“Say no more. It’s Louis—I know . . . it has to be Louis,” said Sal.
“Yeah, how’s he actually doing since the crash?” asks Vince.
“Other than the limp, I don’t think that crash ever slowed him down one single bit. “How much for my time?” asks Sal.
“How’s about $550.00 per day, plus all expenses . . . two weeks minimum?” said Vince.
“OK, sounds good,” comes back the reply from Sal. “. . . but I don’t need to come to Chicago. Why don’t you fly me to Jackson, Mississippi and let me check out what type of bank this guy likes. You and I can talk on the phone anytime. I think your money will be better spent letting me check over a few of the places they have hit.”
On the other end of the phone Vince fires off, “Consider it done.Get an airline ticket and I’ll see you in Jackson in the morning.”
“Uh, well, that’s fine with me, but I’m not sure if I can get a flight out today. I’ll have to call the airlines . . .”
Vince cuts in, “Don’t worry; I’ll take care of that. My company has an in-house travel agency here. I’ll have our girls work up a flight for you and give you a call back within the hour . . . good enough?”
“Sure, ok it will be fine, sounds wonderful.”
“Good, OK, I’ll talk to you later,” finishes Vince.
* * * * *
This night is a dark night with a half moon high up in the sky as another SouthEast McDonald Douglas airliner soars at its assigned cruise altitude of 31,000 feet. This particular airliner is seen flying along a heading east bound from Houston, Texas. The bright white strobe lights flash in the night accenting the two white puffy con trails (condensation trails) tagging along.
On this flight, however, Senior Detective Salvatore A. Joseph (Ret.) is merely another passenger. He is seated in one of the eight small faded blue leather, but still first class seats, next to a window, sipping a clear mixed drink, with lime, a vodka and tonic. Jotting down some notes, Sal is processing all the questions as they are zipping around in the cortex of his head he is mulling things over as he turns and stares out the window into the dark black night time sky.
Lost in thought, Sal ponders, “Jackson, Mississippi, Lexington, Kentucky, Ft. Smith, Arkansas, hmm? Why in the world are they hitting these locations, these out of the way small town banks? Other than the obvious tie—what is the friggin’ link?”
Sipping on his drink, “Maybe uh . . . no reason. Maybe it’s merely fate and random chance. If he IS something like a truck driver, this sort of pattern would make some sense . . . no, he can’t be a trucker—that would be too easy. Hell, even if he was, finding him is still damn near impossible at this point.” Taking another drink from the cold glass, he asks softly . . . “What else ties all these cities all together? What?” He asks again and again as he gazes out the window into the vastness of the darkness . . . the especially dark night.
Shortly after landing safely and on the ground at the airport, Sal makes his way down to the baggage claim area to grab his small black travel bag. Attempting to figure out where to go so he can gather up his rental car, Sal seems a bit aggravated at all the people in his way. All around are rental car signs, Avis, National, Alamo, and Hertz. Finally after getting his paperwork and keys, Detective Sal hunts for the mysterious parking space number 15. After some ten minutes of hunting, Sal finds his car, in space number 17 not 15 and loads up his luggage. Next, he gets settled into the car as he adjusts the rear view mirror, then drives off toward his hotel.
After another beautiful sunrise, it is indeed a rather nice morning here in Jackson, Mississippi, as Salvatore tries to find the correct bank, the one hit or that was robbed a few days ago. The small amount of one, two and five story buildings drift by as Sal maneuvers basically toward where he thinks the bank is. After a brief drive, he spots the quaint building and then drives around the bank building. Checking the area out, Sal cruises through the surrounding parking lots slowly, looking, absorbing the landscape and its overall layout. He does a quick and efficient recon of the locale, turning right and a bit left as he checks out the area.
Sal, speaking softly to no one but himself, he starts with, “Perfect . . . a bit of hijacker heaven; quiet little bank, parking lot across the street, blind on three sides, easy access to the three different exit routes, not too much traffic, but enough to help.”
