The Bluegrass Conspiracy
Page 34
“On the plains of hesitation lie the blackened bodies of countless millions who, at the dawn of victory, sat down to rest, and resting, died,” read one of the epigrams Drew carried in the pocket of his jacket. “Believe nothing,” read another, “…believe what you yourself judge to be true.”
Ralph immediately began to piece together the information on the circumstances surrounding Drew’s death.
In the year and a half since Harold Brown’s suicide, Ralph had returned to Kentucky from his Rocky Mountain hideout. Though he hadn’t actively pursued Company members, he continued to light fires under his friends in the FBI. He particularly encouraged them to try to make a case against Henry Vance for Vance’s role in the Gene Berry killing.
Sources continued to call Ralph to relate information about the group. It seemed that the Company had become fragmented between 1982 and 1985, and that Thornton worked for the Carlos Lehder faction of what had come to be called the “Medellín Cartel.”
Acquaintances of Drew’s told Ralph that Drew was even more paranoid than before, and that he had alienated many of his former associates. A tight circle now existed, Ralph was told. Following the conviction of Jimmy Lambert, Bradley Bryant, and Bonnie Kelly, it seemed that Drew distrusted everyone. His core group consisted of Henry Vance and Bill Canan, and he now bragged of being an independent operator.
Simultaneously, the FBI told Ralph that the Colombians controlled cocaine smuggling now, and that the Company had been swallowed up by that foreign enterprise.
A fellow mercenary of Drew’s had told Ralph that Drew had been hanging around Ilopango—the Salvadoran air base where weapons from the U.S. were transshipped to the contras—and that he had quickly gained the reputation of a “down-and-out, pissed-off soldier of fortune looking for action.” Drew had also been seen in Tegucigalpa—the capital of Honduras and center of American military action in Central America—hobnobbing with contra leaders.
It was unclear whether Drew intended to land in Tennessee, or was on his way to Kentucky. There was also confusion about whether Rebecca Sharp had identified him, or if his parents traveled to Tennessee to view the body. Some even questioned if it was really Drew Thornton.
Ralph read the autopsy report over and over again, searching for that which was not obvious: “The body is that of a very well developed, muscular, well-nourished adult white male,” began the report. Combining the pathological findings with the FBI laboratory reports and the examination of Drew’s parachute, the Tennessee medical examiner created the following scenario: “The victim jumped from the aircraft and opened his main chute, but for an unknown reason got a streamer. By this time he was at terminal velocity and did a crosshand release of the reserve chute which destabilized him in a head-down position. The abrupt deceleration by the emergency chute—from 120 miles-per-hour to 40 miles-per-hour in four seconds—decelerated the victim but not the bag attached to his waist-belt. This bag then struck him, inflicting the abrasions of the neck and chin and fractured teeth, which produced at least semi-consciousness. Because of this semi-conscious state, he did not release the brakes on the reserve chute which caused oscillation, during one phase of which, the leading edge of the chute stalled allowing him to essentially freefall an unknown number of feet”
Why did the medical examiner’s findings fail to mention the possibility of what Ralph’s sources in the FBI had told him; that Drew had been hit by something either before or during his jump. Had he been beaten on board and then thrown out? Had the tail of his own plane hit him as he came out the door, which would explain the swath of lacerations across his face and fractured teeth? Or had he been hit by a wingtip, either intentionally or inadvertently, by a Customs chase plane? If so, was a cover-up underway?
Parachute experts called to the scene were in a quandary, unable to determine if the main chute had malfunctioned, or if Drew had failed to open it. Authorities ultimately decided that Drew had been struck by a part of the aircraft as he jumped out its door, and that he never attempted to open his main parachute. Knocked unconscious, they concluded that Drew was clinically dying while falling, and that his deployment of his reserve chute was a purely reflexive act. Though the reserve opened, it couldn’t handle the weight of Drew and the cocaine. The rapid deceleration caused Drew’s body to collapse from the inside out, rupturing his aorta, which led to massive hemorrhaging. Drew had landed on his heels before falling onto his back, the cocaine beneath him. His spine and most of his ribs then fractured. He was alive for two minutes after he hit the ground.
