“Hell, he or they, whatever they are, could walk from one state to the other between pulling these bank jobs if they wanted to. And by the way, I concur with your expert opinion about those prima-donnas in DC. They are all college boys, with their fancy computer runs, statistical analysis stuff, psycho-analysis wild guesses, and other mumbo-jumbo junk. They’re all theory, all text book, all theory this and theory that, all teacher’s pet, bureaucratic FBI Field Agent wanna-bes.”
“Here, here,” popped off CW.
Behind the massive wooden bar top, trying to shut the place down for the night is the tavern’s owner and head bartender tonight, Louis, who also owns the place. On top of the bar every two feet or so sits a small bowl with salted peanuts or dried out pretzels. They’re just a bit stale at this time of the night, but half drunk folks don’t seem to mind it this late in the night. Still cleaning up, Louis grins a bit at the last wise crack. He, too, is a real cop . . . although a medically retired ex-helicopter flying cop who survived a rather bad crash on the south side some 10 years ago.
He was working the night shift flying at about 1000 AGL (above ground level) when the tail rotor disintegrated into a million pieces for some unknown reason. Losing the tail rotor caused the chopper to spin violently out of control. He applied the necessary corrections, but the ship was starting to come apart when he clipped some power lines on his way back to the ground. The chopper hit hard and started to roll shearing off the tail boom and rotor blades from the cabin.
The egg shaped cabin of the Hughes model 500C turbine powered chopper, by design is supposed to absorb a good bit of the crash energy, but overall it was still a bad scene for the two men inside. They both had to be cut out of the wreckage and their shoulder harnesses by the EMT and rescue squads using the Jaws of Life. Fortunately, for the two officers pinned inside, there was no post crash fire—otherwise they would have been consumed and dead . . . truly dead.
Friends and family were not sure if Louis would make it to the hospital. They did, both men did. Afterward no one figured he would even live though the night, but he did. The next day’s prognosis was not good either. He was told by the staff doctors at the hospital he would never walk again, but he did. He is, mind you, one tough old bird. Some say Louis survived the freaky crash simply because he is just so damn mean. He did live and although he still has a bad limp and about a half a pound of high-tech metal in his right leg, he now loves his new found calling . . . running a bar—a cop bar.
A big kidder who loves to play the lowly house-boy card, quips in a fake southern drawl like one of the house boys in the famous American Iconic movie, Gone With the Wind, “I’ve got an idea . . . mind ya’ I was only a lowly helicopter officer, not some high class, big shot Robbery Detectives like you sirs . . . if you three are so smart, uh, why don’t yous three big shot Detectives solve these cases and show up the FBI on this.”
Det. Sal fires off, “Fuck those pricks at the DC office and the horse they rode in on.”
CW, always being the good partner and friend for over 25 years, adds, “Amen to that, Paisano.”
Sal continues, “. . . and for your information, I officially retire at 08:01 hours in the morning.
CW laughs hard at this wise-crack and rapid fires, “Amen to that, too!”
“Fuck you, partner,” comes the quick reply.
Louis, laughing even harder now jabs back with, “Amen to all of you.”
“It’s late, it’s past closing and I’m going home, so with all due respect to you high-class Detectives,(nodding to Agent Bob) and G-Men. Drink up, get your asses out of my bar and go home or maybe go somewhere, go out into the world and solve something.”
He reaches around and flips off a bank of four light switches on the far side of the bar hoping these bar patrons will get the message.
Bit by bit, ever so slowly, these men, the buddies, get up and head out the front door into the warm muggy night. Off on their right, in the near distance is a lone wino, a mere vagabond playing tunes on a big alto saxophone; just a hint of Glenn Miller’s A Nightingale Sang in Barkley Square permeates the warm air. The man sports a faded and well worn green Army BDU jacket. The notes carry softly across the distance as these men ponder their next move . . . perhaps to breakfast or maybe just home.
