To Save the Nation

by Robert E Kass

  “The Mexicans didn’t seem to care, and the American NTSB didn’t investigate.”

  “Mr. Gale, you’ve got an incredible memory. It seems like you’ve been re-living this story all those years,” said Winkler.

  “You haven’t heard the half of it,” said Gale. “My place in Mexico City was trashed by the Mexican Federal Police immediately after my story hit the papers. At least that’s what my building manager told me. I was on my way out of the country, at the recommendation of my then boss at UPI, Hal McDonald. Was this just a matter of their professional pride, or an effort to send a message that if I continued, I could expect more reprisals?

  “And a couple of days later, my good friend, Jim Ferguson, an attorney down in Acapulco on business—and with whom I shared my observations on the crash—was murdered in his hotel room, right before he was supposed to head back to the States. Do you think they investigated it? Hell no. Why should they? His cash and computer were taken, so they write it up as a robbery. Did they even interview any of the hotel staff or review the security videos? What do you think? Of course not. If they even checked the ballistics on the bullet that killed him, they might have learned something, but they couldn’t find any bullets or casings. They offered no explanation other than the fact that the bullet went right through the body and the killer must have cleaned up after himself!

  “Then I hear Hal McDonald quit his job at UPI—after eighteen years, just a couple years short of retirement—and doesn’t want to talk to anyone about why, least of all me. Maybe he read about Ferguson. Maybe he got a late night phone call from his friends at the Mexican Federal Police.

  “And who says it was Guttmann who got on the plane in the first place? It could have been someone else with a fake ID. Even better, maybe it was Guttmann who got on the plane in New York, but then got off and had someone else take his place at one of the two stops on the way. You know the plane stopped in Memphis and Dallas on the way down, don’t you? God knows why Guttmann would have wanted to substitute someone else—could be he didn’t know the plane was going down, or maybe he did. The whole thing is ripe for speculation, and that’s all we’ve had—lots of speculation, but no real investigation.”

  Gale was still livid, after all these years. “Waiter, another one for me, and another round of beer for my guests.” He tapped lightly on the hundred dollar bills, and Winkler whipped another one from his wallet and laid it on top of the pile.

  “So, we have a very curious air crash and superficial investigation, the police trash my apartment, and then the guy I stayed with in Acapulco, who everyone would assume I told what I saw at the crash site—which is true—is murdered in his room in a ritzy hotel and the murder investigation is half-hearted, or bungled at best.

  “But then Guttmann’s banking empire collapses on four continents, and a goddamn fortune is missing. A couple hundred million dollars as I recall. The financial press around the world is buzzing. Everyone speculates it could be a set-up, that Guttmann could have taken the money and engineered his own ‘disappearance’ to cover it up. But no, he’s officially dead—and so, after a relatively brief inquiry, the matter is closed.

  “Follow the money, I say, gentlemen, and you may find out what really happened to Ricardo Guttmann—if you don’t get killed first!”

  “So where do we go from here?” asked Rollins. “For the whole world, aside from our client, the case is closed. Is there anyone else we should talk to who also questioned the official story?”

  Gale tapped on the stack of $100 bills again, then held up two fingers. He was looking for an even $500 for his interview. Winkler pulled out two more $100 bills, added them to the three on the table, and rolled all five bills together. He then put them in the palm of Gale’s hand.

  “Allen, or Alex, whatever your name is, we’ve just maxed out our expense account for today. After we pay the bar tab, we’re gonna be taking the subway, not cabs!”

  “Fine, I think we’re almost done. But I’ve been thinking about this mess for a long time, and it seems to me there’s a person who could have some information for you, stateside at least. I don’t have any leads in Mexico or Argentina.

  “If I were following up on this, I’d be very interested to hear what the owner of the charter aircraft has to say. For some reason, his name sticks with me: J.B. Winston. He was the owner of Executive Air. I don’t know if the company’s still around, or if he’s even alive, but I read he was a former FBI agent and wasn’t happy that he didn’t get paid for the charter, so he went down to Mexico and did his own investigation. If you can find him, he may have some information for you.”