Parachutists—both recreational and combat—who had jumped with Drew in the past, were shocked. Known for the meticulous care he took in packing his two-thousand-dollar chute—considered the “Cadillac of gear”—Drew’s mishap seemed incredible to fellow jumpers. His chute had been specially rigged to open fast, and he was notoriously fanatical about packing his own chute. Basing their theories on the indentations in the driveway, and the condition of Drew’s corpse, experts decided that Drew had hit the ground just a few seconds after his Pioneer Reliant reserve canopy opened. Drew had a reputation for “pulling low,’’ or waiting until he was well under the standard minimum altitude of two thousand feet to pull his ripcord. In the weeks prior to his death, he had been seen practicing such jumps at skydiving centers in Georgia and Kentucky,
Since Drew’s airplane had last been seen in Miami, experts wondered if perhaps his altimeter had been set at sea level—a potentially fatal mistake considering Knoxville’s mountainous terrain and 832foot elevation. Some speculated that Drew might have waited until the last possible moment to open his parachute in order to avoid being detected by Customs chase planes. But Ralph Ross considered that explanation absurd, since he believed Drew was familiar with Customs’ sophisticated infrared capabilities. Ralph was positive that Drew realized a Customs chase plane could illuminate the sky with what they called “night sun.” Only an amateur would think he could parachute from a plane and not be sighted by such equipment.
Drew had belonged to a group that called themselves “BASE jumpers”—an acronym for Building, Antennae, Span, and Earth. Drew had recently completed his certification in the group by jumping from a skyscraper (building), a broadcast tower (antennae), a bridge (span), and a Norwegian cliff (earth).
He was an expert who had jumped more than a thousand times into situations considerably more complex and dangerous. A few days before his death, Drew had jumped onto the Kentucky riverbank, narrowly missing a maze of electrical wires and a grove of trees.
Ralph didn’t believe that Drew had intended to jump into the midnight sky, loaded down with cocaine, and relying solely upon his reserve chute. He didn’t care how brave Drew claimed to be, such an act just didn’t make sense. Something, Ralph was convinced, had forced Drew into his contingency plan.
Rebecca Sharp had been waiting for Drew in Knoxvllle, so that had apparently been his destination. Who was his off-load crew? Where were they now? Who and where were Drew’s countersurveillance crew? Ralph knew that Drew didn’t bring loads into the U.S. without a ground crew who maintained surface-to-air communication and who monitored Customs radio frequencies in order to detect a chase.
Had Drew miscalculated his altitude? Or was he so pumped up on adrenaline and cocaine that he jumped with too heavy a load? Stories indicated that Drew had an increasing dependency upon cocaine.
One source told Ralph that Drew’s habit of more than a gram a day was making him even more paranoid than usual, and that in the weeks prior to his death he was agitated and high strung. He had become fanatical in his preparations for Armageddon and the impending race wars, further tightening security around his farm, Triad. His strenuous preparation and disciplined physical endeavors were eerily prescient in their intensity. His close friends said that Drew had become a “different man” in the days before his death, that he trusted no one, confided in no one, and had lost his organization.
Drew had made a significant error in judgment a few months earlier when he dropped a load of cocaine onto the Hawk’s Nest side of the Bahamas instead of on the other side of the island where the ground crew was waiting. The Colombians who had commissioned that flight were not happy when Bahamian authorities seized the valuable contraband.
On the night of his death Drew’s fantasies may have metastasized into a full-fledged case of paranoid delusion. Probably with reason, Ralph thought. Ralph could not be convinced that Drew Thornton would voluntarily jump into a black sky in a populated area carrying seventy-five pounds of cocaine.
Someone was chasing him, Ralph felt certain. But who? Customs or the Colombians?
At 1 a.m. on September 11, two men were fishing in the remote western North Carolina recreational area of Nantahala Lake. They heard an airplane pass over. Then, the cool, clear night air was suddenly ripped open by an explosion. Both men turned in the direction of the sound, and saw a ball of fire on a nearby mountainside. Fifteen minutes later they reported the incident to the Clay County Sheriff ’s Office.
