Murder Over Kodiak
Chapter 7
Robin Barefield
Alaska Wilderness Mystery Author
Author Masterminds Charter Member
I went to bed at 8:00 p.m. and didn’t sleep at all. I tried all the tricks, but my mind raced, and I couldn’t slow it down. Anyone who knew anything about the passengers and pilot of Nine Nine November was reluctant to talk to the FBI. No one wanted to spread gossip, and neither did I, but Agent Morgan wasn’t from this community. How would he learn alternative motives for the explosion unless someone relayed the rumors to him? Yes, he would question innocent people, but maybe he also would find the monster who planted the bomb. I hated to violate confidences, but my first commitment was to Craig. I’d vowed I would find out how and why he had died, and I still planned to fulfill that promise.
I rolled over and looked at the illuminated dial of my alarm clock: 11:15. I wondered if Dana had told the FBI about George Wall, the renegade guide who had threatened Dick Simms. I picked up my phone and dialed Dana’s number.
“Hello,” Dana panted between breaths.
“What were you doing? You’re out of breath.”
“Stair climber.”
“I’ll wait while you catch your breath.”
“What’s up?” she said a moment later. Her gasps had mellowed to light wheezes.
“Do you exercise like this every night?” I asked.
“If I did this every night, I wouldn’t be in such bad shape. I ate a whole pan of brownies tonight, and now I’m feeling guilty.”
I laughed. “Sorry to interrupt your penance, but I was just wondering if you’ve talked to the FBI about George Wall.”
There was a long pause, and I worried Dana had passed out. Her tone was cool when she replied. “Listen, Jane, I shouldn’t have said anything to you about Wall. I’ve thought about it, and he’s not a viable suspect.”
“What do you mean? You convinced me that he was violent and that he had a murderous grudge against Simms.” I heard my voice rising in pitch, and I slowly exhaled.
“Look, Dana. I’m not sure the senator was the target of this disaster, but the FBI is focusing all their attention on the senator and her husband. They’re not looking at the other passengers. You need to tell the FBI what you know. I met the investigator today, and he seems like a nice guy; he’s easy to talk to.”
“No way, Jane, and don’t tell him to call me. I don’t want to get involved in this.”
“But Dana.”
“Did you hear me? I’m serious. Keep me out of this.”
I couldn’t believe the hostility in her voice. What was her problem? “Fine, Dana. Thanks for your help,” I said, and disconnected.
My heart thudded as I slammed my head against my pillow. The dial of my alarm clock finally blurred and faded at 4:30 a.m. I slept for two hours.
When I awoke, my sinuses were clogged, and my head pounded. I pulled back my bedroom curtain and stared at the sky. The weather had improved. It was still drizzly, but only a slight breeze rustled the spruce needles. I pulled on my sweat suit and jogging shoes. My arms and legs ached from a restless night, but I forced myself out into the damp morning.
After two blocks, my muscles began to loosen, and my head cleared. The rain-soaked air was tinged with the pungent aroma of spruce and the sweet scent of wildflowers. Church bells clanged in the distance, but the streets were quiet.
I jogged for twenty minutes and then turned around and retraced my steps home. I stepped into the shower and turned the water as hot as I could stand it. Sometime in the middle of the night I had decided to talk to Morgan and tell him every rumor I had heard. I reviewed this decision as the steamy water flowed over my head. I wouldn’t tell him who had told me the information, and I would stress that I was only repeating rumors. Then, at least he would have something new to investigate, and he could look at other possible targets besides the Justin’s.
The phone was ringing when I stepped out of the shower. I wrapped a towel around myself and hurried into the bedroom. “Hello.”
“Jane, it’s Steve.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and waited for him to continue.
“Toni Hunt’s mother called me last night, and she was pretty upset.”
“What happened?” I pulled the towel tightly around me to ward off the chill.
“Toni was hysterical after we left, and Mrs. Hunt is afraid she’ll get sick again.”
“Get sick as in attempt suicide?”
“She didn’t say that, but that’s what she meant. She wants us to stay away from her daughter.”
A flash of heat rushed through me. “I don’t plan to go anywhere near her daughter,” I said, “but I will tell the FBI agent everything Toni Hunt told us.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Yes I do, Steve. Six people were murdered. I don’t think we can afford to protect anyone’s feelings, reputation, or even sanity. If Toni Hunt placed that bomb in the airplane, that may be the reason why she is suicidal.”
