stately mansions or elaborate estates. Although the community has its share of professionals and entrepreneurs, most of its residents are hard working people of average means. Essentially, Pembroke is a humble city of modest frame homes.

  It was on Dominion Street in Pembroke, in one of these unassuming bungalows, that Robert and Janice Whiteman lived with their eightmonth-old daughter Laura (not her real name).

  Janice Whiteman, whose maiden name was McKenzie, was born and raised in Pembroke. Her mother and her brother, Peter, stayed here. In high school she was an average kid with a typical cluster of friends. She wasn’t particularly active in school and was only a marginal student. That was probably due to the fact that she paid more attention to her boyfriend than her books. If the other girls envied her it was because he was one of the few boys in town who drove a Corvette. Janice got serious about him quickly and made up her mind she was going to marry him.

  Other than riding in the Corvette they didn’t attract a lot of attention. He was an average looking guy and Janice was rather plain. She was a strawberry blond with square shoulders who waged a constant battle with her weight. Her pretty face was spotted with freckles. A slight space between her teeth gave her an apple pie cuteness that was appealing. Janice’s charm was based on a ready smile and a willingness to help others. Beneath the smile, Janice McKenzie could be all business. She was a determined girl and extremely self-reliant. When she felt strongly about something, she could be very demanding.

  Not long after graduating she married her high school sweetheart. Contrary to the common practice of the time, Janice decided to keep her maiden name. McKenzie was a proud British name that Janice had always loved. She felt very strongly about keeping it.

  They were married at a time when Pembroke was economically depressed. There were few good jobs available and prospects were limited for young people seeking a promising future. Since Pembroke had little to offer, Janice decided that leaving town was the only sensible thing to do. She and her husband packed their bags and moved to Ottawa.

  When Janice left Pembroke her mother and father were confident their daughter would be successful. She was an extremely independent woman who had always gone her own way and made things work out. Her parents’ only concern was that she was inexperienced and a
bit naive. They felt that Janice trusted people too easily and had a natural empathy for those who were suffering. She seemed to be drawn to people with problems.

  Janice recognized this quality in herself. She thought she could put it to good use by becoming a social worker. However, to do that, she realized she needed more than a high school education. For the time being, returning to school was out of the question. She was going to Ottawa to work as a secretary.

  Nine months after leaving Pembroke her marriage collapsed. It was all very amicable; Janice and her husband agreed they had made a mistake and simply called it quits. And, even though she was young and alone, Janice had no intention of moving back to Pembroke. She enjoyed life in the big city and wanted to stay. Realizing that her job would barely support her living on her own, Janice moved in with her sister Carol.

  Before long she was bored with her job and quit to try a couple of civil service positions with the federal government. Clerical work left her terribly unsatisfied. She wanted to be doing something that could make a difference in people’s lives. More than ever, she yearned to be a social worker.

  When her twenty-seventh birthday rolled around Janice knew if she didn’t go back to school she would be trapped forever in a series of meaningless jobs and would grow old doing work she detested. Independent as ever, she quit her job and enrolled in the social services program at Ottawa’s Algonquin College. She knew it would be a tough couple of years scrimping on student loans but was determined to do it. To make ends meet, Janice moved in with two girl friends who attended the college. Although her resources were limited, living the life of a college co-ed was fun. And, although the work at school was demanding, she loved it.