Chapter 2
Current Weather or current METAR: KLIT
12013KT 4SM 30/19 A29.98 or in plain language:
Winds are 120 degrees at 13KTS, 4 SM miles of visibility, clear sky, temperature is 30C, dew point 19 and the area altimeter setting is 29.98
Little Rock, Arkansas
The brightly, lit interior of the Little Rock, Arkansas, FBI Squad Room greets the morning sunlight. The weather is good here today. The Little Rock, area Agent in Charge is holding a meeting with about 12 Field Agents, and he is not too happy about making the TV news show “Nightline with Terry Moran.” Behind him, hanging on the north wall, we can see the seal of the FBI and a sign indicating the Arkansas office.
Senior Agent in Charge, Agent A. B. Chaddix, is speaking in a loud and a wee bit of upset voice. “. . . I don’t know why this had to happen to me . . . on my turf. I’ve been good, I’ve done a good job for 23 years with the Bureau, but now some asshole has to come into my little part of the world and upset my apple cart.”
Slamming his fist down hard on the desk, he continues, “. . . AND THAT MAKES ME MAD! Now, gentlemen . . . and ladies; Thanks to late night TV and this second rate piece of garbage bank robber, our beloved headquarters in Washington DC determined somehow that we are no longer capable of handling our own little corner of the world and we cannot even work on this case—our OWN local cases! everything will be handled out of DC by those prima-donnas on the National Bank Robbery Task Force.”
Across the nation, some 771 nautical miles away in DC the inside of one of the big FBI squad rooms is all a-buzz with activity. The Washington DC area Agent in Charge of the Bank Robbery Task Force is holding a meeting with five senior agents in attendance, just like Chaddix is doing, but he, of course, is excited and happy about these robberies making the national news. Behind him, we spot the official seal of the FBI and a sign indicating that—for real we are in the headquarters building.
There, the Senior Agentin Charge gets the ball rolling. “First off, I would like to thank Terry Moran and ABC News for bringing these cases to the forefront of the nation’s attention. With this much said, we can now get down to the business of doing what we do best by solving these felony cases. As of 12:01 am this morning, all these open bank robbery cases are now ours. My staff prepared a quick, but complete profile on the 15 cases—as you can see in your case folders. All of your other cases no longer exist and we are going to attack these felons like the second rate thugs they are.”
“I want every single one of you to get with your squads, study the cases for the next few hours, and later we will re-convene here at 13:00 hours. At said time, I want all of you to be prepared to offer his or her suggestions on how to catch these damn hijackers . . . that is all.” He spins smartly on his heels and quickly exits the room.
* * * * *
Like the clear weather in Washington DC, it is as pretty in Atlanta, Georgia, more specifically, here at the enormous Atlanta Hartsfield International Airport, the hands down busiest airport in the world. More planes take off and land here per hour than anywhere else in the whole wide world. Off in the distance, the jet engines’ sound get progressively louder as the gleaming twin jet engine DC-9-30 aircraft on short final crosses the airport perimeter fence, touches down on the runway “chirping” all four main airplane tires and sending up four small clouds of smoke. A faint smell of burnt rubber permeates the crisp morning air.
As the 98,000 pound airplane slows to a stop and turns onto a high-speed taxi way, we can almost see through the chain link fence that a man named John, Captain John, is in the left seat in the cockpi
t as he and his co-pilot taxi by. His short dark hair is a bit mussed by the light-weight Telex Airman Model headset he is wearing. The small clear headset earpiece fits snugly into his left ear. All 115 passenger seats in the cabin area are full today.
The overhead speaker blares out as the old, but worn DC-9-30 airliner makes its way right, then left as the plane taxies into the terminal area. All about, the people on board today start to gather up their carry-on luggage from under the seats in front of them, waiting to grab all that other junk that is stuffed into the overhead bins. Overhead, the speaker crackles out as a flight attendant, spits out the standard company spiel.