A loud sigh sounded in my ear. “What a mess,” Steve said. “I’ll call you if I hear anything else.”
I told Steve goodbye and then found my purse, dug out the card Morgan had given me, and dialed his number. I was expecting voicemail and was surprised when his deep, rough voice came on the line.
“Dr. Marcus. What can I do for you?”
“After a restless night, I’ve decided to tell you every rumor I’ve heard about the passengers and pilot of Nine Nine November.”
“Well, that’s a nice change of pace. I was beginning to think every resident of this town had taken an oath of secrecy. When can we meet?”
“How about 3:00 this afternoon?”
“At the police station?”
“My office.”
“I’ll be there.”
I hung up the phone and immediately felt lighter. This seemed like the first good decision I had made in weeks. I might not win any friends by talking to Morgan, but I might provide information that would help catch Craig’s murderer.
I dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt, walked into the living room of my apartment, and surveyed the scene. I opened the hall closet, dragged out the vacuum cleaner, grabbed a dust rag, and went to work. After I had cleaned the floors, furniture surfaces, countertops, and washed the dishes, I felt better. Next, I tackled the mountain of dirty laundry, and once the washer was humming, I turned on the television, grabbed the remote, and stretched out on the couch. I flipped quickly past the news channels and settled on a tennis match, which distracted me for an hour.
At 2:00 p.m., I drove to the marine center, and was relieved to see an empty parking lot when I arrived. I left the front door unlocked and turned on a few lights for Agent Morgan. I went to my office and sat for a while, but at 2:45, I returned to the front lobby and waited for Morgan. He was five minutes early.
I was glancing through a marine center brochure and didn’t know he was there until I heard the front door scrape open. I stood, walked out of the carpeted reception area, and intercepted him in the tiled entryway. He was unbuttoning his black raincoat, and I saw that he was dressed casually in blue jeans and a navy turtleneck. The shirt emphasized his compact, muscular physique.
“Dr. Marcus.” He held out his right hand, and I took it.
“Let’s go back to my office.” While the reception area was more comfortable, I felt more secure in my office. Should any of my colleagues arrive for some Sunday afternoon office work, I did not want them to overhear me sharing my ideas with an FBI agent.
Morgan nodded his head and followed me down the long hall. When we arrived at my office, I held open the door for him and then shut it behind us. Morgan sat in the straight-back chair in front of my desk, placing his briefcase on the floor beside him. I opened the window blinds, revealing my view of the dark, Sitka spruce forest.
“This is a beautiful place,” Morgan said. “I’ve never been to Alaska before.” He crossed his left leg over his right and cupped his interlaced fingers over his left knee.
I sat in my desk chair and smiled at Morgan. “The weather has been dreadful since you’ve been here. I’m not sure anyone could think this is beautiful.”
A grin flickered across his mouth, and I caught a glimpse of straight, white teeth. “Maybe I should say that I’m sure it is beautiful on a nice day.”
“That it is.” I looked away from Morgan’s eyes, certain that they would hypnotize me if I stared too long. I plucked a pen from my desk and devoted my full attention to it.
Several moments of silence elapsed, and then Morgan said, “Dr. Marcus, we appreciate your help.”
I didn’t look up from the pen. “Craig was a good person. He didn’t deserve to die.” I felt tears form in the corners of my eyes and brushed them away. “I will do whatever I can to help find those responsible for his death. My only obligation is to his memory.” I put my pen down and looked up.
Morgan slowly nodded his head. “I understand,” he said. “If the explosives were placed to kill someone other than the senator or her husband, then we need local help to understand the dynamics of the relationships of the other passengers.”
I put my elbows on the desk and rested my chin on steepled hands. “I saw the news last night. Does the FBI believe Eaton’s ex-staff member? Do you have strong evidence that Eaton was behind the blast?”
Morgan tilted his head to one side and kept his eyes locked on my face.
“I know,” I said. “Confidential FBI information. You want me to tell you every rumor I’ve heard about the passengers, but you aren’t going to tell me a thing.”
