Flying Too Close to the Sun

by George Jehn

  This meant despite his high security clearance, Chris Norton might be involved. Since he was a Federal employee, Daly got a court ordered wiretap, and his home phone, cellphone, computer, financial statements and personal life were intensely scrutinized. They discovered his bank accounts contained large balances, more than expected based on his government income. From the wiretaps they learned he had another business. It was decided to bring him to Morganthaler’s office for questioning. Morganthaler was running late, so Daly watched Norton through a one-way mirror as he sat in the interrogation room alone, cooling his heels. He reminded Daly of new age cop, young and handsome with a dapper appearance, lots of hype and similar bullshit. Morganthaler finally arrived and both cops entered the room. “You know why you’re here.” They purposely hesitated, sipping coffee. “We want to know where you get your money. Your accounts contain way more than someone with your job should have.”

  “I own a business.”

  “We know that. What type? And don’t bullshit us.”

  “Since you already know so much about me, then you should also know I’m a personal trainer and nutritionist. Those were my majors in college and I provide diet and workout guidance, mainly for Baby Boomers like you,” he said nodding toward Daly. “Older, normally heavier people who want to lose weight or tone up.” Daly quickly glanced at his protruding gut, hopefully covertly. Speaking directly to Daly, he said, “After my clients answer questions pertaining to their lifestyle, daily routine, eating and drinking habits, I recommend a combination of exercise, diet and supplements. Since I have mornings off, I train and counsel them. I get paid hourly and recently expanded my business by instituting a specific regimen in conjunction with a doctor who specializes in geriatric medicine for people with age-related problems like high blood pressure, high cholesterol or diabetes.” Daly thought of his own blood pressure, which was elevated the last time he had it checked. “Because of the aging U.S. population this has plenty of potential and the results so far prove this correct.”

  “What’s this doctor’s name?”

  “Michael McCaffrey. His office is in Manhattan.” He sighed. “Look, you’re wasting your time. Every movement of the armored car was tracked by GPS units.” Without waiting for a reply he continued, “So you know my vehicle was always moving. I couldn’t, wouldn’t be involved,” he pleaded. “You think I like this happening on my watch? We’re on the same side.”

  Ignoring his comment, Morganthaler asked, “Shut up. You see or hear anyone open the cargo compartment?”

  “No. If someone opened it I would probably have heard and would have gone to the cockpit and told the crew to return to the gate. I have that power. It’s in the contract with the airline.”

  “You’re saying it would have been impossible?”

  “I don’t like to use the word impossible. Highly unlikely would be better.”

  Daly continued. “There are GPS units locked onto each bag when they leave the downtown Boston location, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “But they’re removed just before they’re loaded onto the plane. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I made the suggestion they be left on, but the airline wouldn’t allow it, said it might interfere with the plane’s navigation system. So, the seat position was the next best thing. The GPS units are reattached immediately at LaGuardia.”

  The cops confirmed everything Norton stated. With nothing more to go on all they could do was continue monitoring him, but nothing surfaced. “I just can’t dismiss this guy,” Morganthaler declared a week later. “Maybe there’s a dark secret somewhere in his personal closet and he’s being blackmailed, or caught up in some kind of conspiracy? His explanations are a bit too pat. I’d like to continue his surveillance.”

  “Even if all of that is true it still doesn’t even begin to explain how he pulled this off,” Daly sighed but reluctantly went along. No subsequent findings even remotely pointed to Norton, so Daly downgraded him to a lower priority in his book. The entire investigation was going nowhere. It was like playing poker without a full deck and frustration set in. This latest dead-end meant they needed to start over again, maybe look elsewhere.

  . . .

  The time between when the plane began taxiing until takeoff and between taxiing and arrival at the gate continually surfaced on the T and L sheet as a high possibility, so the new definition of elsewhere was FAA ground controller Bill Francis. They knew Francis was in trouble for the near miss. Heinz had downplayed Francis’ blunder as the controllers for each runway operated on different radio frequencies, meaning besides speaking with the pilots they also needed to coordinate with each other. A harried Francis stated he had done so, but the other controller denied it. The investigation came down to who they believed. Francis became the fall guy.

  Another court order was secured and Francis’ financial records were scrutinized. Nothing of substance turned up, so Daly and Morganthaler flew to Boston, rented a car and visited him at his New Hampshire home. It was a modest, old clapboard farmhouse with an adjacent small plot where he, his wife and two young daughters grew organic vegetables; very bucolic.

  They knocked on the door. “Mister Francis?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m FBI Chief Inspector John Daly and this is Sergeant Frank Morganthaler.”

  Francis’ face went pale and the two cops immediately took note of that.

  “May we come in?”