  “We came across Winston’s name in our research,” said Winkler. “We’ll try to locate him next. What else do you have?”

  “Waiter, another bourbon here.” Gale was trying to stretch the bar tab as far as he could. “Nothing else right now, but you never can tell where Winston may lead you.”

  “If you think of anything else, just give us a call,” said Rollins, handing Gale his card, then motioning to the waiter to give him the bill.

  CHAPTER 20

  EMMA DID HER MAGIC researching Executive Air and determined it had gone bankrupt shortly after the crash in 1976, but another company, Executive Air East, continued to operate. J.B. Winston was the owner. Emma had no problem scheduling a meeting with him for four o’clock that afternoon.

  After a stop at their hotel, Winkler and Rollins took a town car from Manhattan to the Westchester County Airport, in White Plains, New York. The company was headquartered in Suite 150 of Hangar B in the general aviation section. The airport was a favorite of the moneyed population of Westchester County. It was small, efficient, and far from the tumult of LaGuardia and JFK.

  Hangar B housed the offices of several small air charter companies, a medevac service, an aircraft maintenance company, and a limousine service. As there was no walk-by traffic, the companies were identified by simple signage on each door. The sign for Executive Air East bore bold blue letters on stark white background.

  Winkler knocked on the door.

  A man in his seventies opened it and invited them in. Six-foot-two, trim, with grey hair in a military style cut, it was J.B. Winston himself. The small, tidy office held two desks, and he explained that his secretary—the brains of the operation—had some personal business to attend to and wouldn’t be in until the next day.

  “So, your secretary tells me you’re researching the crash of our Flight 83 to Acapulco back in 1976,” said Winston. “After all these years, I’d have to say I’m a little surprised—but at the same time, I’ve been waiting a long time for someone to take an interest.”

  Winkler explained in general terms how his firm had been engaged by someone who could be a family member of Ricardo Guttmann—and said nothing about Tricontinental Research.

  “In our business, you deal with safety and risk every day,” said Winston. “You do the best you can. You hire the best people, you follow all the rules. But you can’t eliminate all the risks—the other guy, the weather, unforeseen technical problems, miscommunication in foreign travel. With all the technological innovation—and our jets are marvels of technology, don’t get me wrong—once in a great while something bad is going to happen.”

  “We understand you did your own investigation. Do you remember what you found?” asked Rollins.

  “Remember? Hell, I’ve got everything right here,” Winston replied, walking over to a file cabinet, opening the top drawer, and pulling out a series of manila folders. “The top two drawers house my archives on this mess.” He emptied the first drawer, then the second, and laid the folders on his desk, fanning them out like a deck of cards so the labels on the folders were all visible. “Charter contract with Guttmann’s Belgian bank. He’d used our services many times before, and we never had problems with payment, so we invoiced them after each flight, and they usually paid within thirty days. Not this time. They stiffed us for thousands, not that anyone would ever pay for a flight th
at ends up in flames, but on top of it, the bank then went bankrupt.

  “I couldn’t figure it out—pilot error! I knew the pilot my whole life—he was my younger brother, for God’s sake! But don’t take my word for it; he was a Navy pilot, a Vietnam vet, best in his class.” Winston pointed to a wall covered with certificates and photos. “That’s him, the good-looking guy in the upper right. He had it all going for him—great skills, terrific personality, beautiful wife, and two great kids. And then a simple charter to Acapulco goes wrong.” Winston started to choke up and was visibly shaken.

  “So, I wasn’t about to take the Mexicans’ word for it, that it was pilot error—and I went down there and did my own investigation. I started out in law enforcement—ten years with the FBI—and wasn’t about to let some half-assed Mexican inquiry sully my brother’s good name and our family’s reputation in this business—not without turning over some stones myself. Here’s a folder with my notes of my investigation. I made three trips to Mexico and met everyone from local villagers to the funeral director who retrieved the remains from the crash site.” Again, Winston swelled up with emotion.