Morgan shrugged. “That is what I’m supposed to say, but I’m not very good at playing by the rules.” He uncrossed his legs and shifted in the hard chair. “I have not been briefed on every aspect of this investigation, but I don’t believe there is any hard evidence against Eaton. Our source is questionable.”
“But you still think Eaton might be responsible?” I asked.
“At this point, Eaton or his associates are our strongest suspects.”
I leaned back in my chair. “I’m sure you’re aware that only the Kodiak Air Services employees knew which plane would be used for the senator’s flight.”
Morgan nodded. “I know Steve Duncan believes that, but” he shook his head, “in my experience, this type of information has a way of leaking. The flight schedule wasn’t a secret, and even Mr. Duncan cannot say for sure how many of his employees knew the plan for the day.” He put his right hand on the edge of my desk, and I watched his strong fingers.
“Do you know why Mr. Duncan told me something that points the blame at his own employees?”
My face grew hot. “Steve wants to get to the bottom of this as badly as you do.” I sucked in air and forced myself to calm down. “That’s one of the things I want to tell you. The pilot, Bill Watson, had a girlfriend named Toni Hunt. Steve introduced me to Toni, and we both think she is unstable.”
Morgan reached for his briefcase, clicked open the locks, and extracted a notepad and pen. I waited for him to begin writing before I continued to tell him about Toni. I relayed the story about her smashing Bill’s truck and then told him that she knew how to use dynamite and probably had access to it.
When I finished talking, Morgan looked up at me and nodded his head. “I appreciate this,” he said. “We haven’t talked to her yet, and now we can prepare for a more intense questioning.”
“Be careful,” I said. “She’s fragile. She may not be guilty of anything, but she is a very disturbed young woman.”
Morgan squinted his eyes, and the lines in the corners wrinkled. “Is there anyone else?”
“George Wall,” I said.
“We know about him and his threats to Dick Simms.”
I picked up the pen from my desk and began playing with it again. “Did you know that he was arrested for blowing up a man’s truck in Colorado?”
Morgan wrote something on his notepad. “Yes. We plan to talk to him as soon as we can find him.”
“Is he missing?”
Morgan shrugged. “We haven’t tracked him down yet, but we just began looking.”
“If you’re trying to find the target of this crime,” I said, “you might want to spend some time looking at Dick Simms’ enemies.”
The corners of Morgan’s mouth turned up. “I understand Mr. Simms was not popular. Did you know him?”
“Oh yes, and I didn’t like the guy. He was arrogant and ineffectual in a job that I consider to be extremely important.” I put down the pen and pushed my chair back from my desk. “No one I knew liked him.”
“But did anyone dislike him enough to murder him along with a planeload of people?”
I wrapped my arms around myself. “That’s what keeps bothering me. I understand hating someone enough to murder them, but what kind of sick mind could blow up five other people in the process of killing his target?”
Morgan shifted and stood. He walked behind me and stared out at the forest. I twisted in my chair and waited for him to speak.
“When you’ve been doing this job as long as I have,” he said, “you stop asking those questions. There’s no shortage of people out there who think that sacrificing a few innocent lives is necessary to further their cause or to protect their way of life.”
“That’s why you think this was some sort of terrorist act?”
Morgan turned toward me and sat on the edge of my desk. He was so close I could smell the subtle fragrance of his aftershave.
“I didn’t say that I thought this was a terrorist act, Dr. Marcus. Most bombings are personal crimes. Bombs may soon be the lethal weapon of choice in this country. The number of bombings per year is escalating at an alarming level, and often the inexperienced bombers don’t realize how much damage their weapon will do.”
“I think anyone who places a bomb on an airplane knows what the result will be,” I said.
“Yes,” Morgan said and stood again. “But maybe the bomber didn’t think about the pilot or the other passengers. If it was a personal vendetta, the killer could have been mentally imbalanced or too focused on his prey to think about all the consequences of his actions.”
I nodded. “I think Toni Hunt could be that imbalanced, and she knows how to use explosives.”
Morgan sat in the chair across from me again. He leaned forward. “We consider everyone in this country a capable bomb maker.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “I don’t know the first thing about building a bomb.”
“Because you’ve never wanted to blow up anything,” Morgan shrugged. “If you wanted to build a bomb, you wouldn’t have any trouble finding the instruction book and the raw materials.”
“I’ve heard you can learn how to build a bomb on the Internet,” I said.