Investigators from Tennessee, North Carolina, the DEA, FBI, and the National Transportation and Safety Board (NTSB) hiked nearly five hours through fog and rugged terrain to the crash site. Located sixty miles from Knoxville, the plane crash was immediately linked to Drew’s last sky dive. The twin-engine had been placed on automatic pilot and smashed into the mountain when it ran out of fuel. Because of the lack of flammable gasoline, the plane had only burned slightly by the time police arrived on the scene. Worth $250,000, the Cessna 404 was described as a “smuggler’s dream.” Among other things, it was equipped with long-range fuel tanks. Not surprisingly, the plane’s identifying number—N128SP—matched the key found on Drew’s body. A half-mile from the site, police found a mysterious red sleeping bag rolled up against a tree, and a blue bandana, resembling those worn by Drew, tied to a tree limb.
FAA inspectors immediately set about to trace the murky ownership of the aircraft. Originally owned by buyers in Gabon, Nigeria, and Zimbabwe, it had been sold in 1984 to Opex Aviation of Santa Paula, California. Since that time, the plane had changed hands through brokers in Tucson, Arizona, Shreveport, Louisiana, and Fort Lauderdale, Florida, within a two-month time period. Two days before Drew’s jump, a company called Key Air purchased the plane in Florida. That company was traced back to Bertram Gordon—the elderly Miami Jockey Club resident who would pay Rebecca Sharp a visit nine days after Drew’s death. Immediately before Key Air bought the aircraft, a company called South Air contracted with a Florida airport to have the extra fuel tanks installed. Other modifications included removing the back from the pilot’s and copilot’s seats in order to accommodate wearing parachute gear while flying the plane.
All evidence at the crash site linked the plane to Drew’s venture earlier that night. No bodies, no luggage, and no blood were found. The seat belts were fastened on the six passenger seats, but were open on the pilot’s and copilot’s, prompting investigators to theorize that a second person had indeed been on board the aircraft. None of the registration documents, airworthiness certificates, or various licenses required to be aboard an aircraft were present.
One item was found on board, however, that would haunt Ralph Ross for years to come: In a briefcase was a hit list, complete with dossiers and photographs, of three men whom Drew wanted dead. At the top of that list was the name “Ralph Ross.” Two other Kentucky cops were on the list—Captain James Black and Bud Farmer from the Jefferson County Police Department.
Why had Drew taken the hit list on this drug run? Had he hired a contract killer in Colombia to do the job?
When police searched Drew’s Lexington residence located in the Merrick Place compound near where Drew had been shot three years earlier, they found an arsenal of death. By the time Lexington police and the FBI arrived at Drew’s apartment, though, someone had obviously removed any incriminating evidence from the townhouse. What was left behind for the detectives’ perusal were the same types of exotic poisons and explosives that had been found in DEA agent Harold Brown’s cabin following Brown’s suicide. They seized tear gas, smoke grenades, flares, ether, nicotine, hydrochloric acid, and sodium and ammonium nitrate.
On Saturday afternoon, September 14, two U.S. Forest Service employees were on routine patrol in northern Georgia when they spotted a white parachute hanging from a tree. They drove past the tree, located seventy-five feet from the road, and then decided to return to inspect the odd sight. When they examined the chute—marked Okinawa 9—they found three black nylon duffel bags attached. Inside were a hundred and fifty pounds of cocaine—wrapped in the same exact way and with the identical locking devices as the cocaine found on Drew. The green military-type canvas duffel bags within the nylon bags were marked USA 30, while the individual cocaine parcels inside were marked USA 10. That same afternoon, in the Chattahoochee National Forest in Georgia, more duffel bags and cocaine were found. Not coincidentally, witnesses had heard a low-flying aircraft in the areas of the cocaine drops the night Drew made his last flight, leading investigators to conclude Drew had thrown numerous parachute-laden drug bundles along a flight path from South America to Tennessee.