  “The big deal at the time was whether Guttmann was really the passenger who died in the crash. There was lots of speculation. But no one gave a hoot about the pilot and co-pilot. There’s no question that it was my brother, Larry, and our co-pilot, Jeff Simpson, who went down that day.

  “I hired a guide-interpreter to take us to the crash site and took an aviation crash expert with me. We spent a day there but really couldn’t make any more of it than what they put into the Mexican crash report. Couldn’t find any indication of an explosion that might have brought the aircraft down. But the plane was so badly damaged, my crash expert said it would have been hard to distinguish the effect of a small explosive that could have been triggered by a timer, or decrease in altitude, from crash damage and subsequent explosion and jet fuel fire. Here’s my expert’s report—inconclusive as to the ultimate cause.

  “I tried to locate the UPI reporter—Alex Ginsberg—who accompanied the Mexican investigators, but he left UPI shortly after his first, and only, story on the crash appeared. His boss at UPI—Hal MacDonald—left a little while later, but I did manage to track him down.

  He said he had nothing to add to Ginsberg’s story. The conversation was very brief. The guy sounded like he was scared to say too much, really nervous.

  “Since our people were involved, the funeral director—a Mr. Rodriguez—was very willing to talk. He was most sympathetic, really emotional when I told him my brother was the pilot. I remember that interview distinctly. He told me neither his people nor the Mexican investigators removed the bodies from the plane. They found them all lined up outside the aircraft when they arrived at the scene.

  “But the real kicker—confirming Ginsberg’s UPI story—was that what was identified as the remains of Ricardo Guttmann was just a charred torso—no head, no hands—just a trunk of a body. He said he couldn’t have identified it if it had been his own son, but he was told it was Guttmann because the other two were clearly crew. So, he tagged it Guttmann.”

  “There was no flight attendant on this flight?” asked Rollins.

  “Not on this one. It was rather unusual, but the flight attendant called in sick at the last minute, and we couldn’t get a replacement in time. Guttmann didn’t care. He’d made the flight many times before, and I guess he knew where the bar was.”

  Winkler was impressed by the work Winston had done to investigate the crash. “Did you interview the air traffic controllers from the tower in Acapulco?” he asked.

  “There were two on duty that night. One left the tower temporarily just before our flight asked for instructions. The controller who guided them down wrote a report, which shows nothing irregular until the plane dropped off the radar. The aviation authority refused an interview, said I should rely on the written report. Since I was asking only on behalf of our company, not part of an official investigation, they were able to blow me off. For some reason, the recorder in the tower wasn’t functioning, so we don’t really have independent evidence as to the exchange between the tower and the aircraft. As you may know, the aircraft’s black box was missing.”

  “Sure sounds suspicious to me. Did you interview anybody else?” asked Winkler.

  “There’s one fellow who was very close to Guttmann. An American rabbi. I interviewed him about a year after the crash, when I somehow became aware that he’d moved back to the States. Here’s my file on him: His name is Jonah Weinman. He’d gone to Argentina after finishing his rabbinical studies, stayed there a few years, got to know Guttmann’s family real well. Some said he was Guttmann’s confidant. That’s why I thought it would be worthwhile to ask him a few questions.”

  “I assume he couldn’t shed any light on what happened?” asked Rollins.

  “He was a very nice fellow. We talked for about an hour about Guttmann, the family, their business interests, and Argentine politics. But you’re right, he had nothing to add—although for some reason I had a feeling he wasn’t being totally candid, that he was holding back.

  You know how it is, a person tells you he wants to be helpful and says he’s sharing whatever he knows, but you still get the feeling there’s something important he’s not telling. Maybe it’s the cloak of the clergy, stuff learned in confidence has to stay confidential.”