“Yes, and bomb-making manuals as well as videos have been available for years. A guy from Arkansas made a fortune with his series of bomb-making manuals. The most popular is called The Poor Man’s James Bond. His books show you how to make a bomb with items that most people have in their homes.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s unsettling.”
“It isn’t difficult to get dynamite,” Morgan continued. “Most places you just have to fill out a couple of forms and show identification. Anyone can buy it.”
“I had no idea. I associate bombs with sophisticated or fanatical terrorists.”
“I hope this was a personal vendetta,” Morgan said. “A crime committed by one person against one intended target is much easier to solve than a crime committed by members of a large organization. I’ll take one lunatic over a group of fanatics any day.”
“Have you spoken with Jack Justin?” I asked.
“Yes,” Morgan said. “Why?”
“I think he believes someone found his father’s briefcase at the crash site. I tried to explain to him that everything was blown apart in the explosion; his father’s briefcase would not still be intact if it was on that plane.”
Morgan folded his arms across his chest. “Mr. Justin described the briefcase to me, and I checked with our explosives experts. They think the case would have survived.”
“I didn’t think anything was that tough.”
Morgan was quiet for a moment, and then he seemed to phrase his words carefully. “Did Jack Justin tell you why he is so interested in finding that briefcase?”
“He said he wanted his father’s business papers.”
“Hmm.”
“He did seem more concerned about the briefcase than his parents’ remains,” I said, “but I just met the man. Maybe that’s the way he is.”
“I don’t think Mr. Justin has told us everything, but I doubt he knows anything about the bomb. I plan to question him further, though.”
“Has the FBI taken over this investigation?” I asked.
“We’re in charge, but there are several agencies involved, including the Alaska State Troopers.” He dropped his pen and notepad back into his briefcase. “The FBI has an excellent laboratory and one of the best explosives experts in the world. He only had to look at the plane wreckage for a few minutes to determine that the small pockmarks in the metal were the result of high-speed particle penetration.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When a bomb explodes, it hurtles tiny fragments of itself and anything in its way at speeds of thousands of feet per second. The fragments stick to their depth in whatever they hit. A piece of luggage can become embedded in part of the plane. A really good investigator can also pick out craters left in the metal by hot gasses given off in the explosion. These craters are unique and are not found in any other kind of impact.”
“And the FBI has the best explosives expert?”
“One of the best. There’s a guy with the FAA who is also very good, and he’s been brought in on this, too. This was a small plane crash, but because explosives were used, and I won’t lie to you, because a U.S. senator was on the plane, it’s a big deal. Homeland Security, CIA Counterterrorism, and the State Department Bureau of Intelligence and Research have their fingers in this, too.”
“With all that expertise,” I said, “someone should be able to get to the bottom of this.”
Morgan smiled. “I think we will.”
“Well, I can’t think of any more gossip for you.”
“What about Maryann Myers? Do you know her?” Morgan stared at my face while he asked the question.”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t know her at all.” I remembered what Peter had told me about the Myers’ divorce, but I didn’t think the gossip of a bunch of poker players bore repeating to an FBI agent. “Have you talked to her?” I asked.
“No. She’s out of town until Tuesday, but we’ll speak to her then.”
Morgan stood and held out his hand. “Thank you, Dr. Marcus. You’ve been very helpful.”
“As I said, I’m just repeating gossip, but for Craig’s sake, I want to get to the bottom of this.” Morgan’s hand was dry and warm. I reluctantly released it. “Please, call me Jane. Dr. Marcus makes me feel old and much wiser than I am.”
Morgan nodded and grinned. “I’m Nick.”
Morgan’s scent lingered behind him after he left my office, and as I slowly inhaled it, I hoped this man would be able to figure out who was responsible for Craig’s death.
A thudding noise like a book dropping brought me to my feet. I remembered that the front door of the center was unlocked, and I grabbed my purse, turned off my office light, slammed the door shut, and hurried down the hall. I fumbled in my pocket for my keys. I heard a clicking noise that sounded like footsteps on the hard-tiled floors.
I pushed through the front door, sucked in air to steady my hand, and locked the door. I ran to the parking lot and my Explorer. There were no other vehicles in the lot. Should I call the police, or had I imagined the sounds in the large building?