He makes the block a few more times and finally heads back toward the hotel. Collecting the rest of his gear, Sal checks in with the front desk clerk for any possible messages from Vince. He then heads up to the third floor, to his assigned room, room number 323. Digging in his bag, he hangs up the two extra shirts he brought from the rental car and drops off his shaving kit in the bathroom before heading down to the tiny café.
Inside the hotel cafe, Sal meets Vince, and they sit in a small side booth talking. The area is an open quarter design and occasionally a person checks in at the hostess counter wanting perhaps to grab something to eat.
Vince is speaking, “. . . Yeah, I agree for sure there has got to be something to tie all these cases together, some key,” sipping his coffee, “some element, but damn if I can spot it.”
Sal responds, “Well I keep coming back to the cross-country type of driver . . . maybe a truck driver sort of deal; he or they definitely travel for a living. Overall, this makes some sense, but I don’t feel that the theory is completely correct. I just can’t see this particular hijacker . . . this guy driving a rig for his day job, then hitting banks on the side, all prim and proper dressed to the nines. I’m missing something, my friend, but they DO travel for a living, I’m sure of that . . . and there’s some reason that they visit all these particular cities. It may be something to do with their day job or maybe not; I’ll figure the case out. Just give me a little time and I’ll figure all the cases out.”
A short moment later, as he finishes up his sentence, a hotel courtesy van pulls up out front. A group of five uniformed flight crew members, two male pilots and three female flight attendants go to the counter and check in. Both pilots are dressed and extremely sharp in their correct and proper fitting airline uniforms along with their spit polished black dress shoes.
As they walk, they seem to be almost marching in slow motion; to the trained eye, there’s no doubt that these two were at one time military aviators. Vince and Sal turn and glance, but mainly eye the three pretty flight attendants. Vince is quite unaware of the walk . . . at this time. Sal is taking mental notes.
“Day job?” questions Vince.
“Oh, yeah, I’m quite certain this guy has a regular job; I’m sorry, I forgot you were uniform.”
“Yes, sir, it seems like I was a plain clothes detective for most of my career. Sometimes I forget what it’s like to be in uniform. What I’m getting at is, in today’s world, it’s not really uncommon for this kind of hijacker to have a day job. As long as everything is going OK . . . say a master union welder making 40, 50, 80 bucks an hour, he works hard, but let him get laid off or lose at the race track or gambling tables . . . you know, and he jacks a few places to hold him over. Ya know, like they say in the movies . . . strictly business.”
Vince simply adds, “That’s wild . . . really?”
“Yeah, we used to run across these deals all the time in the city.”
“OK, so now what?” asks Vince.
Carrying on the conversation, Sal adds, “I’d certainly like to interview the two tellers who were present on duty at the time of the robbery and that should really about cover Mississippi.
I have already checked out the layout of the bank and the surrounding area. They . . . these guys are good at picking out a good bank to jack.
Vince comes back with “OK. Let’s go,” and stands up to leave. Outside, it is a bit of a dreary overcast day now with a few small breaks in the cloudy overcast sky. Sal’s rental car arrives and the two me
n enter the small branch bank. The trek doesn’t take but a few minutes and Sal has time ask a few basic questions, and he has all the information he needs for his assessment of this particular case. Actually he just needed to walk in take a brief glimpse around and leave, but he doesn’t want to seem like he’s showing off to Vince. Salvatore isn’t sure if Vince would understand that by merely walking in, he has taken a mental snapshot of the inside and is finished. Sal has all he needs to observe from the layout of the bank’s inside maze of counters and desks.
He is one of the best at the keen art of observation and sometimes with a mere glance he can take a detailed snapshot in his mind of a complex crime scene. He was known back in the squad room as being able to jot down enough notes on a lone 3”x5” index card to complete his entire Police Offense Report, all the required information he needed, sort of in Sal’s homemade version of short hand, all spelled out in the proper order and format ready for the DA’s—the District Attorney’s Office and for the court system. He is just that friggin’ talented.