“Welcome to the Atlanta Hartsfield main airport in beautiful Atlanta, Georgia. On behalf of the entire flight crew, we want to thank you all for flying with us today.”Ding-ding, ding-ding comes across over the speakers as the seat belt sign turns off. In organized chaos, everyone jumps up at once in an effort to gather up their bags, their packages, all waiting to exit the plane at the same time.
* * * * *
A bit later in the day, off in the distance, some 35 miles west northwest from the Atlanta airport, is a parked rental car. The car is mixed in among the rows of other parked cars in a small strip center parking lot. This one, however, is a bit different . . . we can see the heat rising off the exhaust pipe under the right rear fender, indicating that the engine is running, and in the back window is a paper tag. The vehicle is a brand new glistening red Chrysler Charger rental car with only 1,009 miles on the dash’s electronic odometer thus far.
Inside the vehicle from a bit of a distance, we see two men who are sitting inside. Almost like they were on a police stake out, the two men appear to be watching something. Both men are dressed in slacks, long sleeve white dress shirts and ties. On John’s lap is an Apple I-Pad tapped into the city’s traffic watch video camera base. He has six different live-feed camera videos displayed on the computer screen. There is another I-Pad sitting between the seats tied into and constantly scanning all the local police dispatch frequencies.
What a kind, convenient thing in today’s world . . . someone took the time to hang high-tech color traffic cameras all over the country for the public’s use. Nowadays, you can even monitor most city traffic cameras on your smart phone. A further scan around the area reveals a small branch bank across the street coming into view.
Behind the wheel, John offers his thoughts. “I don’t like this at all. Man, I feel this place has way too much traffic on the streets and like last time, almost a dozen people have already been in since they opened a few minutes ago.
A simple reply from Tom comes back, “Yea, you’re right, let’s go.”
John adds, “Look, it’s my ass too. I’ve always hated big cities . . . there are too many cops and always a large contingent of Feds to work on the cases.
“We got . . . we need to stay small.”
Tom’s reply is short and clear, “I know, I know . . . Hey, did I tell you I learned a new card trick? Uh, no?” he asks and sighs, “I’m ready, let’s go.” The car slowly drives out of the parking lot and onto the city street, mingles with the traffic, and blends into the oblivion.
* * * * *
Checking back in with the gathering of FBI Agents inside the DC briefing room, it is busy, incredibly busy. We can observe the lead FBI Agent Smith holding a group discussion in a semi-circle conference room, basically arranged like your standard college lecture hall.
Our Senior Agent in Charge, standing up front in a sport coat and dress slacks starts to speak. He simply asks, “. . . OK, uh . . . what did you people come up with?”
The youngest agent of the group, the rookie or sort of a half-rookie, gung ho, kind of guy, mid to late 20s dark haired FBI Agent Reese stands to speak, almost jumping up out of his chair in his eagerness to be a part of the team—the inner circle.
“SIR! . . . Drawing from the information you provided us, what we have is . . . we got an extremely mobile, lone robber who is hitting banks in fourteen states over the last twenty-two months. Furthermore, he always wears some sort of disguise, like a full dress military uniform, complete with the hat, goatee, and the ever-present dark sun glasses.”
A prompt, a bit aggravated response by the Agent in Charge, “Ah, good, uh we know all this. What else? What else did you people come up with—please?”
“Oh yeah, I don’t think we know if the weather matters, but outside on the day of the robbery the weather was raining or stormy, uh, uh, each time, huh?”
“. . . OK, OK, next.” Cutting him off in mid-sentence, Smith turns and asks the rest of the group. “What else do you people have for me?”
Next to speak is a good looking female agent named Brandy Ann Dixion. Wearing a conservative gray business suit, she is the brains of the gathered group. Harvard Law, Masters in Sociology from Rice University, she hurries to stand up next and says the following, “Until yesterday, he or they never hit in the same state twice and the banks are all small branch banks. Further . . . all of the banks were hit right after opening.
