by Ace Collins
“There are all kinds of stories out there,” Beals said, “some wilder than others. But before Jones is killed by the state, I need to know which of those wild tales is true. So, if you don’t mind, let me start by stating the obvious: I know that Klasser was a model employee, husband, father, and community leader.”
“He was all that and more,” Speers said.
“He seemed to have had no enemies. And no debts. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then that leads me to wonder if there was something going on here at the FAA that might’ve sparked a motive for the murders. It seems that would be the only area left to explore.”
“Hardly a path worth traveling.” Speers sounded a bit defensive. “Let me assure you that everyone here loved him. He was a motivator, not a tyrant. He was the kind of person you looked forward to seeing, rather than tried to avoid. As I told you, he was my hero and mentor, and the same could be said by a dozen other men and women who worked with him.”
“Brian, you misunderstand me. I know all that about him. He was a man we should all hold up as an example and role model. My question centers on a matter of simple observation. You were the one who was closest to him, his right-hand man. Did Mr. Klasser act any differently the last few weeks or days of his life than he had before?”
Speers leaned back in his desk chair, lost in thought, as if rolling through a Rolodex of filed memories. “That’s kind of a strange question. As I think about it, I’m surprised no one asked me that back then. In fact, I guess because they had Jones dead to rights, they barely asked us anything.”
“So does that mean you noticed nothing out of the ordinary?”
“Just the opposite. The day before he died, Al came in as high as a kite. He and I talked about the Disney World trip the family had just taken. He even showed me photos. I remember laughing later that morning when I saw him drinking coffee from a cup that sported mouse ears. He gave me a salute, a grin, and started singing the old Mickey Mouse Club song. He was on top of the world.
“Later that afternoon I saw him walking down the hall as if he were in a daze. I said something to him and he didn’t even hear me.”
“Any guesses on what might’ve upset him?”
“I asked him later that day if something was wrong. He just shrugged and told me not to worry. He then went into his office and closed the door. He never closed his door except when he was having a meeting. But that day he closed and locked the door. Every time I went by, it was closed. Very strange.”
Speers paused as a pained expression crept up from his chin and seemed to paralyze his mouth. He picked up a cup and took a long swig of coffee, but even as he picked up his story, his eyes seemed to see things not in the room.
“The next morning he was even more withdrawn. He kept his office door closed and locked. I asked Betty Roman, his administrative assistant, what was happening, but the only thing she knew was that he was making phone calls.”
“Did you ever find out what so changed his mood?”
“No. Betty said something about a telephone call that had really set him off. That seemed so strange, because he always took everything in stride. Even when we had to investigate a plane crash, he was the one who stayed calm and focused. So this was highly unusual. It was like he’d become someone else. Like he’d been suddenly possessed.” He paused, shook his head, and added, “That must sound pretty strange to you.”
“No, in my line of work I’ve seen violent and severe unexplained mood swings many times. Go ahead and finish your story and don’t worry about how it sounds.”
“At the time I was worried that maybe there were going to be some government-mandated cutbacks and he was concerned about having to let some people go. I found out that wasn’t it. Later, after his death, I wrote it off as a sign of the trouble that was brewing between him and Jones.”
Beals nodded. Both of the man’s guesses seemed logical, but he figured both were wrong. He picked up with the next obvious query. “And Ms. Roman, does she still work here?”
“Yes, I can call and ask her to come in if you like.”
“That would be wonderful.”
As Speers dialed an extension, Beals studied the man’s office. It was large, neat, well organized, and filled with memorabilia connected with the air industry. There were at least a dozen models of various commercial planes as well as countless books on the history of aviation. Yet the only thing besides family photos that seemed to reflect the real man rather than his position was a large color photo of Speers dressed in full World War II flight gear standing by a vintage B-17 Liberator bomber.
“Betty will be down here in a few moments,” Speers said.
“I see you have an affection for B-17s.” Beals pointed to the framed photo.
“My father flew one, The Spirit of the South, when he was in the service. Made a lot of runs over Germany and somehow survived. I helped restore that one in the photo and I’m one of the men who flies her to air shows all over the country. One of my big thrills was getting to take my father up a few years before he died. That flight, with him serving as copilot, opened the door to my hearing a lot of stories he’d never told me.”
“So I guess you have a vast knowledge of B-17s.”
He nodded. “They were incredible planes, but I love all the aircraft of that vintage. I’ve flown ships from all the major nations that fought in World War II, including some of the planes that ran missions attempting to stop my father and his group. Some folks love baseball, others gardening or classic cars. My passion is planes that participated in World War II.”
Speers got up from his chair and walked over to the photo. “You know the B—17 was one of the few planes that could be literally blown apart and still stay in the air. There was one that—”
A knock on the door halted his impromptu lecture. Beals was as disappointed as his host at the interruption. Both wanted to continue their flight to another time and another place. Yet events from World War II could not affect the Omar Jones case. It was time to return to the present.
“Come in,” Speers said.
