Flynn

by Mcdonald, Gregory, 1937-2008

  Grover's face was tightening. He banged the steering wheel with his palm.

  "I was thinking about you while I was waiting for you while you was with the Commissioner," he blurted.

  " 'Was' you, indeed?"

  "How come you got so much money?"

  "Have I got much money?"

  "You live in that big house in Winthrop. You've got five kids. You send them all to private schools—"

  "Not Jeff. He's only ten months into life."

  "I've heard Todd, or Randy, whichever of them it was—"

  "Commonly referred to as 'Todd-Randy. Whichever, " said Flynn. "Officially, in the school records, as 'The Flynn Twin'."

  "—mention you have a farm in Ireland, for Christ's sake—"

  The car swooshed down the ramp into the long tunnel to the airport.

  Flynn waited until they came up the other side.

  "Some detective you are," he then said. "Working f oot-in-mouth with me all these months and you haven't yet discovered I'm corrupt."

  Grover held out his badge to the man in the "Official Cars Only" toll booth.

  "Another thing." Grover rolled up his window as vigorously near slamming it as he could. Even Grover couldn't give the full impression of slamming a car window up. "Why are you an Inspector, and why are we stuck over on Craigie Lane, in the Old Records Building? Why aren't we in a Precinct, or over at Headquarters with the other guys?"

  "That's two questions," said Flynn. "Both of which have the same answer."

  The car radio buzzed.

  Flynn took the microphone off the hook.

  "Good morning," he said into it.

  "Eddy D'Esopo, Frank," said the Commissioner's voice.

  "I've already said 'Good Morning' to you," said Flynn.

  "Frank, it's on the radio that one of the passengers aboard that plane last night was Judge Charles Fleming."

  "Oh?"

  "He was a federal judge, Frank."

  "That's just below the Supreme Court, isn't it?"

  "An important man, Frank."

  "A political appointee?"

  "Yup. A presidential appointee. Another celebrity aboard was Daryl Conover."

  "The acton"

  "Yes. Currently playing Hamlet at the Colonial Theater. Or was. What he was doing on a plane to London at three o'clock in the morning is unknown."

  "Hamlet made a decision, alas. Sweet Will never meant him to."

  "That's all, Frank. You'll be hearing more from either me or Reagan."

  "Cheerio."

  Flynn replaced the microphone on its hook.

  "That's no way to speak to the Commissioner," Grover said. " 'Cheerio.* Jesus."

  The road between them and the zephyr airways sign was clogged with television vans, press cars, the cars of the curious, and of furious, legitimate travelers —all held at bay by police cars.

  "I spoke to the Commissioner about you, Grover."

  Draped over the wheel in the stopped car, Grover said nothing.

  "I asked that you be considered for promotion."

  Slowly, Grover turned his head and looked at Flynn full-face. "You did?"

  "I did. Do you think I'd pass up an opportunity like that?"

  Flynn fumbled around under the dashboard.

  "Why don't you turn on the damned siren?" he said. "You think we can sit here all day?"

  Five

  The conference room at Zephyr Airways was overheated and overlit. Despite the sunlight streaming through the thick floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall window overlooking the runways, the room was filled again by fluorescent lighting that ran around the ceiling next to the walls, plus five more fixtures across the center of the ceiling. Both ceiling and walls were off-white, relieved only by framed cardboard reproductions of airplane photographs. Each plane had zephyr airways painted on its side.

  The room was dominated by a huge, elliptical, polished wood conference table—almost a landing field in itself.

  At one shoulder of the table was a visual-aid easel. There was an illustration of a 707 on it.

  More than a dozen men were standing, lounging in the room, most with jackets off and ties askew, drinking coffee from cardboard cups. They ranged in age from twenty-five to forty-five; all had the same builds, slim with weight lifters' chests and shoulders; the same haircuts, just long enough to be parted with calipers; the same muscle-jawed faces which could have been achieved only by the continuous belaboring of chewing gum.

  These, then, were the Fibbies and Cabs.

  The most insolent-looking man sat on the conference table, one foot on a chair, near the door, surrounded by somewhat younger coffee drinkers.