  Francis didn’t utter a word, just motioned them inside. His wife and children were in the garden, so it was just the three of them. Awkward pleasantries were exchanged and Daly got right into the business at hand.

  “What is your financial situation?”

  “I’m not a millionaire, but I do okay.”

  “We know you’re an air traffic controller.” Francis began to speak, but Daly cut him off. “We also know about your near miss problem at work, and—”

  “That wasn’t my fault. The other controller—”

  “That’s not why we’re here. This concerns another matter.”

  “What?”

  “We’re not at liberty to say, but it involves stolen money.”

  “Stolen money?” An incredulous Francis told them, “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Then for starters we presume you wouldn’t mind giving us your cellphone if you have one, computer and internet provider so we can check out some items. They’ll be returned to you shortly.”

  He started rapidly tapping his feet and small beads of perspiration formed on his upper lip. “You can have my cellphone, but the laptop computer contains confidential information I don’t want anyone to view.”

  “Look,” an angry Morganthaler stated, “we can either do this the easy way or the hard way. We can and will get a court order for the computer, within a few minutes.”

  Francis was visibly upset, but went into another room, returning a few moments later with a laptop. “All I ask is that you don’t tell my wife,” as he handed it to Daly.

  “Tell her what?” he asked in his best Father Confessor voice. “This relate to the theft? Is there anything else you want to tell me?” almost adding, “my son.”

  “No. You’ll see.”

  “Is this your only computer?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll find out if you’re lying. And, if you try to clear out, you’ll be tracked down.”

  “I’m not.”

  . . .

  A subsequent check of the computer’s hard drive at the FBI’s lab showed Francis fear was caused by his gawking at naked boys and girls in various sexual acts. He paid the subst
antial charges that went along with his leering. But since all the participants were purportedly at least eighteen years of age, no action was taken. His computer was eventually sent back to him, with nothing further said. Another dead end.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Erik flew a morning shuttle the following week with O’Brien in command. Under FAA regulations the minimum requirement is every pilot, including the chief pilot must have a minimum of three takeoffs and three landings every ninety days. Erik thought perhaps O’Brien was simply meeting that obligation? This appeared to be so when he informed the disappointed copilot he would be handling every takeoff and landing. The bright, blue hue of the sky made the high thin cirrus clouds resemble white sheets billowing softly on a clothesline in a light breeze. The weather conditions might have been nice, but the cockpit atmosphere O’Brien radiated was more akin to an approaching cloudburst. The vibes were so ominous Erik felt like a frightening tsunami was gathering, about to break. Not Mother Nature, but the crushing power of corporate America.

  Although the two roundtrips came off without a hitch, Erik sensed his every move was being watched. This was confirmed when O’Brien told him to report to his office after the final leg. Could he make it there with all the weight he was carrying on his shoulders? The acrid stench of fear and tension screamed out that his entire life might be at stake. The room was eerily silent except for a wall clock loudly ticking in the background. After what seemed like an eternity, a stern-faced O’Brien emerged and motioned him inside. Erik took the seat on one side of the huge desk adorned with a model Shuttle Air 727. As O’Brien sat down his immense belly pressed against the other side. “All right, let’s get right down to business. The top bosses have been notified by the police that you’re under investigation concerning the theft of money missing off one of our flights.”

  Erik’s felt his heart fluttering like the leaves on a tree just before a storm, his hands gripping the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles hurt. Did the cops uncover something? Were they going to take him into custody?

  “I flew today to check on your performance and also questioned Captain Shepard about your work. She reported you do an excellent job and are a loyal employee.”

  Erik breathed a slight sigh of relief, making a mental note to thank her.

  “Shuttle Air has invested beaucoup bucks in your training. Your flight engineer’s license cost us approximately sixty thousand. If you leave the employ of Shuttle Air for any reason during your first two years, you signed an agreement to reimburse us that amount.”

  Erik felt his stomach churning like the sea before a powerful storm.

  “The police investigation also uncovered you are about to default on a sizeable bank loan, approximately forty thousand dollars.”

  “I—”

  “I’m not finished. As to the missing money, all the police will say is the flight crew is suspect. I doubt Captain Shepard or First Officer Montgomery would have any involvement in that sort of thing and told them so. You, however, I don’t know about and I’m very troubled about your bank debt. Let me read what’s contained in our Flight Operations Manual as it relates to this.” O’Brien picked up the thick book and began to thumb through it.

  “I’m already familiar with that passage. I’ve missed only one payment and plan on speaking with the bank to see if an arrangement can be worked out ‘til next year, when—.”