“Someone needs to see me?” a slim gray-haired woman said. She was attractive and at one time might well have been a beauty. Her dark-green eyes glowed like emeralds.
“Ivy Beals, this is Betty Roman.”
The introductions done, Speers explained Beals’ link to the Klasser case. “Mr. Beals is exploring the possibility that Albert’s murder was motivated by something greater than simple ethnic problems connected with 9/11. I informed him that Al had been behaving a bit differently during his final days with us.”
She said, “He acted very strange toward the end. It was like he knew something bad was about to happen.”
“A premonition?” Beals asked.
“Don’t think so. I believe it was a phone call that set him off.”
“Do you know who called him?”
“Yes, it was his brother Joshua. I answered and spoke with Josh for a few moments as I waited for Al to get back to his desk. Josh was a great guy and visited us about once a year here at the office.”
“Any idea what the call was about?”
“No, but the two were close; they spoke often. I just assumed it was a family matter, maybe an illness or something. What else could cause that kind of dramatic swing in emotions?”
Beals rose from his chair and walked over to a window. In the distance he saw three planes approaching the Dallas—Fort Worth airport. He turned back to the woman. “Brian told me that Mr. Klasser was still very distant the next morning.”
“Not just the morning, but all day. He simply wasn’t himself. He stayed on the phone. You know, in all the years he worked, he never left the office early, but that final day he did. He was out of here by three.”
“Did he tell you why he was changing his routine?” Beals asked.
“Not in so many words, but he did tell me he had a meeting later that night and might be late coming in the next morning.”
“And that was it?”
“Well, almost. Just before five he called and asked me to go into his office and retrieve a number from his files. He said he needed to change his appointment with Eric Johnson.”
“And who is Mr. Johnson?”
“Actually, he was an FBI agent out of Dallas. The two of them had worked together a couple of times on matters where the FAA and FBI both had interests.” Roman’s voice trailed off. “I can’t think of anything else that was unusual.”
“I want to thank both of you,” Beals said as he walked over to shake hands with Speers.
“Were we any help?” the man asked.
“Yes, I think so. You led me to someone else who might be able to give me some insights.”
“You mean Mr. Johnson?” Roman asked.
“Yes. Wouldn’t have a number on him would you?”
“No one does,” she said. “He died in a car wreck a couple of hours after the Klassers were murdered.”
28
BARTON HILLMAN LOOKED EVERY BIT THE SPORTSMAN as he stood in the flat-bottom bass boat. The fourteen-foot rig was driven by a sixty-horsepower Mercury motor. The ABI director had on canvas pants, a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt, and an Arkansas Travelers baseball cap. In his hand was a Shakespeare “ugly stick” rod that sported a Bass Pro Johnny Morris reel. He appeared more than ready to fill his string with fish, but this Friday afternoon trip to the lake was all for show.
Usually Hillman was very particular about the type of bait he used. On this occasion he had chosen his lure by simply reaching into the box and picking up the first thing he saw. For the last hour he had tossed a mostly green Weber Champ toward a clump of brush along a place the old-timers called School Crossing. The yellow-tailed lure had accomplished just what he wanted—he hadn’t had a single nibble. And rather than move on to a new spot, he kept tossing the Champ out and pulling it back in. To all who passed him that day, he looked very much like the focused fisherman, intent on hauling in a large mouth bass before the lake swallowed up the sun.
As the setting sun reflected a path on Lake Catherine, he scanned the water for other boats. All around him were fishermen anchored in their favorite spots. He could hear some of their conversations. A few discussed politics, others what lures worked in what seasons. One guy harped on a problem at the office. Voices traveled across the still water; he wished others realized this fact so a trip to the lake could be a more peaceful experience.
Today he ignored the talk and stared out at the place where the Champ had impacted the placid lake. He didn’t look up when he heard the barely audible whisper of an electric trolling motor pushing a ten-foot aluminum boat past the edge of the cove to his right. Instead of checking out the new arrival, he pulled in his line, took off the Weber lure, put on a new hook, and reached into a small container by his foot. Retrieving a live cricket, he carefully slid it onto his hook before looking into his tackle box. On the bottom he found a large red-and-white bobber that was almost the size of a golf ball. He attached it to the line about eight feet above the bait. Then, while still sitting, he effortlessly cast the now hapless insect near a shallow pool about twenty feet from the tree line. Setting the reel’s brake, he leaned back, his eyes glued to the bobber.
“What you fishing for?” a voice called out from the approaching boat.
Glancing over his shoulder, Hillman answered, “Right now, a nice fat bream. What about you?”
“Came out to do some night crappie fishing. I heard they’d been running about ten this week.”
“I can’t stay that late, but it sounds like fun.”
“Hope so.”
As the man drew within ten feet of Hillman’s boat, the fisherman asked, “Do you have anything to drink? I forgot my cooler in my truck.”
“Yeah, I’ve got some Cokes here. Would you like one?” A few minutes ago he’d listened in on a dozen different conversations while wanting to hear none of them. Now he was the one whose voice carried over the water.
“You don’t mind, do you?” the stranger asked. “Don’t want to take your last one.”