Murder Over Kodiak
Chapter 7
Robin Barefield
Alaska Wilderness Mystery Author
Author Masterminds Charter Member
I went to bed at 8:00 p.m. and didn’t sleep at all. I tried all the tricks, but my mind raced, and I couldn’t slow it down. Anyone who knew anything about the passengers and pilot of Nine Nine November was reluctant to talk to the FBI. No one wanted to spread gossip, and neither did I, but Agent Morgan wasn’t from this community. How would he learn alternative motives for the explosion unless someone relayed the rumors to him? Yes, he would question innocent people, but maybe he also would find the monster who planted the bomb. I hated to violate confidences, but my first commitment was to Craig. I’d vowed I would find out how and why he had died, and I still planned to fulfill that promise.
I rolled over and looked at the illuminated dial of my alarm clock: 11:15. I wondered if Dana had told the FBI about George Wall, the renegade guide who had threatened Dick Simms. I picked up my phone and dialed Dana’s number.
“Hello,” Dana panted between breaths.
“What were you doing? You’re out of breath.”
“Stair climber.”
“I’ll wait while you catch your breath.”
“What’s up?” she said a moment later. Her gasps had mellowed to light wheezes.
“Do you exercise like this every night?” I asked.
“If I did this every night, I wouldn’t be in such bad shape. I ate a whole pan of brownies tonight, and now I’m feeling guilty.”
I laughed. “Sorry to interrupt your penance, but I was just wondering if you’ve talked to the FBI about George Wall.”
There was a long pause, and I worried Dana had passed out. Her tone was cool when she replied. “Listen, Jane, I shouldn’t have said anything to you about Wall. I’ve thought about it, and he’s not a viable suspect.”
“What do you mean? You convinced me that he was violent and that he had a murderous grudge against Simms.” I heard my voice rising in pitch, and I slowly exhaled.
“Look, Dana. I’m not sure the senator was the target of this disaster, but the FBI is focusing all their attention on the senator and her husband. They’re not looking at the other passengers. You need to tell the FBI what you know. I met the investigator today, and he seems like a nice guy; he’s easy to talk to.”
“No way, Jane, and don’t tell him to call me. I don’t want to get involved in this.”
“But Dana.”
“Did you hear me? I’m serious. Keep me out of this.”
I couldn’t believe the hostility in her voice. What was her problem? “Fine, Dana. Thanks for your help,” I said, and disconnected.
My heart thudded as I slammed my head against my pillow. The dial of my alarm clock finally blurred and faded at 4:30 a.m. I slept for two hours.
When I awoke, my sinuses were clogged, and my head pounded. I pulled back my bedroom curtain and stared at the sky. The weather had improved. It was still drizzly, but only a slight breeze rustled the spruce needles. I pulled on my sweat suit and jogging shoes. My arms and legs ached from a restless night, but I forced myself out into the damp morning.
After two blocks, my muscles began to loosen, and my head cleared. The rain-soaked air was tinged with the pungent aroma of spruce and the sweet scent of wildflowers. Church bells clanged in the distance, but the streets were quiet.
I jogged for twenty minutes and then turned around and retraced my steps home. I stepped into the shower and turned the water as hot as I could stand it. Sometime in the middle of the night I had decided to talk to Morgan and tell him every rumor I had heard. I reviewed this decision as the steamy water flowed over my head. I wouldn’t tell him who had told me the information, and I would stress that I was only repeating rumors. Then, at least he would have something new to investigate, and he could look at other possible targets besides the Justin’s.
The phone was ringing when I stepped out of the shower. I wrapped a towel around myself and hurried into the bedroom. “Hello.”
“Jane, it’s Steve.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and waited for him to continue.
“Toni Hunt’s mother called me last night, and she was pretty upset.”
“What happened?” I pulled the towel tightly around me to ward off the chill.
“Toni was hysterical after we left, and Mrs. Hunt is afraid she’ll get sick again.”
“Get sick as in attempt suicide?”
“She didn’t say that, but that’s what she meant. She wants us to stay away from her daughter.”
A flash of heat rushed through me. “I don’t plan to go anywhere near her daughter,” I said, “but I will tell the FBI agent everything Toni Hunt told us.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Yes I do, Steve. Six people were murdered. I don’t think we can afford to protect anyone’s feelings, reputation, or even sanity. If Toni Hunt placed that bomb in the airplane, that may be the reason why she is suicidal.”