  “Don’t bother. Their collections manager called me and you have only fifteen more days. There aren’t going to be any more extensions. You’ll have to come up with all the money by then or I’ll fire you—period. That means you’ll not only owe the money to the bank, you’ll also be on the hook for our sixty grand.” O’Brien looked at a paper lying in front of him on the desk and shook his head. “I cannot understand why you were hired with knowledge of this financial liability. All the head of Human Resources would say was they knew, but still offered you the job. You’re probably also aware if you’re fired it will be impossible to get another flying job, anywhere.”

  Erik felt the blood rushing to his head and knew his cheeks were aflame. O’Brien’s eyes seemingly indicated he was enjoying this.

  “The only way to hold on to your job is to pay off your entire debt by the deadline. You know the consequences if you don’t.”

  “That’s not possible,” Erik stammered, a large lump forming in his throat.

  “That’s not my problem.”

  “It’s not like I used the money for drugs or gambling. I borrowed it for flying lessons.”

  “I don’t give a shit. And don’t think what Shepard said will protect you. You’re running on empty, mister and better come up with something, fast.”

  The furrows in O’Brien’s face seemed even more pronounced, highlighting his importance in Erik’s life at the moment. His career might still be salvaged if he could somehow get the needed cash, somewhere. “What if I repay the loan in full by the deadline?”

  “That’s your only option.” O’Brien waited a long moment and added, “Or, I’ll allow you to resign, now. At least this way you might be able to find another flying job.” He slid an official, typed document across the desk. “Of course, you’ll still have to reimburse us for the training costs.”

  Erik couldn’t believe O’Brien had a typed resignation letter ready for his signature.

  “No! I, I worked too long, too hard for this job. Plus, I’d owe even more.”

  “You have two weeks.”

  An icy dread immediately formed in Erik’s brain. Everything seemed so remote, so surreal it was as though he was seeing O’Brien through a telescope with an out of focus lens. His brain pounded and his mind flew faster than a jet. Searing hot tears involuntarily sprang from his eyes, ran down his cheeks and onto his neck, staining his collar, while his throat burned from refluxed stomach acid. “But, but this job is everything to me.”

  “Oh, please! You think I’m running a day care center here? You should’ve considered that beforehand. Your failure to repay definitely fits the definition of being fiscally irresponsible.” O’Brien got up from his chair and turned away. “You know your choices. Pull the door closed as you leave.”

  O’Brien disliked Preis even more. No doubt he had everything handed to him on a silver platter because of his good looks. The personnel pencil pushers probably gave him the job because he fit their handsome airline pilot image. Hell, they probably fawned over him. O’Brien couldn’t wait ‘til two weeks passed to fire him. After Erik departed he picked up the phone and reported to upper management what had transpired. This way when it came time for his pink slip there would be no overriding him.

  . . .

  Erik just sat in his parked car for several moments with blurred vision, silently watching the fuzzy-looking jets taking off and landing through the sun drenched windshield. A sense of isolation came over him. Would it be fight or flight? He recalled the words of a friend who had stated that life was really hell. It wasn’t fire and brimstone but the here and now. Erik had thought it asinine, but he now agreed. He finally drove off with the punishing knowledge he had two weeks to come up with forty grand. Unlike the Rolling Stones, time wasn’t on his side. He’d fight, but would need help.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  He had no other choice, so only with great reluctance Erik would ask his father for a loan, hoping he would help even though his heart knew better. If there was the slightest chance of success, this had to be accomplished before the old man embarked upon his nightly booze ritual and subsequent descent into the womb of an alcoholic haze.

  “Dad, there’s an important matter I need to speak about with you.”

  “What is it?” looking like he was poured into his chair, his voice thick. The bottle was almost empty. Was he already
hammered? His mother also sat down as Erik explained what happened, the deadline he was up against and what the consequences would be. A loan meant he could avoid all these problems and would repay the full amount, with interest, starting the following year. When Erik finished an ugly silence engulfed the room as an unshaven Joe lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and in a raspy smoker’s voice asked, “What type of a person are you, really?”

  “I borrowed the money to pursue a career, to be a success. And I’m almost to the finish line.” Erik continued. “When 9/11 came along everything changed. People became frightened of flying and the tailwind was taken out of the pilot job market.”

  A seemingly-reflective Joe replied in alcohol-soured breath Erik could smell from across the room. “I don’t have that amount.”

  “Could you borrow it? A home equity loan might—”

  Joe lifted the glass and interrupted. “I’m not going to do that. Like the bank, you’ll probably stiff me.” More silence. “What would then happen to my credit rating?” he shot back with a sweeping arm gesture, his arms almost knocking the bottle off the antique end table. He collared it before it fell. “I could lose this house.”

  “But my entire life is on the line,” Erik begged, his fear turning to panic.

  “I don’t owe you a thing. You should have thought about that before. It’s the bottom of the ninth inning with two outs for you and you just struck out. I want you to leave, right now and for good,” Joe sputtered with animosity coming through loud and clear.