“Naw. I’m about to head to the dock anyway.”
“I’d feel better if you let me pay for it.”
“No need to do that.”
“Well, I won’t take one if you don’t let me give you something for it. I pay my way. Something my daddy taught me. And I’m mighty thirsty, so I’ll pay.”
Hillman laughed. “Okay, slip over here and I’ll hand it to you, but you really don’t have to give me anything.”
The ABI director reached down and grabbed a canned drink from his cooler. As he did, the other fisherman cut his electric motor and extended his hand toward the director’s boat.
“Here you go,” Hillman said, carefully handing the soft drink to the stranger.
As he took the can, the man reached into his pocket and retrieved a dollar. “Hope this covers it.”
“More than covers it. You need anything else?”
“No, I’m fine. Good luck with the bream.”
Hillman nodded as the man restarted his motor and slipped quietly off toward the sunset. The director turned back toward the bank, his eyes again glued to the bobber. He remained a stoic study in patience for another fifteen minutes. Then, with no fanfare, he pulled in his line, started the motor, and turned his boat back toward the marina.
After guiding the fourteen-foot rig into his rented slip, he picked up his gear and walked across the dock to his truck. Noting that no one was around, he leaned against the bed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the dollar. He studied it for a second, a smile crossing his face. The brief note, written in pencil on the bill, said: “It has been taken care of.”
He slipped the dollar into his pocket. He set his tackle box and rod in the back of the truck, then opened the driver’s door and got in. A blue canvas duffle was in the seat. Putting the truck in gear, he drove up to the private marina’s checkpoint and waited for a guard to step from the small wooden building.
“Mr. Hillman,” a young uniformed woman said. “I hope you had a good afternoon at the lake.”
“It was perfect. You’re looking beautiful today, Ashley. Is that a new hairstyle?”
“No, you normally see me with my baseball cap on. Too hot today.”
“You got anything special planned for the weekend?” He reached into his pants pocket and retrieved the dollar bill. As he handed it to her, she glanced at the money and nodded.
“Mr. Hillman, something big’s happening tomorrow night. I know that for sure.” She smiled.
“That’s good. You youngsters kick up your heels. I want my weekend to be calm and steady.”
“You have a good one, sir.”
“I will.”
Slipping the Dodge into drive, he reached into the seat, grabbed the duffle bag, and tossed it out the window into Ashley’s waiting arms. As he drove off he watched her in the rearview mirror. She pulled open the zipper and looked in, waved, and returned to her post.
Ten thousand dollars was a lot of money. Sometimes it was just the bait needed to make a big catch.
29
DIANA CURTIS LIMPED INTO LIJE EVANS’ OFFICE. He was leaning against the corner of his desk. Behind him Heather Jameson sat almost catlike on the room’s window seat.
“You didn’t call,” Jameson said, sounding like a mother scolding a child. “It’s after five.”
Curtis nodded. “Dropped my cell at the airport. Just got a replacement this morning. Was so busy cramming things into that short span of time, I had very little time to talk anyway. Looking back on the trip, I think I spent more time in planes and airports than I did working, eating, or sleeping. I lost five pounds. Picked up these incredibly dark circles under my eyes, so you can see how little of the eating and sleeping part I managed.”
She dropped her briefcase on the floor and collapsed into one of the overstuffed leather chairs positioned in front of Lije’s antique desk. As he watched, she folded up like
a damp towel. For some reason, the fact that she was so completely done in amused him. He tried to hide the grin, but couldn’t.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded.
“You just don’t look much like the always-in-control Diana Curtis I’ve come to know and appreciate. You appear a lot more like a woman who just survived the dollar-day basement-bargain sale at Macy’s.”
Jameson added, “Using the old cowboy vernacular, you look like you’ve been rode hard and put up wet.”
“You have no idea.” Curtis turned and shot a glare in the direction of the other woman.
Lije decided the horse comment had not been good. “Care to catch us up?” he asked.
The former ABI agent took a deep breath, allowing air to fill her lungs, then slowly expelled it. Pulling one leg up into the chair, she rested her chin on a knee. “It was anything but easy, but I’ve got some information. And you won’t believe what I had to do to get it.”
“That sounds interesting,” he said. “Need something to drink?”
“A Dr. Pepper would be nice.”
Lije retrieved a can from a small refrigerator behind his desk.
Curtis now had both legs up. She looked like a little kid—her hair in a ponytail, her face bare of any makeup, and dressed in jeans, a red T-shirt, and a pair of Nike cross-trainers. Yet when Lije looked into her eyes, he saw a different person. She appeared to have aged about a decade. Evidently the trip had taken a toll.
She remained quiet for a few moments, savoring the taste of the soft drink, then began her story.
“The archives had nothing on our man, but my time there wasn’t a complete waste. A woman who worked there gave me a lead to another man who’d been looking for information on Henrick Bleicher. By the way, not only were all records of Henrick Bleicher being in the SS missing, but so were all the records concerning his life. From a legal standpoint, he was never born.”