  "Flynn," Flynn said to him.

  "Local police?"

  "Yes."

  The man snorted in disgust at the table. "You could have gotten here on time. What have you been doing, out buying yourself a pair of shoes?"

  Flynn tried to hand the man his shoe box.

  Instead, the man's eyes engaged his with a furious stare.

  "Look, Flynn, all we want from you local jerks is a little basic cooperation. Ground support. When you're supposed to meet a plane at ten-twenty, you meet a plane at ten-twenty!"

  A single glance told Flynn that Grover was turning pale. It was the kind of chewing-out the Sergeant always believed effective.

  "Let me lay down a few ground rules," the man continued. "First, you'll be available to us at all times. Second, you will stay out of our way, confining yourself to doing what you are told to do, when you are told to do it. Third, you will see that the Boston Police Department provides all services we ask, the minute we ask for them. Fourth, you'll keep the other jerk members of the Boston Police in line. We don't want any locals bucking for heroes' stars on this case. Fifth, you'll keep the press, both local and national, as far away from us as possible, and then some, at all times. Is that clear?"

  Flynn smiled. "And tell me, did your father indicate to your mother what his name might be the night he spent with her?"

  The men stared at Flynn. Some stepped back.

  An older man, still wearing his suit jacket with his tie tight, stepped from the glare of the room into the group.

  "Inspector Flynn?" He put out his hand. "Jack Rondell, FBI." While shaking hands, he asked the man whose legitimacy Flynn had questioned, "Have you briefed the Inspector, Hess?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good, I'm sure you'll be a great help to us, Inspector. Boston Police has a wonderful reputation. Everybody's here. Let's get the briefing underway."

  Flynn handed the shoe box to Rondell, who delegated it to Hess, who delegated it to the man standing beside him, who passed it to the man behind him, who passed it to the man beside him, the youngest of all, who opened it, looked inside, turned pale, swayed, fought to refocus his eyes a moment, and fainted.

  "Poor Ransay," said Rondell. "First field assignment, isn't it?"

  *

  After Ransay had been taken out with the evidence and the rest of the men had settled themselves around the table, Nathan Baumberg introduced himself as a vice-president of Zephyr Airways, in charge of maintenance, and the man next to him as Paul Kirkman, who had been in charge of passenger services during the time the London flight had been loading.

  Kirkman was a trim man, surprisingly well shaved, considering he had been on duty since midnight, and wearing a shirt which appeared fresh.

  Baumberg, standing at one shoulder of the table, his back to the light from the window, had a razor nick on his left cheek, earnest, troubled eyes, a shirt button missing over his paunch, and sleeves that appeared to have been rolled up and down several times.

  "First," he said, "let me tell you what we have, and then Paul and I are here to field any questions you have."

  "This isn't a press conference," said Hess.

  "Do you have any better way of doing it?" Baumberg asked.

  "Let's have a little cooperation," Hess said.

  "Go on, Mister Baumberg," Rondell said.

&n
bsp; "Yes, sir."

  "Zephyr Flight 80 to London passenger loaded at two-forty a.m., eastern standard time, for a three-ten A.m. departure."

  Q.: "How many passengers were aboard?"

  Kirkman: "The plane was full. That means forty-eight first-class passengers, sixty-two coach passengers, and a crew of eight."

  Q.: "There were one hundred and eighteen people aboard?"

  Kirkman: "Yes, sir."

  Q. [Flynn]: "I take it from the radio that you've already made up a passenger list?"

  Kirkman: "No, sir. It's being duplicated now. We'll have copies for you in a few minutes."

  Q. [Flynn]: "Names plus addresses?"

  Kirkman: "Yes, sir. Addresses as well as we have them. People aren't always too cooperative when they put down their addresses. Well, I mean, for tax purposes, if they're traveling on business they're apt to put down their business addresses."

  Q. [Flynn]: "Why would anybody want to fly to London at three-ten in the morning?"

  Q. [Hess]: "Shit!"

  Kirkman: "You mean, why was there a flight at three o'clock in the morning?"