“As my colleague offered, he is always dressed in a disguise, but please note each so called disguise is that of a uniform. He hit as a fireman, a security guard, then as a soldier, and so on, but again please note he is always extremely well dressed, he’s had a big mustache before and well groomed. I . . . I mean my team does not, at this time believe this hijacker is a drug addict or white collar junkie.”
She continues, “Most junkies—we ever come across miss a shave here or there. This guy is well groomed, because inside . . . this is who he is . . . not some dope fiend or white collar junkie. Furthermore, this disguise is . . . it is not . . . not some fake Halloween beard or some other cheap garbage get-up. It is a professional actor’s get-up; we think he may be or is an out-of-work actor. He definitely knows where to acquire the professional quality actor’s dress.”
Next, Agent Carl adds, “Like the others here, my squad did go over the reports. We already reviewed the witness statements and they indicated he was rather polite—he never raised his voice at them or actually threatened to kill them. Our data . . . sir, my team does believe or indicates a slick white collar junkie. I know Agent Dixion’s team, and they are good, but we are leaning the other way . . . with all due respect,” as he nods toward Dixion.
He continues, “But the one thing which has got me puzzled . . . other than the fake bombs” . . . digging in his brief case,”is that . . .” he pulls out a roll of duct tape and with a zipppp, tears off about a foot or so, trying not to leave any fingerprints behind—“it is almost impossible to do so . . . to duplicate this feat . . . and how in the world he can handle this damn tape over and over again and not leave one single fingerprint behind.”
As he tears the tape again, he clearly leaves several good fingerprints behind on the sticky side for any and all to distinguish. The other agents nod, with baffled looks on their faces.
* * * * *
As the daytime turns into nighttime back in Houston, off the west side of Downtown Houston on a side street is a pleasant rather old HPD Union Hall full of boisterous activity tonight—the Union Hall is playing host tonight. The day’s weather turned out to become an especially fine night. A police department, robbery division’s sanctioned retirement party is underway. These are the good ones according to department lore. Over the years a rivalry has developed . . . a fun rivalry between the Robbery Division and the HPD Homicide Squads. Each one tries to outdo the other when it comes to Christmas parties or retirement parties.
Inside the structure tonight, there is plenty of drinking, carousing, and shooting pool. Hell, some folks are even shooting dice back in the kitchen area . . . and maybe even a few other vice violations are going on. About one-third of the crowd are in uniforms and the rest in plain clothes—cop lingo for street clothes. Covering the walls all around are pictures of fallen officers, mementoes of tim
es gone by, unit photos, division photos covering the last hundred years or so of local law enforcement. On one wall there is even a famous 1963 photo of President J. F. Kennedy greeting the city’s motorcycle detail the day before his death.
Numerous groups are divided here and there, talking, drinking, and celebrating the basic facts of how Det. Sal has survived the streets of Houston for 25 long years. He didn’t get shot or killed and—even more amazing—is that he didn’t get indicted or run off for doing his job. In today’s PC, that is, politically correct world, Sal never held back; he never was one for pussy-footing around. He called things like he saw them. A punk is a punk and a spade is a spade. If you’re a scumbag, then you are just that . . . a scumbag! Period.
Across the room, you can spot the previous three robbery detectives, Sal, CW, and Roberts, along with two FBI guys, Agent Bob Irby, standing, drinking, and in a bit of a discussion together with their coats off. The fifth lawman is FBI Agent Fred—just Fred. On their belts are their gold badges, well-earned gold badges of the city and the FBI. These gold badges are not handed out here in Houston like other places around the country. If you want to make the grade to be a detective, a Detective First Class here . . . then by golly you have to earn it. As Detective Sal always said, “. . . this, son is the real world; everyone doesn’t get a fuckin’ trophy in my police department.”
Salvatore starts off, “. . . what’s the latest on those bank hijackers, those fuckers hitting all of the country? You guys going to solve this deal or do I need to jump in and do it for ya’?”
Senior FBI Agent Bob offers, “Hell, we don’t know any more than last week or than you guys do.”
Con Trails/200 Sky Obscured Page 3