“What is this all about?” Banks asked as she put her hands on her hips. “This is getting really old, Harold.”
“I tried to stop him, Agent Banks, but he wouldn’t listen,” the FBI agent detaining him said.
“Let him go. He’s harmless—or at least I’ll make sure he stays that way.”
The agent released him and returned to his post on the perimeter.
“Thanks you, Agent Banks,” Coleman said. “Good to see you again—and you, too, Mr. Flynn.”
“Enough with the pleasantries,” she said. “What are you doing out here poking around my crime scene again?”
“I’ve got it all figured out. Carlton Gordon is your Cooper Copycat—and I can prove it.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “How is this any different than what you said this morning, where you accosted him on the steps of his bank? Quite frankly, I’m surprised that he didn’t have you arrested and press charges against you.”
“Perhaps I was a bit too pushy this morning, but I know for a fact that it’s him.”
Flynn folded his arms and leaned in. “Go on.”
“Whoever did this is someone who belongs to the Ridgeline Golf and Polo Club—and he’s likely the same person who shot at you when you went out there to question a few people.”
Banks shook her head. “We sent some agents back and they didn’t find a thing. Not a shell casing. Not an eyewitness. Nobody saw anything.”
“Of course, they didn’t,” Coleman said. “This guy is meticulous. He’s covering his tracks.”
Flynn eyed him carefully. “What makes you so sure that it was somebody from the club? There hasn’t been any evidence to suggest as much.”
Coleman paused. “Well—actually—”
“Out with it, Harold,” Banks said. “Okay, so right after the news of this broke and then Thurston told me I couldn’t get involved in any official capacity—”
“I think he told you to let the FBI handle it,” Banks snapped.
“Yes, something like that. Well, anyway, I went out to the airport and was able to get access to the crime scene.”
Banks rolled her eyes. “My blood is starting to boil.” She folded her arms. “Who gave you access to the site?”
“I have friends,” he said.
“And you probably told a few lies as well, didn’t you?” Flynn said.
Coleman bobbed his head back and forth. “One man’s lie is another man’s truth.”
“How did you even gain access to the site?”
Coleman winced as he answered her. “I may have over exaggerated my position as a consultant on the case.”
“What kind of exaggeration? The kind that says ‘I’m working as a consultant’ when you really aren’t? That kind of exaggeration?” she asked.
“I’m gonna plead the fifth on that line of question.”
“Harold!”
“Okay, okay. It may have gone something along those lines.”
Flynn didn’t have the same amount of reason to be upset, interested only in one thing. “So, what’d you find?”
“This,” he said, holding up a golf ball marker with the Ridgeline Golf and Polo Club crest on it.
“Where did you get that?”
“From the aft cargo hold on the plane,” he said.
Flynn shrugged. “It could’ve fallen out of someone’s golf bag.”
Coleman shook his head. “Really? That’s all you’ve got, Mr. Flynn. I’ve been watching you on television and reading your books for several years now, and you strike me as a far more imaginative person than that.”
“Sometimes the easiest explanation is the correct explanation,” Flynn said.
“There’s nothing easy about finding a random golf ball marker from a club where one of the prime suspects is a member.”
Banks took a deep breath. “I will admit that Mr. Gordon seems like a viable suspect at this point, but if there’s one thing you need to know about the new age FBI, it’s this: If we don’t have enough evidence to convict, we don’t arrest anyone. And even if Mr. Gordon is our man, we’re still a long way from being able to amass enough evidence against him.” She paused and glared at him. “Especially when some retired agent starts stomping around my crime scene and stealing evidence. I have half a mind to have you arrested and thrown in prison right now.”
“Stick with your other half then,” Coleman quipped. “If you want to catch this guy, you need to listen to me.”
Her eyes widened. “I prefer to follow the evidence—but since you dabbled with the evidence, making it inadmissible, you’ve placed me in a difficult situation.”
“Look, I’m sorry about that—I am, really,” Coleman said. “But Thurston was playing Bureau politics when he didn’t bring me on to consult. Nobody knows this case better than I do.”
“Well, you should’ve nabbed Cooper when you had a badge. But now, after all that, here you are traipsing into another one of my crime scenes. Are you going to muck this one up, too?”
Coleman tapped his cane on a rock several times. “Would you calm down, Agent Banks? I’ve got something else you might want to look into.”
She put her hands on her head and closed her eyes. “For God’s sake, please tell me that you’re not about to pull another piece of evidence out of your pocket.”
“No, no more evidence—but a hunch.”
She sighed. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
Flynn smiled. “Just hear him out.”
“Fine, go ahead,” she said. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“The copycat—or as I like to call him, Gordon—has to have an accomplice somewhere in San Francisco, likely someone who works at the airport. There’s no way he’s getting such unfettered access to secure areas without some help.”
“And what makes you think that?” Banks asked.
“It’s a gut instinct.”
“The same instinct that helped you the first time you had this case?”