A loud sigh sounded in my ear. “What a mess,” Steve said. “I’ll call you if I hear anything else.”
I told Steve goodbye and then found my purse, dug out the card Morgan had given me, and dialed his number. I was expecting voicemail and was surprised when his deep, rough voice came on the line.
“Dr. Marcus. What can I do for you?”
“After a restless night, I’ve decided to tell you every rumor I’ve heard about the passengers and pilot of Nine Nine November.”
“Well, that’s a nice change of pace. I was beginning to think every resident of this town had taken an oath of secrecy. When can we meet?”
“How about 3:00 this afternoon?”
“At the police station?”
“My office.”
“I’ll be there.”
I hung up the phone and immediately felt lighter. This seemed like the first good decision I had made in weeks. I might not win any friends by talking to Morgan, but I might provide information that would help catch Craig’s murderer.
I dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt, walked into the living room of my apartment, and surveyed the scene. I opened the hall closet, dragged out the vacuum cleaner, grabbed a dust rag, and went to work. After I had cleaned the floors, furniture surfaces, countertops, and washed the dishes, I felt better. Next, I tackled the mountain of dirty laundry, and once the washer was humming, I turned on the television, grabbed the remote, and stretched out on the couch. I flipped quickly past the news channels and settled on a tennis match, which distracted me for an hour.
At 2:00 p.m., I drove to the marine center, and was relieved to see an empty parking lot when I arrived. I left the front door unlocked and turned on a few lights for Agent Morgan. I went to my office and sat for a while, but at 2:45, I returned to the front lobby and waited for Morgan. He was five minutes early.
I was glancing through a marine center brochure and didn’t know he was there until I heard the front door scrape open. I stood, walked out of the carpeted reception area, and intercepted him in the tiled entryway. He was unbuttoning his black raincoat, and I saw that he was dressed casually in blue jeans and a navy turtleneck. The shirt emphasized his compact, muscular physique.
“Dr. Marcus.” He held out his right hand, and I took it.
“Let’s go back to my office.” While the reception area was more comfortable, I felt more secure in my office. Should any of my colleagues arrive for some Sunday afternoon office work, I did not want them to overhear me sharing my ideas with an FBI agent.
Morgan nodded his head and followed me down the long hall. When we arrived at my office, I held open the door for him and then shut it behind us. Morgan sat in the straight-back chair in front of my desk, placing his briefcase on the floor beside him. I opened the window blinds, revealing my view of the dark, Sitka spruce forest.
“This is a beautiful place,” Morgan said. “I’ve never been to Alaska before.” He crossed his left leg over his right and cupped his interlaced fingers over his left knee.
I sat in my desk chair and smiled at Morgan. “The weather has been dreadful since you’ve been here. I’m not sure anyone could think this is beautiful.”
A grin flickered across his mouth, and I caught a glimpse of straight, white teeth. “Maybe I should say that I’m sure it is beautiful on a nice day.”
“That it is.” I looked away from Morgan’s eyes, certain that they would hypnotize me if I stared too long. I plucked a pen from my desk and devoted my full attention to it.
Several moments of silence elapsed, and then Morgan said, “Dr. Marcus, we appreciate your help.”
I didn’t look up from the pen. “Craig was a good person. He didn’t deserve to die.” I felt tears form in the corners of my eyes and brushed them away. “I will do whatever I can to help find those responsible for his death. My only obligation is to his memory.” I put my pen down and looked up.
Morgan slowly nodded his head. “I understand,” he said. “If the explosives were placed to kill someone other than the senator or her husband, then we need local help to understand the dynamics of the relationships of the other passengers.”
I put my elbows on the desk and rested my chin on steepled hands. “I saw the news last night. Does the FBI believe Eaton’s ex-staff member? Do you have strong evidence that Eaton was behind the blast?”
Morgan tilted his head to one side and kept his eyes locked on my face.
“I know,” I said. “Confidential FBI information. You want me to tell you every rumor I’ve heard about the passengers, but you aren’t going to tell me a thing.”