This really bothers some of the newer detectives in the robbery squad—how Sal can do that. He is, in fact, that good . . . that friggin’ talented at recalling every gory little detail of a major crime scene, each detail of a bloody crime scene with exacting precision, and this is spooky at times, even to Sal. In a flash, he can jot down what all the witnesses told him. He has always been genuinely capable of being able to remember the crime scenes in such demanding details. In today’s world of high-tech gadgets, many rookie detectives would simply record their notes on a small hand-held digital tape recorder. All that dependence on such hi-tech stuff was way too much trouble and appeared unprofessional for the old guys in the unit.
Many times, newcomers to the robbery squad think that maybe Sal is being a bit lazy, but the old salts in the robbery details know better. Sal only lost one case in his entire twenty-five year police career and it wasn’t even his fault. On that one case, it was because a rookie DA missed a key piece of evidence and lost the case because she didn’t prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the bad guy did in fact commit the crime.
Sal did get some satisfaction after the crook was found not guilty and when the Judge literally chewed the rookie DA out on how to conduct business in his court. The Judge called the DA up to the bench and, within ear-shot of Sal, gave her a dreadfully good ol’ fashion Texas tongue lashing. One thing Sal would always remember is when the Judge told the rookie DA how this scumbag was guilty as sin and needed to go to prison, but through her inept performance in his court today, said prick was going to be back on the street. However, all did turn out well later, actually rather well; the suspect was killed four months later in a drug house shoot out on the north side of town.
In a small gesture of peace and kindness . . . and sneakiness, Sal had placed a well-timed after hours call to the voice mail of the poor scolded female Assistant DA. He wanted to tell her the good news that the guy who got off was now DOA. Even though she screwed up Sal’s case, which was a rookie mistake, he knew how bad she felt. Sal had kept up on her progress and knew she was working hard to overcome just one little mistake. Hopefully she would ease up on herself now that said idiot was officially off the streets of Houston.
Dear Mr.POW—thank you for placing
your life in Harm’s Way . . . because of men
like you I am free.
Anonymous
Chapter 7
Current Weather or current METAR: KFSM
22016KT 10SM sky clear 35/14 A30.34 or in plain language:
Winds are 220 degrees at 16KTS, 10 SM of visibility, sky clear, temperature is 35C, dew point 14 and the area altimeter setting is 30.34
Ft. Smith, Arkansas
Another airliner is cruising along at 36,000 feet. This time the plane is headed west bound toward Ft. Smith, Arkansas. It passes rather close to an east bound Boeing 747-400 freighter which is spewing out four striking, bright white contrails; the airliners are within 1000 feet vertically and five miles from the other horizontally.
Inside the airplane, the overhead cabin speakers crackle as the crew announces that they are at their cruising altitude and should be in Ft. Smith on time. Sal and Vince are seated together in first class talking it over. Sal is flipping through some files, going over some of his notes.
Vince starts things off with, “. . . so, what you think?” Sal clears his throat and offers, “Well, it’s interesting that no one ever keyed on the fact that each bank was occupied by only two people . . . almost always occupied by a teller and a manager.”
Vince comes back with, “Actually, I think my people did note that. What does this tell us though—that’s nothing new.”
OK, OK,” came the first part of the answer. “Well, no one seems to really notice every time that each time these guys hit, the manager was always tied up on the telephone.”
Vince looks at his notes and finally continues, “Huh. Let me check here. Hmmm? Well it doesn’t really say on some of these reports.”
Sal taking a drink, simply says, “Bet ya 100 bucks every manager was distracted by a perfectly timed phone call at the start of each robbery.”
“I’ll check it out as soon as we land.”
Sal knows what he is talking about . . . sure of his find.
“That part doesn’t matter—I’ll guarantee you that’s how they all went down.