“Don’t be so catty,” Coleman said. “If I were you, I’d start asking around in San Francisco.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Coleman,” she said. “Now please vacate the crime scene or I’ll have you escorted away.”
“I’m leaving, I’m leaving.”
She watched him shuffle off.
“You don’t have to be so hard on the old man,” Flynn said.
“Were you here for the entire conversation? Or did you miss the part where he revealed that he violated the integrity of the crime scene without authorization—and then withheld the evidence from us?”
“Well, that’s not entirely true. He did just give us the evidence; so technically, it hasn’t been withheld. Perhaps you should take up your beef with the forensics techs who missed that evidence themselves and then proceeded to let Coleman snoop around unsupervised.”
“Oh, you bet someone is going to be hearing about this.”
“But you still have to do something with that information that Coleman gave you.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Before I can do anything, let’s talk with Gordon. I see plenty of circumstantial evidence, but nothing definitive yet.”
“Maybe that hair sample will offer us a clearer picture of who’s involved.”
“Exactly. But in the meantime, we’ve got a suspect to question.”
CHAPTER 23
GORDON COUNTED THE STACKS of money and locked it away in his safe on Saturday morning. The night before he’d been so tired from his jump that he decided it was a chore that could wait. The process of logging all the money the first time was so tedious that he decided a sign of respect toward Cooper would be to take only $200,000. He had already experienced what it was like to jump out of an airplane with the weight of twenty-two pounds of paper money strapped to him, so why not jump with just $200,000?
He fixed himself a pot of coffee and then fired up his laptop to read about his triumphant heist. Early reports were that the FBI wasn’t sure if it
was the same copycat that struck on Saturday or if it was a copycat of a copycat.
“Yeah, like anyone else is smart enough to pull off a stunt like this,” Gordon said aloud before taking another sip of his coffee.
Since he laid the groundwork ahead of time for two jumps, pulling it off was even easier the second time. He had anticipated the new protocols and procedures in place at the airport, so his plan to hide a second disguise when he first gained access proved to be a stroke of genius.
Editorial writers for both the Seattle and San Francisco papers wanted to know how this could happen once, let alone twice.
“What if it was a terrorist who wanted to sneak a bomb onto the plane and kill everyone on board?” one writer opined. “It’s obvious after this happening twice in one week that something is broken with the TSA’s current system.”
Gordon chuckled. “You bet there’s something wrong—it’s called a huge inconvenience.”
He found another article where the writer was calling for the head of the TSA director.
“Like he’s the one manning the security stations,” Gordon said. “These people are clueless.”
Then he started to read an in-depth story that included a timeline of the events as the feds had given them to the press. At the bottom of the article was his favorite picture meme where Michael Jackson is staring at a movie screen, eyes wide, with a carton of popcorn in his hand, saying, “I’m just here for the comments.” And then he started to read the comments.
“Who does this guy think he is? D.B. Cooper? What a cheap knockoff?” wrote “The Real D.B.” from Sausalito.
“So, now we have a knock off of a knock off? It’s bad enough that China clones our superior products, now they’re knocking off our criminals,” wrote Maude from Montgomery.
Gordon snickered. “Maude hasn’t had her coffee this morning yet—or she’s still drunk from last night because that makes no sense. Who said anything about the Chinese here?”
He read another one.
“I hope they catch this guy and throw him in jail. What a gutless punk?”
And another one.
“At least the original D.B. Cooper had class. This guy is just a straight up thief.”
And again.
“I remember when Cooper hijacked that plane many years ago. Everybody hated the government then and Cooper stood for the fight against the big government encroaching upon the little man. Not much has changed since then. Everybody hates the government—and it’s still encroaching on the little man. But at least we’re not celebrating a criminal this time around.”
Gordon yelled at his screen. “Oh, come on, man. Where’s the love?”
He quickly discovered there was no love for his crime spree. In fact, it was mostly disgust and hate.
Hoping for a better outcome on social media, he checked all the major sites—Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. The hashtag “#NotTheRealCooper” was trending everywhere, used as an addendum to cheap knockoffs. It seemed to be a sentiment that was picking up steam online.
“What is wrong with you people?” Gordon said, throwing his hands up in the air. “I’m not the villain here. Our greedy government is the enemy in this story.”
Not that Gordon believed what he was saying. He didn’t care what the government did—and his actions certainly had nothing to do with a principled stand. And he knew it. But when he complained out loud, it made him feel better, like he was more than a common thief. Because he wasn’t a common thief. He was an exceptional one, one who had just stolen $1.2 million from the federal government and nobody seemed to be the wiser.
Well, almost nobody.
“I just don’t get this,” Gordon said. “People should be chanting my name in the streets instead of making derisive comments on social media toward me. Some people.” He sighed and shook his head.
He was about to turn his computer off when an article headline caught his eye.
Why America Loved D.B. Cooper (and Why It Hates His Copycat)
Gordon clicked on the link and it took him to The National’s website for an article written by none other than James Flynn.