Morgan shrugged. “That is what I’m supposed to say, but I’m not very good at playing by the rules.” He uncrossed his legs and shifted in the hard chair. “I have not been briefed on every aspect of this investigation, but I don’t believe there is any hard evidence against Eaton. Our source is questionable.”
“But you still think Eaton might be responsible?” I asked.
“At this point, Eaton or his associates are our strongest suspects.”
I leaned back in my chair. “I’m sure you’re aware that only the Kodiak Air Services employees knew which plane would be used for the senator’s flight.”
Morgan nodded. “I know Steve Duncan believes that, but” he shook his head, “in my experience, this type of information has a way of leaking. The flight schedule wasn’t a secret, and even Mr. Duncan cannot say for sure how many of his employees knew the plan for the day.” He put his right hand on the edge of my desk, and I watched his strong fingers.
“Do you know why Mr. Duncan told me something that points the blame at his own employees?”
My face grew hot. “Steve wants to get to the bottom of this as badly as you do.” I sucked in air and forced myself to calm down. “That’s one of the things I want to tell you. The pilot, Bill Watson, had a girlfriend named Toni Hunt. Steve introduced me to Toni, and we both think she is unstable.”
Morgan reached for his briefcase, clicked open the locks, and extracted a notepad and pen. I waited for him to begin writing before I continued to tell him about Toni. I relayed the story about her smashing Bill’s truck and then told him that she knew how to use dynamite and probably had access to it.
When I finished talking, Morgan looked up at me and nodded his head. “I appreciate this,” he said. “We haven’t talked to her yet, and now we can prepare for a more intense questioning.”
“Be careful,” I said. “She’s fragile. She may not be guilty of anything, but she is a very disturbed young woman.”
Morgan squinted his eyes, and the lines in the corners wrinkled. “Is there anyone else?”
“George Wall,” I said.
“We know about him and his threats to Dick Simms.”
I picked up the pen from my desk and began playing with it again. “Did you know that he was arrested for blowing up a man’s truck in Colorado?”
Morgan wrote something on his notepad. “Yes. We plan to talk to him as soon as we can find him.”
“Is he missing?”
Morgan shrugged. “We haven’t tracked him down yet, but we just began looking.”
“If you’re trying to find the target of this crime,” I said, “you might want to spend some time looking at Dick Simms’ enemies.”
The corners of Morgan’s mouth turned up. “I understand Mr. Simms was not popular. Did you know him?”
“Oh yes, and I didn’t like the guy. He was arrogant and ineffectual in a job that I consider to be extremely important.” I put down the pen and pushed my chair back from my desk. “No one I knew liked him.”
“But did anyone dislike him enough to murder him along with a planeload of people?”
I wrapped my arms around myself. “That’s what keeps bothering me. I understand hating someone enough to murder them, but what kind of sick mind could blow up five other people in the process of killing his target?”
Morgan shifted and stood. He walked behind me and stared out at the forest. I twisted in my chair and waited for him to speak.
“When you’ve been doing this job as long as I have,” he said, “you stop asking those questions. There’s no shortage of people out there who think that sacrificing a few innocent lives is necessary to further their cause or to protect their way of life.”
“That’s why you think this was some sort of terrorist act?”
Morgan turned toward me and sat on the edge of my desk. He was so close I could smell the subtle fragrance of his aftershave.
“I didn’t say that I thought this was a terrorist act, Dr. Marcus. Most bombings are personal crimes. Bombs may soon be the lethal weapon of choice in this country. The number of bombings per year is escalating at an alarming level, and often the inexperienced bombers don’t realize how much damage their weapon will do.”
“I think anyone who places a bomb on an airplane knows what the result will be,” I said.
“Yes,” Morgan said and stood again. “But maybe the bomber didn’t think about the pilot or the other passengers. If it was a personal vendetta, the killer could have been mentally imbalanced or too focused on his prey to think about all the consequences of his actions.”
I nodded. “I think Toni Hunt could be that imbalanced, and she knows how to use explosives.”
Morgan sat in the chair across from me again. He leaned forward. “We consider everyone in this country a capable bomb maker.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “I don’t know the first thing about building a bomb.”
“Because you’ve never wanted to blow up anything,” Morgan shrugged. “If you wanted to build a bomb, you wouldn’t have any trouble finding the instruction book and the raw materials.”
“I’ve heard you can learn how to build a bomb on the Internet,” I said.