“See . . . by doing this little distraction move, we’re down to one witness instead of two possible witnesses . . . yep, only one.”
After gathering their small travel bags and finding another rental car, the two-man team heads off toward the next local bank. Arriving in the small 25 space parking lot, Sal makes a leisurely drive around the area, around the back of the building noting the layout of the bank and how the building is rather isolated, but perfect from the point of a hijacker. They pull into a parking spot facing out toward the street and exit their vehicle. Walking toward the main entry doors, Sal holds the car’s remote up into the air. A fast press of the lock button allows the car to acknowledge the locked doors with a quick chirp, chirp.
Sal and Vince are greeted and offered a seat in the bank manager’s quaint little office. As they enter her half glass walled small office, they grab a chair in the tiny office. She’s busy talking on the phone as Sal notes how she has an obstructed view of the teller’s station while she’s talking on the telephone at her desk.
“Cute and stupid . . .” Sal whispers under his breath.
After the introductions, she starts, “. . . well, we get calls all the time asking about interest rates, checking accounts, and such, but I don’t recall anything specific about the call while we were getting held up . . . something about CD rates I’m pretty sure . . . I think. I didn’t even know we had been robbed until the guy was long gone.”
“Our teller, Ms. Brown, I believe was in a bit of shock and started calling out my name over and over. When I got up to find out what she wanted, I noticed her hands taped to the top of the box. I had no idea she may have had a real bomb on the counter top until she started crying. Soon as I figured the robbery out, I mean—wow—I pushed the secret alarm button, ran back to my office, and hid under my desk. I gotta’ tell you, I was scared, genuinely scared.”
Sal continues, “Well, that isn’t all . . . uncommon; a little diversion is often used by thieves and robbers to get what they want.”
She replies, “Well I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help.” “Oh, no; you’ve been lots of help to our investigation,” Sal answers, as he offers her his hand for their goodbye handshake.
Out in the parking lot, the two men are standing outside by the rental car, talking . . . discussing the case. Vince starts, “OK, what do you think?”
Sal offers back, “Same as Jackson, Mississippi, same as the last time and the time before this one: Small bank, two female employees with the manager taking
the incoming calls, and so on . . . Not a bad routine actually. They never get greedy, but they are able to pick up an extra million per year . . . not too bad I’d say.”
Vince’s puzzled response is, “You almost sound impressed!”
Sal continues, “I am. These guys are very, awfully good. I mean they’re slick—in and out like in a flash. Maybe less than 90 seconds. Maybe less than 60 seconds on a good day. Extremely polite, never yell and scream, no direct threats, no real weapons . . . hell, even if they did ever get caught, some local District Attorney might have a hard time getting a twelve man jury to convict anyone, even the inside man, and I can guarantee the driver will get off with nothing more than probation.”
A still puzzled Vince, looking even more confused asks, “OK uh . . . Well, uh, I always knew detectives were a little bit off, but, uh?”
“No really, when you only work hijackers day after day, year after year, you start to appreciate the good ones and laugh at the idiots. Hell, we had this one jerk in Houston who robbed the same gas station six nights in a row before he got smoked by the owner.”
Vince still confused, with a quizzing look on his face, “Uh, truly . . . so?”
A laughing Sal can distinguish now that Vince is completely lost on his train of thought continues, “On this bum’s death bed at the hospital, he told me finally as he was gasping that he never figured on getting caught because of all the new gun laws. He was stoned half-out of his mind—a crack junkie—and was having trouble adding up to five. He thought he had one more day. “Get it?” inquired Sal.
“Uh, ah, huh?” was the puzzled response from Vincent.Vince is searching his brain, trying to figure out what in the world Sal is talking about; sort of “one cop to another cop” stuff he ought to know. Vince finally bursts out laughing, “Five days, the Brady Gun Law, yea, yea, that’s fantastic. I get it, now. Now for the sixty-four dollar question; how do we catch these fuckers?”
Con Trails/200 Sky Obscured Page 9