“This ought to be good,” Gordon said to himself as he took another swig of his coffee.
The article started off by explaining what Gordon already knew—that the federal government’s new regulations were starting to squeeze out many in the logging industry in 1971. People who once had well-paying jobs were now unemployed. To find work, they either had to uproot or take a job that paid far less. Environmental activists cared more about their cause than their fellow humans—and the fellow humans who were suffering the brunt of such policy decisions grew to resent the federal government’s intrusion into their way of life. Bumper stickers cropped up with catchy phrases like, “Support environmentalists … with a rope,” along with an image of a tree with a noose hanging from it. The movement to save the planet began in earnest with them losing their livelihood—and with nary a concern for how people in the field might adapt and provide for their families. The government had created expensive policies—and a new class of welfare recipients—in one fell swoop.
Ultimately, that’s why D.B. Cooper was so popular, Flynn wrote. He was David against Goliath. He was taking a swing at the playground bully and getting the better of him. Everyone admitted what he did was a crime, but some people wondered if it was any less criminal than what the federal government was doing to them by taking away their jobs. He was the everyday man’s hero.
And then there was the Cooper Copycat, who was universally despised by all. In the more than forty years since Cooper’s heist, Americans have grown accustomed to the federal government’s excessive regulation in all sectors of public commerce and private life. The idea of privacy was no longer a sacred right people held to. People realized their privacy was gone the minute they logged into Facebook or typed out a tweet on Twitter.
The Cooper Copycat couldn’t generate sympathy from this America because it didn’t view his heist as some worthy cause. Instead, it was just another entitled person trying to steal something from a more deserving citizen.
Gordon sighed. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to be the hero.
He closed his eyes and winced from the pain in his stomach. Moments later, he was experiencing another one of his coughing fits, the kind that resulted in him spitting blood into the sink.
Trying hard to put the pain aside, Gordon tried to come up with another plan. America loved a good comeback story. And while Mr. Flynn may have explained precisely why he wasn’t as beloved as his criminal predecessor, no person was beyond redemption in the public eye. What celebrity hadn’t been maligned by the general population at some point, and then praised again after a matter of time? The only ones who never recovered were those who made brazen political statements. And while he wasn’t exactly a household name—yet—his crimes sure were. Every conspiracy theorist in the country was brushing up on their D.B. Cooper history whether they wanted to or not. The Cooper Copycat struck like lightning—now it was time to win over America’s hearts and minds.
Gordon’s phone buzzed. He looked at the caller ID and contemplated letting it go to voicemail. But he relented and answered after a few moments.
“What is it?” Gordon asked.
“Have you seen the news?”
“Of course, I have—it’s ridiculous.”
“Anything I can do to help at this point?”
Gordon sighed. “You’ve done enough already, but if you’re feeling rather generous with your time, keep an eye out for me. There’s a guy by the name of Harold Coleman who is beginning to cause some trouble. He’s been poking around the crime scenes and is a former FBI agent. He’s the former agent who was on the original Cooper case and never caught him. But he’s crazy and determined. Think you can handle it?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Gordon hung up.
He stood up and grimaced. While he would rather stay in bed, there was no time for that.
He had to give the public a show.
They’re gonna get a show they’ll never forget.
CHAPTER 24
FLYNN TAGGED ALONG with Banks and Jones as they went to Gordon’s downtown condominium. Banks felt certain nothing would come of Coleman’s crazed ramblings, but unlike Coleman, she was going to be thorough. The last thing she wanted was the stigma of an agent who can’t close a brazen case attached to her file.
Banks knocked on the door and waited for Gordon to answer.
A buzzer went off, followed by Gordon’s voice. “Yes?”
“Mr. Gordon, I’m Agent Banks along with Agent Jones from the FBI. We have a few questions for you. It’ll only take a minute of your time.”
Several clicks and clunks later, the door swung open. “Won’t you come in?” he said, gesturing for them to join him inside.
Banks went in first, followed by Jones. But when Flynn started to enter the condo, Gordon slid in front of him.
“And who are you?” Gordon asked.
“This is James Flynn,” Banks said. “He’s consulting with us on this case.”
Gordon took a short step back. “Wait! The James Flynn? The conspiracy writer James Flynn? The former CIA operative who was banned for blowing the whistle on some shady government activity?”
Flynn smiled and nodded. “What government activity isn’t shady?” Then he winked.
“I heard that, Flynn,” Banks said from across the room.
“That’s me. The one and only,” Flynn said.
“Well, this is a surprise. You’re one of my favorite authors. I have several of your books right here.”
“Want me to sign one for you?”
Gordon’s eyes lit up. “Would you? It’d be such an honor to have your autograph.”
Flynn nodded. “Anything for my readers.”
Gordon hustled across the room to grab a copy of Flynn’s latest book, Blood Treasure: The Truth behind the Nazi’s Hidden Treasure Trove. He handed it to Flynn and snagged a pen off his desk.
The Cooper Affair (A James Flynn Thriller Book 3) Page 9