  Q. [Flynn]: "Precisely."

  Kirkman: "This particular flight has three feeder flights connecting with it, one from Atlanta, one from Chicago, and one directly from San Francisco."

  Q. [Flynn]: "Then only a small percentage of the passengers originated their flight in Boston. Do you have any idea what that percentage might be?"

  Kirkman: "Not yet, sir. A check of the addresses on the passenger list should tell you."

  Q. [Hess]: "Let's get on with the questioning."

  Baumberg: "The forward and central cargo holds had been loaded by the four-to-midnight shift. Therefore, they were closed and locked by midnight. The stern cargo holds were not closed until three a.m., just before takeoff. They were used for the passengers' luggage."

  Q.: "What was the cargo?"

  Baumberg: "We don't know, specifically, yet. Manifests are being gone through. A list will be prepared."

  Q.: "Was there any dangerous cargo aboard?"

  Baumberg: "No, sir. Absolutely not."

  Q. [Hess]: "If you don't know what the cargo was, then how do you know there was no dangerous cargo aboard?"

  Baumberg: "Against company policy. Dangerous cargo is never put aboard a passenger flight."

  Q. [Hess]: "Bullshit."

  Baumberg: "The four-to-midnight maintenance crew were responsible for this aircraft. Their maintenance reports were filed before midnight, and had been checked by my assistant by twelve-forty-five. There was absolutely nothing unusual about them. Everything checked perfectly. The midnight-to-eight crew went over the plane again between two a.m. and three a.m. Again, everything checked out perfectly."

  Q.: "What time did they file their reports?"

  Baumberg: "Just after the plane blew up."

  Q.: "Mister Baumberg, were airport security devices in perfect operation last night?"

  Kirkman: "Yes, sir. I watched the loading myself. There was nothing unusual or suspicious. Some of the passengers, especially from San Francisco, were a bit jolly—"

  Q.: "What does that mean?"

  Kirkman: "Well, they had already been in the air some hours, and had had their drinks—"

  Q.: "Was the luggage scanned?"

  Baumberg: "Yes and no."

  Kirkman: "The carry-on luggage was scanned. Nothing suspicious there."

  Baumberg: "Systems for scanning the luggage we put in the cargo holds are not very good. We usually scan only boxes or suitcases that, for some reason, cause suspicion."

  Q.: "Did any of the cargo luggage cause suspicion this morning?"

  Baumberg: "Not that we know of. Of course, most of the luggage for this flight came straight from the feeder flights. The passengers didn't get near the luggage between flights. There would be no reason for suspicion."

  Q.: "In fact, the passengers' luggage, which was to go into the cargo holds, wasn't scanned at all?"

  Baumberg: "We may have to tell you that, after we check."

  Q.: "So, Mister Baumberg, do we understand that this airplane had had no flight previous to this flight, Flight 80 to London?"

  Baumberg: "Yes, sir, I mean, no. This aircraft had just flown from London, arriving Boston at five-forty P.M."

  Q.: "Were the same crew to fly it back to London?"

  Baumberg: "No, sir. It was an entirely fresh crew. The crew that arrived from London yesterday afternoon will take tomorrow morning's flight back."

  Kirkman: "If there are any passengers."

  Q.: "When was the plane last serviced?"

  Baumberg: "You mean, a complete overhaul?"

  Q.: "Yes."

  Baumberg: "Six weeks ago. Complete overhaul. Everything checked: engines, wiring, frame, skin—"

  Q.: "Did they find anything unusual?"

  Baumberg: "No. I went over the reports this morning. The plane was in A-l shape."

  Q.: "Mister Baumberg, is there any idea yet how this explosion happened?"

  Baumberg: "No, sir. There are divers now going over the impact site. The Navy is sending a planeload of divers and equipment up this afternoon. I mean, they're arriving early this afternoon. The Coast Guard is moving a dredge-platform onto the site. Zephyr Airways has donated Hangar D for your use—"

  Q.: "Nice of them."

  Baumberg: "Anything found relating to the explosion will be brought there for your inspection."

  Q.: "I don't suppose the aircraft's flight recorder has been found yet?"

  Baumberg: "No, sir. And I'm not sure how much use it will be to us when we do find it. The plane was in the air for less than a minute."