“Yes, and bomb-making manuals as well as videos have been available for years. A guy from Arkansas made a fortune with his series of bomb-making manuals. The most popular is called The Poor Man’s James Bond. His books show you how to make a bomb with items that most people have in their homes.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s unsettling.”
“It isn’t difficult to get dynamite,” Morgan continued. “Most places you just have to fill out a couple of forms and show identification. Anyone can buy it.”
“I had no idea. I associate bombs with sophisticated or fanatical terrorists.”
“I hope this was a personal vendetta,” Morgan said. “A crime committed by one person against one intended target is much easier to solve than a crime committed by members of a large organization. I’ll take one lunatic over a group of fanatics any day.”
“Have you spoken with Jack Justin?” I asked.
“Yes,” Morgan said. “Why?”
“I think he believes someone found his father’s briefcase at the crash site. I tried to explain to him that everything was blown apart in the explosion; his father’s briefcase would not still be intact if it was on that plane.”
Morgan folded his arms across his chest. “Mr. Justin described the briefcase to me, and I checked with our explosives experts. They think the case would have survived.”
“I didn’t think anything was that tough.”
Morgan was quiet for a moment, and then he seemed to phrase his words carefully. “Did Jack Justin tell you why he is so interested in finding that briefcase?”
“He said he wanted his father’s business papers.”
“Hmm.”
“He did seem more concerned about the briefcase than his parents’ remains,” I said, “but I just met the man. Maybe that’s the way he is.”
“I don’t think Mr. Justin has told us everything, but I doubt he knows anything about the bomb. I plan to question him further, though.”
“Has the FBI taken over this investigation?” I asked.
“We’re in charge, but there are several agencies involved, including the Alaska State Troopers.” He dropped his pen and notepad back into his briefcase. “The FBI has an excellent laboratory and one of the best explosives experts in the world. He only had to look at the plane wreckage for a few minutes to determine that the small pockmarks in the metal were the result of high-speed particle penetration.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When a bomb explodes, it hurtles tiny fragments of itself and anything in its way at speeds of thousands of feet per second. The fragments stick to their depth in whatever they hit. A piece of luggage can become embedded in part of the plane. A really good investigator can also pick out craters left in the metal by hot gasses given off in the explosion. These craters are unique and are not found in any other kind of impact.”
“And the FBI has the best explosives expert?”
“One of the best. There’s a guy with the FAA who is also very good, and he’s been brought in on this, too. This was a small plane crash, but because explosives were used, and I won’t lie to you, because a U.S. senator was on the plane, it’s a big deal. Homeland Security, CIA Counterterrorism, and the State Department Bureau of Intelligence and Research have their fingers in this, too.”
“With all that expertise,” I said, “someone should be able to get to the bottom of this.”
Morgan smiled. “I think we will.”
“Well, I can’t think of any more gossip for you.”
“What about Maryann Myers? Do you know her?” Morgan stared at my face while he asked the question.”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t know her at all.” I remembered what Peter had told me about the Myers’ divorce, but I didn’t think the gossip of a bunch of poker players bore repeating to an FBI agent. “Have you talked to her?” I asked.
“No. She’s out of town until Tuesday, but we’ll speak to her then.”
Morgan stood and held out his hand. “Thank you, Dr. Marcus. You’ve been very helpful.”
“As I said, I’m just repeating gossip, but for Craig’s sake, I want to get to the bottom of this.” Morgan’s hand was dry and warm. I reluctantly released it. “Please, call me Jane. Dr. Marcus makes me feel old and much wiser than I am.”
Morgan nodded and grinned. “I’m Nick.”
Morgan’s scent lingered behind him after he left my office, and as I slowly inhaled it, I hoped this man would be able to figure out who was responsible for Craig’s death.
A thudding noise like a book dropping brought me to my feet. I remembered that the front door of the center was unlocked, and I grabbed my purse, turned off my office light, slammed the door shut, and hurried down the hall. I fumbled in my pocket for my keys. I heard a clicking noise that sounded like footsteps on the hard-tiled floors.
I pushed through the front door, sucked in air to steady my hand, and locked the door. I ran to the parking lot and my Explorer. There were no other vehicles in the lot. Should I call the police, or had I imagined the sounds in the large building?