Dispatching helicopters and airplanes, federal agents began searching for what they thought would be at least another six hundred pounds of cocaine—since DEA’s informant, Bertram Gordon, claimed Drew had picked up eight hundred pounds the day before in Colombia. The only distinguishing similarities in the drop sites appeared to be their proximity to bodies of water, so federal agents set about to recreate a flight path that used remote lakes and streams as landmarks.
A Georgia farmer’s wife walked out to her turnip patch to pick some vegetables. There, in her garden, was a plastic shopping bag.
Mary Kitchens had heard lots of stories about drugs being smuggled into central Georgia. So her first thought upon finding the bag was that it would be filled with dope. “I looked at the stuff only briefly because I didn’t want to get involved. I didn’t even want it in the house,” she later told reporters.
She returned to her house to notify her husband. J. B. Kitchens—a sixty-two-year-old Butts County farmer—was less reluctant to get involved. When he peered into what he called “the bag of goodies,” its contents puzzled him. Inside the bag, which was labeled National Health and Nutrition, were packages of sunflower seeds, nuts, raisins, and chewing gum, candy bars, books listing landing sites across the
United States, a pilot’s aviation guide to the Bahamas, and maps of Jamaica.
That morning, Mrs. Kitchens called the Butts County sheriff. “I’m afraid we got something that doesn’t belong to us,” she told the dispatcher. But the law enforcement agency seemed uninterested, and didn’t bother to investigate farther.
The next week, Mr. Kitchens spotted a black nylon garment bag with a Brass Boot label floating in his fishpond. When he retrieved it and examined its contents, he found a polo shirt, men’s underwear, a pair of swimming trunks, an extra-large jacket, keys to a pair of handcuffs, a lock-blade knife, two bottles of sterile water for contact lenses, and a bottle of nasal spray.
They again called the sheriff’s office, which expressed only a tad more interest in the incident. A deputy visited the farm and confiscated the items. He let Mr. Kitchens keep the knife as a souvenir because Kitchens “thought he should get something out of all this.”
When Mr. Kitchens called the sheriff for the third time, on September 16—five days after Drew Thornton’s death, investigator Mike Riley responded immediately—his interest havin
g been piqued by the earlier findings and press reports about Drew’s drug-laden parachute jump. Kitchens’ fifteen-year-old grandson, Dale, had found a pilot’s manual on the property.
In the Cessna 404 manual was the plane registration number: N2678D. Though that number differed from N128SP—the number on Drew’s pilotless plane that had crashed into a North Carolina mountain—a record search revealed the plane had originally been registered under N2678D.
With the latest discovery, a profusion of federal and state agents arrived to search the forty-eight-acre farm located forty-five miles south of Atlanta. But efforts were later abandoned when no additional evidence turned up.
“There is nothing startling about the Thornton case,” said Atlanta DEA special agent Thomas Cash to reporters. “But the method he used seems to have tickled the public’s fancy. There was cocaine… literally falling from the sky. This isn’t Chicken Little.”
Kentucky’s newspapers rushed to publish profiles of the decorated Army paratrooper and progeny of a well-heeled Bluegrass family.
“‘Sure, I’ll tell you about him. Just don’t print my name,’ “was the typical response of the men and women who were asked about him, wrote the neighborhood Chevy Chase Chronicle.
His friends and enemies chose adjectives to alternately describe Drew as “tough,” “courageous,” “intelligent,” “charming,” “loyal,” “a light drinker,” “a heavy drinker,” “a cocaine addict,” “a dangerous man,” and “a gentle man.”
Immortalizing their native son, the Courier-Journal quoted the president of a local parachute club, who said: “‘Drew and I had basically the same code. He was quiet, he didn’t brag. And he believed in an eye for an eye, and that revenge is sweet.’”
The Lexington Herald-Leader wrote: “Some saw a karate master who became deeply impressed with Asian philosophy and a true friend who would bear any burden for those close to him. Others saw the daredevil skydiver who was always the last to pull his chute, the survivalist who played war games with live ammunition and the weapons fanatic who always wore a bulletproof vest. ‘I never wanted to say anything against Thornton because I was afraid he would firebomb my house,’ said a man who asked not to be identified.”