  Q.: "And it wouldn't have taken off unless all systems were 'Go'?"

  Baumberg: "Of course not. I did listen to the con-

  trol tower's tape of Flight 80 this morning. Absolutely nothing unusual about it."

  Q.: "What did it sound like?"

  Baumberg: "Absolutely routine."

  Q.: "Was there no pilot reaction? I mean, to the explosion?"

  Baumberg: "An intake of air."

  Q.: "You mean, he gasped?"

  Baumberg: "I guess you could say that. The pilot gasped. Copies of the tape are being made."

  Jack Rondell, one hand over the other on the table, said, "Well—"

  "Ah—" Baumberg seemed hesitant to speak. "A newspaper reported in a late edition this morning that an eyewitness, in Dorchester, saw a rocket hit the plane from just outside the harbor."

  "Sure," Hess said. "Sure, sure, sure, sure. You were shot down by BOAC."

  A girl had entered the room and was giving each of the men a copy of the passenger list.

  "Well," said Rondell. "I guess the first thing we had better do is make complete reports to our directors."

  *

  "Grover, step along to the people who sell flight insurance and get the names and amounts of anyone who bought insurance for himself on Flight 80 last night. Now isn't that what an experienced policeman would do?"

  "Yes, sir."

  They were standing in the Grand Concourse of Zephyr Airways, each holding a passenger list.

  "I'll take the car and return to the office. You get yourself back however you can."

  "Inspector, I don't think you should have called an FBI man a bastard."

  "And why not?" Flynn lit his pipe. "He called you a jerk."

  Grover said, "It's not often a local policeman gets a chance to work with the FBI on a big case like this."

  "I don't expect I have much of a future with the FBI."

  "But maybe I do have."

  "Ach, now there's an idea. Yes, indeed. Maybe you do at that."

  Flynn was looking toward the door of the conference room.

  "Here comes the bastard now."

  Hess was walking with a man on each side of him, one step behind him. "Flynn!"

  Flynn had begun to walk toward the main door of the Concourse.

  "Where are you going?"

  "I am going," s
aid Flynn, "to try to solve one hundred and eighteen murders."

  Six

  Cocky had left a note on Flynn's desk: "CALL CAPT. REAGAN."

  "Ah, la."

  Flynn glanced across his huge, ancient, paneled office at the cot in the alcove next to the fireplace before switching on his desk light.

  "Woe is me."

  As he dialed Police Central and waited to be put through to Captain Reagan, he swiveled his chair to look through arched windows at the harbor.

  Tugboats were pushing a work platform out to the impact site.

  "You wanted me?"

  "Hi, Frank. How did the meeting go?"

  "The Fibbies and Cabs are getting busy right away on complete reports to their directors."

  "Good, good." The Captain hadn't really heard him. "Thought we should let you know. The HSL is issuing a statement taking credit for blowing up that airliner last night."

  "And what the HSL is that?"

  "Ah, I think it means the Human Surplus League. One of these crazy groups in Cambridge. Out to save the world by destroying half of it."

  "Did you say Human Surplus League?"

  "Yeah. They keep announcing there are too many people in the world. Their motto is 'People Are The Problem,' it says here. Guess they mean to do us in by the planeload, Frank."

  "There are too many people in the world, is that if?"

  "Something like that."

  "Well, they might be right at that. The question always is: Where do you start?"

  "Seems they started last night with Zephyr Flight 80 to London. I don't pretend to understand these kooks, Frank."

  "Is it a big group, do you think?"

  "Intelligence says it has to be. Posters have been appearing all over Boston and Cambridge for weeks now. Circulars have been stuffed in mailboxes. A huge campaign."

  "And how does such a group take credit for such a thing? Do they call a press conference, rent a hotel ballroom, and serve wine and cheese?"

  "Someone called the Boston Star an hour ago from the HSL and said a statement taking credit for the explosion had been left in locker 43 at the bus station. One of the editors and a couple of our boys are there now."

  "And I suppose the HSL or whatever it is will be given publicity for this whether they blew up the plane or not."

  "Of course. The Star's holding an edition."