  “Do you think it would be worth contacting him again, after all this time?” asked Winkler.

  “Couldn’t hurt. Probably won’t get you anywhere, but you never can tell. Maybe the passage of time will have changed his attitude. Mind you, I can’t say for sure that he was holding back, but for someone who was presumably so close to Guttmann as this fellow was—well, let’s just say it wouldn’t surprise me if he knew more than he was willing to tell me.

  “And just maybe you’ll be able to get through to him since you’re inquiring on behalf of a member of Guttmann’s family. What I mean is, you’re not looking to collect payment for a charter flight or put Guttmann in prison for lining his pockets at the expense of his depositors. Possibly because of the rabbi’s relationship with the family, he may be willing to open up to someone new who comes with a different agenda.”

  “Makes sense,” said Winkler. “Any idea where he might be now?”

  “Let me see if we can find him online.” Winston swung around on his chair so he could reach his computer mouse and went to Switchboard. “When I spoke to him, must have been 1977 or 1978, he lived in Queens. Let’s see… yep, he must like the area…he’s still listed there. Rabbi Jonah B. Weinman, 84 West 119th Street, in Forest Hills, Queens. Let me print this for you. And while we’re at it, let’s see if he’s affiliated with a temple or synagogue so if you can’t get him at home, you can try him at work, so to speak.

  “Here he is, Rabbi of Congregation Beth Tefilo, in Forest Hills. I’ll print the temple’s home page for you also.”

  “Great! We’ll see if we can meet with him on this trip, maybe even this evening. Anything else you can think of?” asked Winkler.

  “No, but if you want to have a closer look at all my files, back at your office, maybe something will occur to you. Some years ago, I made a backup of all this paperwork on CD, which I’ve kept in a fireproof safe over here. You can have a copy of the CD if you want.”

  “That would be great,” said Winkler.

  Winston walked over to the safe, bent down, spun the dial, then took out a CD and handed it to Winkler. “I really hope you find something I missed. Or maybe after all these years, someone will open up. I’d rest a lot easier if I knew the crash wasn’t pilot error.

  “And one more thing: If it would make your work any easier, I’d be happy to make one of our executive jets available to you. I really want you to get to the bottom of this.”

  “That’s incredibly generous of you, J.B. Having a jet will certainly give us some flexibility, but we won’t take you up on it unless we really need it,” said Winkler.

&nb
sp; “It’s been a burden on me, my family, and all our pilots for too many years. Guttmann’s estate even got a huge wrongful death judgment against Executive Air based on the alleged pilot error, so we filed for bankruptcy and set up our new company, Executive Air East.

  “Just call our toll-free number for scheduling, anytime, 24/7, and we’ll be there,” said Winston.

  THE TOWN CAR AND DRIVER WERE WAITING, and as soon as Winkler and Rollins got in, Winkler called Emma to see if she could reach Rabbi Weinman and set up a meeting in Queens that evening. Emma called back within a few minutes and confirmed the rabbi’s home address. He wasn’t available, but they were welcome to stop by at eight in the evening. Mrs. Sarah Weinman would be expecting them.

  CHAPTER 21

  TRAFFIC WAS MOVING AT A CRAWL that evening. The town car driver, a Russian immigrant in his sixties, did his best to consider alternate routes, but rush hour, combined with the pouring rain that started a few minutes after they left White Plains, only made matters worse. What could have been a forty-five-minute ride on a good night was likely to take almost two hours.

  The driver was a jovial sort, the type who bantered with his passengers in-between personal phone calls in Russian.

  “I am Igor,” he said, turning his head a bit to address them in the rear seat as he drove, “and if you gentlemen have some time, maybe you stop for dinner in my favorite Russian restaurant. I live in Queens, and it’s very close by where we going.”

  They were strangers in a foreign land, it seemed, and the real foreigner, Russian accent and all, knew the territory much better than they did. They were hungry, and it sounded like a good idea to stop for a quick meal.